sad but true

She said to me once upon a time that the Metallica song that best described her life was "Sad But True". We laughed when she said that. By that time we'd been married for six months, meaning I'd known her a grand total of twelve months-- a year, give or take a week. It seemed like longer, of course. Not because it was an intolerable thing. Rather, it was quite nice, being married and all. We hadn't had the baby yet, she wasn't anywhere near pregnant.

We were standing outside in the alley behind a bar in Hollywood known for its margaritas. May have even been in the name of the venue, the Something Margarita or a similar name. We were smoking and drinking, and we'd been together for some time and she was talking to me...

Oh wait, maybe we weren't married yet. Maybe I got it all wrong. Maybe this was the courtship part, where we had the attraction but not anything moving it forward. My memories are beginning to get nebulous as I try to retrace the moment, so rather than beat it to death I will just say that we were still getting to know each other, and our fate was that we were either married with no kids or we were about to be married with a kid.

I forgot what my answer was. Probably something well-calculated, an attempt to be hip and with-it even as we were discussing Metallica, a band that had long ago lost a great deal of credibility. It wasn't hip to like Metallica, so my answer would be in vain regardless. And yet there we were, talking about it... we both liked the band. We knew that it was the early stuff-- who doesn't? Every band is great in the beginning, every band starts off strong and then goes insanely wrong.

A lot of marriages do too. Especially the ones that begin so fast and burn so bright.

For the sake of continuing I will just put it out there that my pick was "Dyers Eve". A song about Christian Scientist parents, an angry scream backed by muscular metal guitar riffing and breakneck speed drumming, an adolescent temper tantrum committed to reel-to-reel tape, mixed down muddily (and yet with no bass!) and transmitted directly into the Walkman of a pimply, long-haired loner with glasses as thick as steel welders and and chip even thicker weighing down his shoulder. I can see myself saying that it was the song that described my life, even if my parents weren't exactly Christian Scientists. They were religious but not that religious.

My answer was not remarkable, which is why I don't remember it. But her pick... that was memorable. And funny. Even if she wasn't joking, it was memorable. I remember so many things about her that fit that description as well. Her choice of song colored my view of her probably from that moment on. After that, everything about her seemed sad but true. I wonder if she even thought twice about my choice. If I asked her, she might remember... but her memory isn't all that reliable anyway. She might say something really far out, like my song was "Sanitarium (Welcome Home)" or something along those lines. For that matter, she may not even remember what her own answer was, and that would not be shocking or terrible.

It'd be sad but true. That's what it would be. Sad but true.


*/*

i was dreaming when i wrote this, forgive me if it goes astray

So, I've been on a much-needed Prince binge lately, mostly due to news that he's suing all these bootleggers for uploading live footage of his concerts. (I won't post a link to the article because I'm afraid His Royal Badness will sue me) Also I've been following his Twitter account (3RD EYE GIRL) and watching the free vids he's been posting... what a contradiction that man is. But he's a Gemini, what can you do?

Anyway, so I've been tracking down old videos of Prince's early hits. No use going to You Tube for that, but other sites have 'em. I'm talking all the hits from the first four albums, mind you: For You didn't have any videos, as far as I know, and only had one single, "Soft And Wet"; The self-titled second album had at least two videos for its accompanying singles; Dirty Mind and Controversy had videos as well, although the only real single was the title cut of the latter.

Watching these videos has made me realize something: Up until 1999 came out and "Little Red Corvette" was released as a single, Prince couldn't dance!

I'm not gonna post links to the videos, you can find them yourself if you really want. But look up the videos for "I Wanna Be Your Lover", "Why You Wanna Treat Me So Bad?", "Dirty Mind", "Controversy" and especially "Sexuality". The Purple One is doing plenty of cock-rock moves, guitar preening, and microphone handling... he certainly had charisma as a rock frontman... but compared to the smooth moves he is capable of cutting from "Little Red Corvette" onward, dude is a spazz!

It's really, really funny to see him do the Eddie Murphy white person dance from Raw, which he does in several of the aforementioned clips. But before you think I'm taking cheap potshots at one of my favorite performing artists of all time (and as a fan I feel that I am qualified to do so, unlike the millions of Prince haters out there who have even less of a sense of humor about the man as they accuse him of having) I want to make it clear that all of this has led me to wonder one question: Who was Prince's choreographer on "Little Red Corvette"? Because in that video, Prince does a little dance during the first instrumental break, busting moves that almost resemble breakdancing of the era... and he pulls it off well. It's the first time Prince ever showcases his dancing in a video (it also says a lot that "Corvette" is shot on film, not cheap video) and after that Prince's dance moves-- on stage, in videos, in the movie Purple Rain, in general --get better and better.

Nowadays dancing is de rigeur at a Prince show. He spends the whole show dancing, doing incredible moves and showing amazing dexterity for a man in his Fifties. True, the hip surgeries have limited his jaw-dropping ability to do the splits in high heels, but other than that he is in fine form. At the peak of his powers, though, only a few performers were able to match him in this department: Michael Jackson and Hammer come to mind. So I guess what I a really getting at is this: Prince's best-ever career move was hiring a choreographer to help him get that brief "Corvette" routine down to a science. It radically changed the scope of his appeal to the masses. I doubt Purple Rain would have been as big if Prince had just stuck to the guitar-hero posturing and microphone shenanigans.

So kudos to whomever was the one who gave Prince his groove. I'm sure in dancing circles this name is well-known (my guess is someone like Michael "Boogaloo Shrimp" Chambers, the same guy who taught Michael how to moonwalk) but they don't get any credit for turning Prince into the phenomenal performer he is today. Without the dancing, Prince would still be a genius... but there's plenty of geniuses out there who will never get noticed because they can't cut a rug.

Prince was smart enough to make the leap into the star arena, and driven enough to improve upon it in order to secure the fame he now enjoys. That makes it all worthwhile, and the best part is that we still have the videos that show the progress in all their hilarious glory. Maybe that's why Prince sues so many people: somewhere out there, someone has a tape of that first choreography session, and it's probably more than a little embarrassing.

Men Who Are Mad

Watching "Mad Men" Season 6 on DVD, I can't help but compare the character of Don Draper to a role that the late Peter Sellers played at the end of his career, for which he was nominated for an Oscar: Chance the Gardener aka Chauncey Gardiner from the movie "Being There" directed by Hal Ashby.

The comparison came to mind while watching one of the Season 6 episodes. In one of them, Don Draper (played by Jon Hamm) comments that men make their own luck. This is completely in line with the character's ambition: Don Draper used to be Dick Whitman, an uneducated orphan who was raised by his uncle and aunt in a whorehouse. Whitman steals another man's identity during the Korean War and becomes Don Draper. He goes on to unbelievable success in the advertising business and is also successful in every other aspect of his life, especially with women. He is the quintessential self-made man, but his secret past is a constant threat to his carefully crafted persona.

The irony and tragedy of Don Draper is that his new life is entirely hinged upon an almost random twist of fate, an accident that was caused by Whitman that cost the real Don Draper his life. Whitman's only act of determinism was to be shrewd enough to switch dog tags with Draper, and it can be argued that it was less opportunism on Whitman's part than a desperate self-hatred that led him to assume Draper's identity.

Contrast with Chance the Gardener: a middle-aged idiot who has lived his whole life as a servant and whose entire knowledge off the outside world comes from what he has watched on television, Chance is a creature of random luck-- his name even implies this. One day his boss and benefactor simply dies, and Chance is free to leave the manor in which he was raised. Chance becomes Chauncey Gardiner through sheer misunderstanding: he is coughing when he explains to the wife of a businessman who he is, so she hears the name "Chauncey Gardiner" instead of "Chance the Gardener". Oblivious to everything around him, his foolishness is seen as Zen wisdom to nearly everyone he encounters, which leads Chance up the ladder of success, eventually brushing shoulders with Washington D.C.'s political elite.

The two characters have a lot in common: simple-minded common men who somehow transcend their lowly status in America's de facto caste system to become extremely powerful. But the comparison ends there, for while Don Draper mistakenly believes that he is the master of his own destiny, Chance is under no such illusions.

"Mad Men" is set in the past and has a certain level of realism that cedes to a loopy surrealism every now and then as a counter-point, mostly when dealing with the psychedelic cultural transitions occurring in the historical background of the Sixties. "Being There" is supposed to be contemporary and is more satirical than realistic, proudly promoting its absurdist POV up to the very last scene, and yet the film (in light of this day and age's modern cult of personality) seems prescient and relevant.

But more importantly, the evolution of the two characters stem from a mysterious reinvention that occurs for both, what none other than Bob Dylan recently described in an interview with Mikal Gilmore as "transfiguration".

In the September 27 2012 issue of  Rolling Stone, Bob Dylan elaborates on his "transfiguration" in relation to something he read in a book by former Hells Angel President Sonny Barger. Bob Dylan's words are in italics, Mikal Gilmore's words are in bold italics:

See this book? Ever heard of this guy? [Shows me Hell's Angel: The Life and Times of Sonny Barger and the Hell's Angels Motorcycle Club, by Sonny Barger.]

Yeah, sure.
He's a Hell's Angel.

He was "the" Hell's Angel.
Look who wrote this book. [Points at coauthors' names, Keith Zimmerman and Kent Zimmerman.] Do those names ring a bell? Do they look familiar? Do they? You wonder, "What's that got to do with me?" But they do look familiar, don't they? And there's two of them there. Aren't there two? One's not enough? Right? [Dylan's now seated, smiling.]

I'm going to refer to this place here. [Opens the book to a dog-eared page.] Read it out loud here. Just read it out loud into your tape recorder.

"One of the early presidents of the Berdoo Hell's Angels was Bobby Zimmerman. On our way home from the 1964 Bass Lake Run, Bobby was riding in his customary spot – front left – when his muffler fell off his bike. Thinking he could go back and retrieve it, Bobby whipped a quick U-turn from the front of the pack. At that same moment, a Richmond Hell's Angel named Jack Egan was hauling ass from the back of the pack toward the front. Egan was on the wrong side of the road, passing a long line of speeding bikes, just as Bobby whipped his U-turn. Jack broadsided poor Bobby and instantly killed him. We dragged Bobby's lifeless body to the side of the road. There was nothing we could do but to send somebody on to town for help." Poor Bobby.

Yeah, poor Bobby. You know what this is called? It's called transfiguration. Have you ever heard of it?

Yes.
Well, you're looking at somebody.

That . . . has been transfigured?
Yeah, absolutely. I'm not like you, am I? I'm not like him, either. I'm not like too many others. I'm only like another person who's been transfigured. How many people like that or like me do you know?

By transfiguration, you mean it in the sense of being transformed? Or do you mean transmigration, when a soul passes into a different body?
Transmigration is not what we are talking about. This is something else. I had a motorcycle accident in 1966.1 already explained to you about new and old. Right? Now, you can put this together any way you want. You can work on it any way you want. Transfiguration: You can go and learn about it from the Catholic Church, you can learn about it in some old mystical books, but it's a real concept. It's happened throughout the ages. Nobody knows who it's happened to, or why. But you get real proof of it here and there. It's not like something you can dream up and think. It's not like conjuring up a reality or like reincarnation – or like when you might think you're somebody from the past but have no proof. It's not anything to do with the past or the future.

So when you ask some of your questions, you're asking them to a person who's long dead. You're asking them to a person that doesn't exist. But people make that mistake about me all the time. I've lived through a lot. Have you ever heard of a book called No Man Knows My History? It's about Joseph Smith, the Mormon prophet. The title could refer to me.

Transfiguration is what allows you to crawl out from under the chaos and fly above it. That's how I can still do what I do and write the songs I sing and just keep on moving.

When you say I'm talking to a person that's dead, do you mean the motorcyclist Bobby Zimmerman, or do you mean Bob Dylan?
Bob Dylan's here! You're talking to him.

Then your transfiguration is . . . 
It is whatever it is. I couldn't go back and find Bobby in a million years. Neither could you or anybody else on the face of the Earth. He's gone. If I could, I would go back. I'd like to go back. At this point in time, I would love to go back and find him, put out my hand. And tell him he's got a friend. But I can't. He's gone. He doesn't exist.

OK, so when you speak of transfiguration . . . 
I only know what I told you. You'll have to go and do the work yourself to find out what it's about.

I'm trying to determine whom you've been transfigured from, or as.
I just showed you. Go read the book.

That's who you have in mind? What could the connection to that Bobby Zimmerman be other than name?
I don't have it in mind. I didn't write that book. I didn't make it up. I didn't dream that. I'm not telling you I had a dream last night. Remember the song "Last Night I Had the Strangest Dream"? I didn't write that, either.

I'm showing you a book that's been written and published. I mean, look at all the connecting things: motorcycles, Bobby Zimmerman, Keith and Kent Zimmerman, 1964, 1966. And there's more to it than even that. If you went to find this guy's family, you'd find a whole bunch more that connected. I'm just explaining it to you. Go to the grave site.

Whether it is properly called "transfiguration" or "transmigration", one thing is clear: Bob Dylan firmly believes that he switched identities (and perhaps souls) with another person with a similar name, and it saved his life.

With all this on my mind, I also began to read The Dirt: Confessions of the World's Most Notorious Rock Band, written by the members of Mötley Crüe and former Rolling Stone writer Neil Strauss. As a fan of rock biographies I must admit that, 50 pages in, the Crüe's exploits have already hooked me in a disarming manner. 

But what really got me is the revelation that Nikki Sixx, born Frank Feranna and named after his father, had his name changed after a falling out with his old man. He claims in the book that there was a musician from Indiana who went by the name Nykki Syxx, and that he basically stole the name and went so far as to legally change it to Nikki Sixx. (He wanted to be Nikki Nine but his musical peers told him that Nine sounded too "new wave" and that Sixx would be more "metal") 

Years later, after Mötley Crüe became world famous, Nikki was channel-surfing in a hotel when he came across a Christian television show that was decrying rock music as Satanism; of course, the Crüe was mentioned because of all the pentagrams and lyrics about the Devil, so he kept watching. Suddenly, the musician formerly known as Nykki Syxx (now known only as "John") is on the TV talking about how Nikki Sixx stole the name and used it to spread the word of Satan. 

Transmigration? Transfiguration? Or an escape from a desolate existence? Only a few pages earlier, Nikki Sixx dished the dirt on his dysfunctional childhood: absentee father, free-spirited mother, little adult supervision, constant traveling and moving, instilling the young Frank Feranna with a restlessness and an uprooted sense of self, and an early predilection for drugs, petty crime, and delinquency.

In short, Nikki Sixx is the rock and roll Don Draper. 

In "Mad Men" Draper is portrayed as suave, clean, well-dressed, attractive... but he's also a huge square. He is not a hippie, a rebel, or even a beatnik-- he is the The Man, he is The Establishment, he is a Class A conformist. He may seem glamorous but he is not cool. In fact, he is the type of person who would disown his own son for wearing eyeliner, lipstick, teased hair and singing songs about decadence. He represents everything that punk, metal, and hip-hop later came to destroy.

But the fictional Don Draper and the very-much-real likes of Bob Dylan and Nikki Sixx have something in common: they all reinvented themselves in some way or another, in a calculated attempt to erase the past. Unlike the fictional Chance the Gardener, however, they are painfully self-conscious of this, and in some way feel that their fate is out of their hands, even as they struggle vainly to assert control. (for all his rock posturing and chaotic pandering, Nikki Sixx comes off in The Dirt as an enormous control freak) 

And if someone like Chance really existed, it would create a cognitive dissonance in the minds of men like Dylan, Sixx, and the Don Drapers of the world that could unravel the handiwork of even the most ambitious status-climber. 

I choose to believe that men like Chance the Gardener exist. And if I may be so bold, I think there are more of them in the world than there are Don Drapers. Not that Don Draper isn't a fascinating character. But he isn't very happy either, and that's because he's had to work so hard for everything in life. Whereas Chance aka Chauncey Gardiner is blissfully unaware that he doesn't fit in, and manages to cruise through this world without a care.

The Last Great American Whale

I was channeling Lou Reed this week.

It actually started a month ago with a book on the Velvet Underground at my work, a complete discography of the group plus their solo output and all that. I read that thing during my lunch breaks an pretty soon I was feeling like I hadn't indulged in their music for a spell, so I browsed through the DVDs and found a live concert performance of Berlin directed by Julian Schabel. I took it home with me but hadn't opened it to watch it until a few days ago. As I watched it, I realized how unfamiliar I was with this album, so I looked up a review of it in my own Lou Reed/VU bio book. I got the lowdown on it: underappreciated masterpiece, scorned when first released but cult status has grown with time... the same thing with lots of Reed's music. Probably will happen for Lulu in about five or ten years...

Back at work the next day, I remembered that I had a vinyl copy of Berlin on my stash shelf, so I bought it. Took it home but didn't give it a spin, because I wanted to watch the rest of the DVD. Kept reading my Reed bio book and thinking about the collection of songs I'm finally getting around to releasing and how much debt I owed to Reed.

Then, on a train ride in Noblesville, my wife gasped aloud. She was checking her e-mail via her smart phone when she got the news about Lou Reed's death. My wife became a huge fan when we made the cross-country drive to Indianapolis; Lou Reed was her John Lennon, as she put it. I was in a state of shock, so much so that even our son got the hint when I told him to be quiet.

I realized how much Reed had been in the air this past week: I'd hear mentions of his name or hear someone covering a song of his (David Bowie doing "I'm Waiting For My Man" over the speakers at work) or see him on the TV (a special feature on the Berlin DVD included an episode of that Elvis Costello program-- Spectacle, I think it's called --with Reed and Julian Schnabel; I wanted to hear Lou speak but Schnabel just wasted all their time with his drivel, and you could see on Lou's face how bored he was with the director. Just because the guy loved the Berlin album enough to make it into a movie doesn't mean that Lou has to put up with his pretentious grandstanding.

I also realized that, with the exception of Prince, I own more Lou Reed/Velvet Underground albums and books and DVDs than anything else. I've had more Velvets/Reed stuff on my stash shelf at work than anything else (even prince, mostly because I already own a lot of hiss stuff) and never put any of it back when it came time to make purchases.

I remembered how my parents gave me such a small allowance that I could only afford clearance/marked down music at The Wherehouse store. All the stuff that eventually turned out to be the best stuff anyway-- Velvet Underground, Stooges, New York Dolls --was cheaper than the rest, so I bought them. That's how I got into that kind of music: economics. My personal situation dictated my tastes, so thank God for poverty!

But there was no poverty of taste when it came to Lou Reed. I can understand if people don't like his music or don't "get" what it's about. That's fine. But I instantly get suspicious of anyone who isn't hip to what he was about, because they tend to not like a lot of other good things and also tend to embrace flashes-in-the-pan regularly. And so far, in this life, that's been a great indicator of who to avoid or not take too seriously.

Reflections On The Insurance Wars

I remember when I was 19 and spent my first Fourth of July away from our traditional family routine. Normally we'd stay at home, watch the "Twilight Zone" marathon on TV, barbecue, and let off fireworks in the alley behind our house or in the back yard. I don't think I ever left the house for a single Fourth of July in all the years leading up to 1993.

Needless to say, I thought everyone did what we did for the holiday. So imagine my shock when I was in my friend's car, driving to a spot to watch a fireworks display... and I saw rows and rows of people out on their front lawns, watching fireworks in the sky from nearby locations. It really blew my mind to realize that all these years the rest of the city participated in something that I had no clue about, due to the insular nature of my annual celebrations with the family.

So it is with health insurance. I've always known that people buy health insurance, but because I always got my insurance through my job I never really put two-and-two together: in a strange way, I kind of assumed that everyone got health insurance through their job, and that when you lost your job your only recourse was to pay into COBRA (which was never an alternative for someone such as myself, who has never been rich and could not see myself paying $200 to extend my benefits when I needed that money to survive if my search for a new job took longer than expected). Thanks to my solipsism, I never realized until recently how many people pay for health insurance outside of their profession.

This made me realize that, although I've been insured over the years through various employers, I actually belong in the demographic of people who have never had their own health plans. When I was unemployed for nearly two years, I didn't have any health insurance. My son was covered by Medi-Cal (back when we lived in California) and my wife had benefits through her job, but I had nothing. Zilch. Nada. If I'd had any of the maladies I am experiencing now (diabetes, sleep apnea) during that time, how screwed would I be?

There was once a time when I didn't pay car insurance either. Why? Because I didn't have a car... or a license. I didn't take my driver test until I was 19 (a lot happened to me that year) and even then I didn't own a car that worked until I was in my mid-twenties. So paying car insurance was something I never thought about. Now I take it for granted, but for a time it was a new world and things were different back then.

Living in the Midwest now, I pay about a third of what I used to pay in California. Of course, I have never owned or leased a new car, and I have a better driving record here than back home, but even when I was at my safest in the Golden State the lowest I ever paid for insurance was probably double what I pay now, which is less than $50 a month. I can definitely live with that. I am not a rich man, but I think even if I were homeless and living out of my car, paying $50 a month to insure my vehicle is a deal.

Of course, the new Affordable Care Act is not car insurance: for example, you can get away with being a scofflaw and not paying for car insurance (albeit for a limited time, and with much paranoia whenever you get behind the wheel) but apparently you get penalized for not paying into the health care system. However, I lived for a great deal of time in Los Angeles without a car, and therefore I didn't need to pay for insurance during that time. I can't see how I can do the same with health insurance-- it would be impossible, to say the least. Unless you're a zombie (and these days so many people aspire to be) it is a useless solution.

So I'm glad to pay into the mandate system, but I don't have to because my employer has me covered and their plan is not changing. It is nice to know, however, that if I lost my job I could now play Big Spender like all my richer-than-thou friends and actually buy my own plan if need be, and that it may be cheaper than paying into COBRA. I could even decide to go rogue and buy outside my job coverage, if I so desired. This is a luxury I never allowed myself nor thought possible. And when I say 'luxury' I mean it as it stands: some people have never had any health insurance ever, and trips to the ER were their version of affordable care.

I mean, the bottom line is this: we all know that ALL insurance is a big scam. But if I have to pay for insurance, at least it should cover me in case I get sick.

One last thing: recently I was trying to renew my car insurance but ran into some red tape because I had never filled out an exclusion form for my wife on my truck. She never drives it anyway, but the agent insisted I needed to fill it out in order to renew. He kept e-mailing it to me but I never received it. I found out on the last day of the month (and also the last day of my policy) that they were sending it to my old e-mail address. So I printed it, had her sign it, then sent it via e-mail to my agent, but on the first of the next month I called the agency and my policy had not been renewed.

Not wanting to drive even one day without being insured, I immediately found another agency and received a policy that was only a few dollars more than my last policy (and given that I had a speeding ticket last year, it made sense that my new policy would be slightly more expensive). Of course, this resulted in endless appeals from other insurers who wanted my business over the following three days. I appreciated the concern, but that's the price of doing business: you can only give your money to one company.

A week later, I received a letter from my old insurer. They had renewed my policy after all, and had my insurance card and everything ready to go. I had to politely decline because I didn't need two policies for the same truck, but it was amusing to me that they wanted my business that badly... and maybe they will get it, if they can beat the cost I'm paying right now.

I predict that this is how it will be one day with Obamacare: lots of competition, plenty of insurers vying for your business, falling over each other just to sign you up. This is not a bad thing-- you just have to give it time to work, something that government shutdowns and partisan politics will not permit.

Sinead vs. Miley

First of all, Sinead is right. Just like she was right about The Pope, she is also right about Miley. Her open letter was brutal and frank but not mean, and I admire it because (1) Sinead knows the music business and is not lying or exaggerating about what it has done to people and what it will continue to do to people so long as they allow it to continue, and (2) even though there is a maternal tone to the letter, Sinead is actually treating Miley like an adult. Some people have expressed that her letter is condescending but I don't think it is at all-- I think Sinead is offering advice, and for Miley the adult thing to do would've been to reply with an open letter and politely decline the offer.

Instead, what does Miley do? Re-post tweets that detail Sinead's troubles in the past. So in other words, Sinead was wrong about one thing: Miley Cyrus is not mature enough to be treated as an equal in an open letter.

And this is what it's all about, by the way: maturity. Not slut shaming, not raunchy musical numbers, not risque videos or tongue wagging... the bottom line is, Miley's new makeover is her attempt to shed her kid image and show she's an adult. But she's not. She may be on the verge of 21, but she is actually less mature than most girls her age. And the proof is in her actions and statements.

Let's get the "slut shaming" issue out of the way once and for all by comparing Miley to someone who has provoked similar controversies: Madonna. Back when Madonna was Miley's age, she was hanging out with Jean-Michel Basquiat and Fab Five Freddy, dabbling in the New York art/punk/music scenes. By the time she became world-famous, Madonna was firmly in control of her image: she told her stylists how to dress her, she told her make-up people and hair people how to do her up, she told her PR people what was cool and what sucked, and she owned her image. It was never foisted upon her, and when labeled a 'slut' or a 'tramp' she was able to defend herself or (better yet) ignore the accusations and move on. Madonna, moreover, never seemed desperate for approval-- she couldn't give a fuck what anyone thought... just ask Kevin Costner!

Miley, by comparison, grew up with Billy Ray Cyrus as a dad. The closest she has gotten to rubbing elbows with the cool and edgy was when her dad was cast in a David Lynch movie. Otherwise, she has been handled for most of her life by people who work for a cartoon mouse. She has no style of her own, so all this recent mish-mash is her attempt to create her own style. Of course, it's as authentic as a pair of pleather pants, but her handlers insist it's what hot this year so it must be cool!

When accused of being a 'slut' or whatever, Miley needs to be defended by others. She cannot defend herself, or rather, she can't defend herself coherently. And doesn't that defeat the purpose of stepping out into the limelight as a quote-unquote adult? The fact is, if she's all grown up now then no one needs to defend Miley and no one should defend her. So why is everyone trying to spin it like Miley is some innovator when she is actually a huge poseur?

Yes, that's right-- she's a poseur. She's that girl who goes away to college and one day shows up wearing a Pixies T-shirt and claiming she has always loved Sinead O'Connor, even though every single thing she's done up until that point contradicts this information. Maybe Miley really is a closet indie-rock fan, and maybe she did discover Sinead O'Connor all by herself while listening to Juicy J's rough mixes of her newest album. But her career up until this point has never betrayed that, and so we must ask: is this latest persona just an act too?

If it is, then that's cool. Madonna, Britney Spears, David Bowie, Prince... the music world is made up of performers who shed their images like snake skins. But the difference is, none of them looked like they were going to fall over because they can't  walk in heels. Not that Miley doesn't look comfortable in heels-- that's a metaphor I used to describe what I see is happening: Miley wants to have her cake and eat it too. She wants to be a big girl but she hasn't earned it yet. I mean, even Britney had the sense to release a song like "I'm Not A Girl, Not Yet A Woman" before she jumped into "I'm A Slave 4 U"...

Another thing: Amanda Palmer from The Dresden Dolls is not one to take Sinead O'Connor to task for her open letter to Miley. I think her letter was weird in its defense of Miley, and besides-- who asked for her opinion anyway, even if it was an open letter? Didn't Ms. Palmer & Margaret Cho lampoon Katy Perry for her song "I Kissed A Girl" a few years back? Talk about slut shaming. I guess if it gets approval from the LGBT community then it's OK to bash a vacant pop star for trying to be edgy.

And along with maturity, it boils down to edginess: so many pop stars these days have no edge. If Miley thinks her VMA performance was edgy, she needs to find tapes in the MTV archives of presentations that were ten times edgier than what she did. If she had come out the gate doing Wendy O. Williams of The Plasmatics, then I would've given her props for being edgy. Instead, she came off as a little girl playing dress up (or dress down, if you prefer) and managed to make something that could've been playful and sexy into an embarrassment.

So, to recap: Miley is a poseur. A girl who's had everything handed to her all her life now wants the one thing that money can't buy: credibility. It has nothing to do with sex, celebrity, or fame. It has everything to do with a 20 year-old with more money than all the people in her age group put together trying to act like she is older and more mature than she is, and not understanding the difference between actual haters and people who want to lend a loving but firm hand.

Perhaps right now as we speak, Miley is pretending that she has always loved the music of Bob Dylan. And maybe she will hear his song "Just Like A Woman" and maybe the chorus will resonate with her, not as an opportunity to seem cool and edgy but as a true reflection of where she is right now.

I don't dislike Miley Cyrus-- I just wish she would be more honest. But that's hard to do when you're a child of privilege trying to negotiate new terrain in a world full of critics and big meanies. And professing to love an artist whose last hit came out before you were even born then turning around and dissing her when she makes an overture is as intellectually dishonest as it gets.

I always say, you gotta take anything a person in their 20's says with a grain of salt. I didn't start saying that, of course, until recently. I'm almost 40, and I look back on my thoughts and actions back in my heyday and shudder. I thought I knew it all, and hell-- maybe I did know a lot. But I didn't know it all, and I'm still learning. But I would've never admitted it when I was 20, and I don't expect Miley Cyrus to admit it either.

The Sellout Standard

One of the many things I love about rap music is that the definition of what it is to 'sell out' is clearly defined: Since it started off as (and is mostly still) a black medium, selling out means being an Uncle Tom and not 'keeping it real' and being a shill for The Man.

But it doesn't include getting paid. That's because historically black entertainers have routinely been shafted when it comes to their paper. So when rap started to gain a foothold in pop culture, there was nothing wrong with an MC rapping about making money. If the MC came from the ghetto and was born and raised poor, then making money was a GOOD thing. As long as he didn't have to simp and shoe-shuffle for his pay, he was doing fine. And since most major labels weren't touching rap music with ten-foot poles back then, there was no fear of being seen as the House Negro.

Of course, for rappers money had other downsides: Jealous peers in the ghetto who make a living robbing folks might decide that it's MC Flossalot's turn to get stripped for his garments, for example. But the proverbial MC Flossalot won't be considered a sellout until he has a white bitch on his arm and starts rapping about trivial BS.

Contrast that definition of selling out with the hardcore punk scene, which often gets compared to early hip-hop. To a hardcore punk rocker, selling out is anything that makes your band look like greedy corporate whores. That can mean anything from expensive T-shirts/merchandise to slower tempo songs with better production to jumping to a major label... the list goes on, really. Maybe because punk has roots in white lower-class neighborhoods, the standard is much stricter. At the end of the day, being white and lower-class has many more advantages than being poor and black. And so in order to prove that their commitment to the underground is paramount, hardcore punks have to present a much starker vision of life below the mainstream dividing line.

The D.C. hardcore scene instantly springs to mind, simply because they invented the idea of 'straight-edge' and bands like Fugazi later created the template on how to operate within the music industry with their souls intact. (The answer: all ages shows, no merch, no corporate sponsors) But this idea that you were not a good band if more than a small handful of in-the-know music lovers knew who you were spread from beyond the confines of all the local hardcore scenes and became a national phenomenon by the time the music biz decided that 'grunge' from Seattle was The Next Big Thing in the 1990s.

It was no coincidence that the year Nirvana got big was the year that Punk finally became a commodity worth trading. Since its inception, punk has been marketed for consumers. (Malcolm McLaren and Vivienne Westwood, anyone?) Along the way, various attempts were made to co-opt the trend: New Wave was the first attempt, followed by all sorts of lunacy (seeing an episode of "CHiPs where a punk band named Pain committed crimes against gridlock) and endless variations on the same thing. But we have Mr. Cobain to thank for the Final Bastardization, and as much as he pretended he didn't want to be on the cover of Rolling Stone, we all know by now that being famous was something he wanted almost as bad as Courtney Love.

Now you see kids who were BORN in 1991 wearing Misfits tees-- I confess that our son (whose middle name is Ramone, with an 'e') wore a onesy with the Ramones logo on them. The fact that he also had a Wu-Tang bib goes without comment or outrage, while some punks might be angry about the onesy, even if it was a gift and not bought with our own money. ("You should've returned it" is how I suppose the hardest core of punks would reply to that)

All of this only leads me to conclude that the whole hardcore punk notion of 'selling out' does no one any good and is, in fact, a danger to creativity.

*/*

I love De La Soul. Their first three albums fit the criterion for classic status. They are intelligent hip-hop, rap music for people who remember the promise and potential it had in the late '80s.

Each album they put out sells less than the last. Nicki Minaj has probably sold more albums in her short 15 minutes than De La has sold in their entire 20+ year career. (I like Nicki, but she has yet to produce anything as awesome as 3 Feet High & Rising) In a just world they should be in the Top 10 while rappers like Drake and Lil' Wayne should be the ones struggling to find an outlet. But things are different now, and De La's fortunes are waning as time goes on.

I can't really blame the market, though. If anything is to blame for De La's lack of popularity, it's the idea of 'selling out' that came not from hip-hop circles but from hardcore punk circles. And since De La were (and still are) the biggest proclaimers of this sellout standard in the rap game, the blame lies squarely on them. After all, they are the ones who titled their second album De La Soul Is Dead.

One factor that may explain why a group like De La is much harsher about selling out stems from their roots: middle-class, not the ghetto, not even white lower-class. They aren't punks nor are they ghetto children. They're black, but not militant. There's a rejection of privilege going on that they subscribe to, and if they were white it would not be a mysterious matter.

Unlike The Ramones, who toiled away and actually wanted to make money off their music (since they were never hardcore, even when their music got grittier and faster), De La Soul seems to be resisting the Top 40. They see the danger there. As black middle-class performers, they know that The Man and The Machine that runs entertainment will not be merciful to them. As middle-class rappers, they are anomalies... they would have a better chance at acceptance these days if they were white and poor, like Eminem.

Nevertheless, I think it's a shame that De La Soul is essentially shooting themselves in the foot because of their principles. Because as awesome as it is that they have consciences, it doesn't make up for the criminal neglect of their artistry. I really wish they'd subscribe to their genre's definitions of selling out. But if they won't, and if they're willing to stand their ground, then in the end they will be recognized as the pioneers and exemplars that they are. I just hope they are around to receive that love when its due.

The Entertained

My first post of 2013... at the end of May.

When I first started blogging ten years ago, I averaged half a million words a year. Seriously.

Now I am barely doing anything.

When I was single, I used to write with a pen, by hand, in a spiral notebook. Recently I found my notebooks again, and I stacked them on a shelf in the closet. I filled 31 notebooks easily, and that's not counting the ones I gave away, lost, destroyed, or misplaced. Also not counting the ones devoted to my endless nameless novel, which will probably never see the light of day because, frankly, I'm sick of writing it.

I think I wrote so much that this long period of inactivity is the logical result. I wrote until I could no longer write.

This is a problem, seeing as I still want to write. Being sick of it doesn't mean that I don't want to keep doing it. It just means I don't like the things I write, like I have nothing meaningful to say that hasn't already been said by others.

*/*

Working in a bookstore adds to this malaise. Every day I see the works of others, and it fills me with envy and anger. Some of it is utter trash, useless and trivial. But those works do not bother me because I feel like I am no better than they are. Maybe a little jealousy creeps in when I think that these authors whom are no better than me are famous and have money. But it doesn't bother me as much as the works of true genius that move readers to laughter and tears with the wizardry or words and lyrical imagery. There's no denying that these authors deserve the fame, the accolades, the legendary status... and that hurts me the most, because I have always felt like I could be in the elite club.

But the fact that I have not done anything to match their efforts is what really bothers me. I don't mind being a father, a husband, a Midwesterner. But I haven't done anything creative in the time I've been those things, and coupled with that feeling is a sense of disgust with the people around me. I am no longer surrounded by artists, writers, painters, musicians, actors. Instead I am surrounded by watchers, viewers, readers, listeners, appreciators.

And what's more, they are not entertained by me, because I am no longer entertaining. I am a part of them; I am of The Entertained.  

*/*

My son is precious.

He doesn't care that I aspire to be creative. He just wants me to be Daddy, the one who play-wrestles on the bed, the one who makes up games and teaches him things, the one who gets him dressed in the morning and makes him something to eat and puts on his favorite DVD and kisses him goodnight and tucks him in.

Right now he is tugging at my shorts, telling me he wants me to play with him. I tell him I'm almost done. He tells me he wants me to be done now, and he rests his adorable head on my shoulder.

How can I resist that?

Maybe right now I am not ready or able to do what I want to do. But this post is proof that I am chomping at the bit, and the doldrums of docile Midwestern suburbia and Americana are fast upon me. I know that at some point I will be able to unleash what talents I have to offer, but until then I have a son who needs me to be his father.

Hell, he can't even read. What does it matter to him if I am a writer?

Maybe someday it will matter... but for now I am done.

*/*

Conspiracy Theory Blues

The day after 9/11 I started a journal. It didn't last long, but it captured something immediate in the air that I knew I would never be able to summons on my own ever again. However, there was plenty of stuff that happened during that week that I never jotted down, or blogged about, or even mentioned to anyone... not because of any explosive content, but because I am the type of person who actually keeps confidences and secrets when asked.

One of the first things I did that week (that didn't make it into the journal) was e-mail a friend of mine from high school. He and I used to hang out and talk about political stuff all the time. Now he was working at the Pentagon, which of course was one of the targets of the 9/11 attacks but certainly not the center of as much focus as Ground Zero or United Flight 93.

Still, it was a thrilling exchange of replies to each other, completely off-the-record and uncensored, although to be fair it's not like he worked with any classified information and it's not like he told me anything that could be called a typical "bombshell". I mean, it's not like he got a confession out of President Bush admitting that 9/11 was an inside job, but he also didn't completely own the official story (as it stood at the time) on certain levels.

But at least he was there, and his opinion matters more to me than anything I have read or heard since, whether it be online, in print, on TV or from the mouths of anyone else who was not there. Because he was being honest with me, and he also knew who he was speaking to: an open-minded person with a fascination for conspiracy theories-- real or imagined --who also had the capacity to keep his fool mouth shut and not try to milk any inside information for all it was worth.

I don't have immediate access to the printed copies I made of our e-mail chat (they are back in California, in storage, with the rest of my voluminous writings) but over the years I have had the opportunity to pull them out every now and then and compare notes with the contemporary zeitgeist regarding September 11, 2001. Over time, that very zeitgeist has most notably produced what is being called the Truther Movement, but we've also seen the birth of a new phenomenon that is actually just a 21st-Century off-shoot of some tried-and-true human absurdity: seemingly everyone nowadays has become a journalist, activist, or investigative reporter by virtue of the Internet.

I'm all for new information, and I think the Internet is great for connecting the lives of people who may never have gotten together had it not been for the World Wide Web. Ideas get exchanged, and it is very liberating... to a point. Then, after a while it becomes schlocky, and sometimes even serves to alienate people from loved ones even as it draws them closer to complete strangers.

Over the years, I have yet to read or watch anything that resembles my e-mail exchange with my high school buddy, who no longer works at the Pentagon and has a relatively normal life now. That's because nowadays all people are interested in is sensationalism, and frankly the discussion we had via e-mail (although it did have some lively moments and a few prescient morsels of info that have played themselves out rather well in the public arena) didn't contain enough extreme material.

In other words, it was somewhere firmly in the middle of what is the Official Story on 9/11 (Osama bin Laden and 19 al-Qaeda members hijacked jet airliners and crashed them into the World Trade Center and the Pentagon) and the Official Conspiracy Theory (9/11 was an inside job, a controlled demolition, enacted Reichstag-style in order to take away Americans' civil liberties and start a war in Iraq). But because our exchange didn't cleave too wildly towards either extreme, it would not even be considered a worthy topic of discussion in the most fact-based forum thread these days. It would contain no pizzazz, pep, or piss-and-vinegar; there would be no villains and no apparent heroes, and it would not change anyone's life nor would it cause outrage in anyone living comfortably in their Matrix-style cocoon. It wouldn't rock the boat, so to speak.

It would, in short, be boring.

In my experience, I've found that the truth often lies somewhere between fact and fiction. I'm not saying what I know about 9/11 is The Truth... but I am saying that it lies somewhere between fact and fiction, and that I trust that information much more than a link to a You Tube video that, for all I know, could've been posted by a bored housewife or perhaps a CIA disinformation expert.


*/*


Call me crazy, but I have this tendency to want to get to the actual source, and not just take things from second or third-hand gossip. And fortunately for me, I have been the beneficiary of many first-hand accounts in my life, mostly because I seem to work with or go to school with the right people. I myself am not a Mover or a Shaker, but everyone else around me seems to be, and being that I aspire to be a Writer, it's fitting that I have this God-given ability to get unique perspectives from people who happened to be in the right (or wrong) spot when the shit went down.

Of course, these people could all be liars. And that's always my first thought in these cases, and it might be a valid point if it weren't for the fact that I know these people as close, trustworthy friends and not just as strangers I met in a chat room.

But back to what I was saying about 9/11: I worked with a girl who was in one of the towers on that fateful day. I didn't know about this until recently, and to be honest I haven't had the nerve to ask her about it because, frankly, who would want to re-live a day like that, even if it was for the benefit of a former co-worker? She probably would tell me all about it, because we were more than just colleagues: we jammed together on music for a short spell, and I was also friends with her future husband with whom she eventually moved to New York.

Although she hasn't spoken to me about 9/11 (and I did mention that I knew this about her in a recent blog post) I do have the opportunity to see what her opinions on world affairs are, thanks to a social media website whose name I will not plug. She used to be a little more moderate, but now she is firmly to the right politically... and considering that she survived 9/11, I don't really blame her for becoming more conservative. Look what it did to Dennis Miller.

Sure, she and I differ on a variety of political topics, but I would still value her testimony in regards to 9/11 over anything I read from a website or news article. Just because she became more right-wing does not mean that the personal story of her ordeal is invalid. In fact, I would think that it would make it more valid. Like I said about my e-mail correspondence buddy earlier: she was there. She lived through it.

If this were a game of Big Bank vs. Little Bank (in this case, Big Data Bank vs. Little Data Bank) then she would certainly trump most, if not all, comers and pretenders. But funny thing about people who were actually there and not just playing a game of Internet Telephone: they never feel the need to prove anything, and usually have the sense to not exploit it for all its worth.

But I bet if some of my silly acquaintances who send me retarded links to 9/11 theories from all sides of the spectrum ever sent her a link, she'd give it to them with no mercy. And she'd be justified. And despite some of the things I know about 9/11 that she might not know or care about, I would take her far more seriously than the majority of people out there who have "opinions" about what happened that day.

That's because I have a suspicion that what she has to say would lie somewhere between fact and fiction. And if she asked me to not share it with anyone, I wouldn't. But I won't ask her to share because that's tacky. I guess I'll have to wait until one day she decides to spill the beans to me, of her own accord.

That is not as unlikely a prospect as it seems.


*/*


I've had insider tips from all sorts of people on any number of controversial topics, from the O.J. Simpson trial (I worked with someone who'd been subpoenaed to testify on the stand) to the Rodney King verdicts (talked to people who knew both the cops involved and Mr. King) and almost everything in between. In every single one of these off-the-record conversations, I am amazed at the participants' willingness to reveal to me the type of information that could prompt someone of lesser character to write a book, or go online, start a website, and exploit the fuck out of these tidbits for monetary gain or merely for attention.

Every now and then, even I will have to ask aloud to someone giving me the inside dope, "Why are you telling me all of this?" And they will invariably answer: "Because I trust you."

That's the story of my life, by the way: people trust me, because they find me to be completely honest. And while it may be true that no one is ever 100%
completely honest, I will toot my own horn for a moment and say that I am more honest than most. To put it bluntly, I am so honest that sometimes I reveal too much information because I like to talk. So the fact that, on occasion, I can stick to my guns and never say anything about a particular topic is remarkable.

Shit, I feel guilty right now just blogging about it. I'd like to deliver the good, really. I'd love to give up all the juicy details. But I won't. I know it seems like a tease, or like I really have nothing to impart but want to make it seem like I do. However, I felt compelled to blog this because I'm just sick of everyone who thinks they have an opinion trying to tell me shit that I already heard from more trusted sources, or people with NO CLUE as to where their information is coming from telling ME that I am apathetic.

Since the 21st Century is all about redefining things like Political Activism and Journalism, allow me to redefine Apathy for the new millennium.

APATHY is when you don't have any sensitivity or respect for the experiences of others, and will cherry-pick and selectively highlight only the tidbits of information that suit your own needs. APATHY is when you ignore the first-hand testimony of people who actually lived through certain events and instead go with wild speculation from anonymous or unknown and unverified sources.

In short, APATHY is being clueless to what's really going on, simply because you have your own agenda to fulfill.

As for me, I have no agenda. I have no ulterior motives. I'm not out to impress anyone, don't care if the Truth is ever known (because odds are it never will be) and certainly know enough about humankind to know that even if the Truth revealed itself today, most people would scoff at it or wave their hands and dismiss it.

It's tempting to call me apathetic, because I have settled down in the Midwest with a wife, a child, and a 9-to-5 job with good benefits, if not spectacular pay. But then again, I was never really a crusader to begin with-- I just happen to know a lot about things because people say "Psst! C'mere" and tell me, without my having to ask. I've done some things I'm proud of, some other things I'm not proud of, and there's been times when I took the money instead of standing my ground, just as much as I've resisted the carrot and suffered the consequences of not selling out.

But it's also real easy to be left-wing when you live in a Blue State. Now that I'm living in a Red State, the need to be Blue is stronger than ever. And more challenging. In order to keep that focus, I can't be bothered with petty bullshit, dumb lies, and bad logic. I need to be on my toes, even if I'm not out on the front lines participating in Occupy Indianapolis.

So don't bother me about fluoridization of water, the moon landing hoax, ending the Federal Reserve, or any number of silly topics designed to keep our minds off of the real shit going on. And certainly don't bother me about 9/11... not because I can't handle the truth that can be found on thousands of badly-designed websites, but because you can't handle The Truth as I know it.

Besides, 9/11 is old shit. Why you gotta bring up old shit for? Read my last post if you wanna know how I feel about it.


*/*

A lot of thoughts going through my mind on this, the 11th anniversary of 9/11.

To be honest, I wouldn't have even remembered had it not been for that good ol' trusty Facebook News Feed. I woke up, showered, started making breakfast and logged on for a second as the frying pan warmed up. I didn't see any references until I'd scrolled down a ways; then I saw the exhortations to Remember, to Never Forget.

And I thought to myself, Forget what?

I looked at the wall calendar next to the computer. There it was, as plain as day: Patriot Day.

Really? Patriot Day? You mean to tell me that today is a day where any person who hasn't voted in the last ten elections, isn't up on current events, or understands the electoral process can just wake up this morning and claim to be a Patriot?

Funny, I thought that if you cared about this country then every day was Patriot Day... but that's just me. And it is an election year...


*/*


Patriot Day is a stupid name for September 11. It should really be called Victim Day, because everyone uses it as an excuse to feel sorry for themselves.

Or maybe it should be called False Pride Day, because of the fact that people claim to be proud of one of the biggest security lapses in military history, which allowed for an unprecedented attack on U.S. soil by a group of terrorists.

I guess you can tell that I really am detached from all the emotion involved. That's because 9/11, in all truthfulness, did not affect me that much. And I thank God every day for that.

And in all truthfulness, it didn't directly affect anyone I know either. Sure, they might have cried or gotten angry and wanted to go out and bash some Muslims in the head, but it didn't hit home with anyone I know.

Except for one person. One person that I know personally was in one of the towers on that day, and she survived.

And she has every right to celebrate today not only as a Patriot but also as a survivor and as a victim. But of course, she won't be seen as a victim. She won't allow it. Hell, I didn't even know that she was in the tower until last year, when she made a comment about it to someone else on Facebook. She probably doesn't even know that I know, and perhaps she is unconcerned with me knowing.

All I know is, if I had survived 9/11, I wouldn't really want to talk about it to anyone. And thus, I have never asked her to tell me her story. Maybe one day, decades from now, when democracy still exists and our grandchildren are still free and people like Dick Cheney are long gone, maybe then I'll ask her. But for now, I don't think it's really any of my business.

But I am grateful to her that she doesn't shove it down my throat every chance she gets, even though she is the one person who deserves to do so above all else.


*/*


It's so ironic that we live in a country where everyone goes on about "Hey man, pull yourself together, get a life, get over yourself!" and then spends an entire day rehashing some old shit.

Wanna know what else is ironic? On my News Feed, I saw a number of 9/11 references. But as I scrolled down, I saw a meme that someone posted. Normally these type of memes grate on my nerves, but today this one in particular stood out.

It said: "You can't start the next chapter of the book of your life if you keep re-reading the last one."

I truly doubt that this person was posting this is reference to 9/11. This person often posts these types of banal aphorisms, and I pretty much ignore them for the most part. But today, that message really hit it on the nose.

I'm not saying that we should ever forget what happened on 9/11. What I am saying, though, is that one day, whether we like it or not, we will forget it.

If you don't believe me, try asking your kids (or someone else's kids, if you have none) what day Veteran's Day is, or if they know what Armistice Day was, or ask them if they know the origins of Memorial Day.

Then, ask them what day Christmas is, or what happens on Easter.


*/*


One last thought:

50 years from now, I predict that a second-generation-Third-World-immigrant will come to America, work their way up from poverty to make a career as a stand-up comedian, and get rich telling off-color jokes. And some of those jokes will be about 9/11. And this comic will be popular with the young people, but the old fogies like you and me will be all up in arms, talking about how disrespectful today's generation is, how they shit on history and their roots.

But if the Constitution and the Bill Of Rights are still in effect 50 years from now, then that means the freedom that scores of Americans died for-- whether they be soldiers or innocent victims of terrorism --will also still be around.

And to be honest, if that day ever comes, I will feel more patriotic than I ever would on any other September 11.

cliche alert

Election time. RNC last night, next week DNC.

I want to post more political things, but I am sick and tired of that sinking feeling I get when I post something on Facebook and log off, knowing that someone is going to engage me in a heated discussion on a controversial topic when I log back on. It makes me wish I never even posted anything in the first place.

Don't get me wrong: I still have enough piss and vinegar in me for any conversation or debate you can name. I'm just sick and tired of doing it. Because venting my spleen is not a sign of happiness. It's a sign of angry-ness, and although I will probably always be a little angry and not 100% happy, I do have control over it.

Right? Right.


*/*


Living in the Midwest is like going back in time ten or fifteen years: pot is not legally available at a dispensary down the corner (in fact, even liquor stores are closed on Sunday); food prices (and wages) are ridiculously low, as is the cost of living; and there are at least twelve churches within five miles of my home in every direction.

The liberals and lefties out here are a lot more diligent and less tolerant of conservative thought. That's because in Los Angeles most political types are wannabes and poseurs, whereas out here you have to back up your words if you really mean them. In California there are conservative pockets, yes, but it's mostly a liberal paradise; a person can rant all day long about taboo subjects and never have to face the music or deal with the consequences of their words. This is not exactly the Bible Belt (Indiana is located right above it) but it was once a stronghold of the KKK in the years after WWI. Conservatism and Republicanism run rampant here. If you want to have that magical conversation about religion or politics in the bar, make sure you have your peeps with you.

All of my peeps are back home, so I pretty much keep my mouth shut. Fortunately, Indiana has a lot of liberals, so I do get the chance to exchange ideas with people on the same page. And yet it's not the same, plus I'm no spring chicken-- I have a wife and a kid to think about, so (to use yet one more cliche than I already have) I try not to write checks with my mouth that my body can't cash.

In other words, I'm not trying to get tied to a monster truck and dragged around town just because I like Obama. Call me a coward if you want, but these days I only engage in battles if it looks like it's gonna be a fair fight.


*/*


Of course, I like taking the piss out of both sides of the spectrum, so I pick fights with liberals too. But what I'm finding out here in Indianapolis is that, while there is room for a middle ground, it's more black-and-white than being back home. Whereas back in L.A. I can talk shit about Democrats who are just as bad as Republicans, out here it is more of a mystification. People don't always get the fact that I am firmly to the left on everything. What I always felt was a willingness to self-criticize is perceived out here, I feel, to be some sort of political/ethical self-hatred.

I always felt that the Left's greatest attribute was their ability to examine themselves less subjectively than the Right, but lately that's all been changing. The GOP has had to reflect upon themselves a lot, if only because they are struggling to find a common ground upon which to mount their attacks at the incumbent. But the Dems have become more subjective and less open to (Cliche Alert) taking the plank out of their own eye before taking others to task over that tiny mote. Is this the result of taking back the White House after 8 years of George W. Bush?

I don't know. I mean, I DO know, but I'm not going to get into that anymore. Sick and tired, remember? Such a drain to log onto Facebook and see all these comments waiting for me. Maybe that's why I am spending less time on FB and trying to make more time for the blog: no one is forced to read this, but if I post something in my News Feed or (worse) write a Note and forward it to people, I am not only being invasive but I'm kind of asking for it.


*/*


I'm glad that at least I work with a lot of people who are politically on the Left, or at least have enough of a sense of humor to laugh about their conservative beliefs (if they have any at all). Like everyone else who works, I spend a lot of time with my co-workers so it's important to like them as people. I don't think I could hack it in this city if I had to work at Chick-Fil-A, for example. But who's to say that the people who have to work at a place like Chick-Fil-A aren't nice? Some of them might even be Democrats. Or gay. Or gay Democrats. This economy sucks, people have to get jobs where they can find them.

Is it betraying a principle if a gay person works at Chick-Fil-A? Most would argue that it is. But if that gay person has a domestic partner and an adopted child and they need cash, is it wrong then? Or is it a necessary evil? We've all had to work for an evil corporation at one point or another-- do we ever get absolved of that, even if we go onto more humane employers? Will working at a used bookstore wash my hands of the stink left over from my time at Clear Channel?

Is it wrong for me to eat a Chick-Fil-A sandwich even though I support gay marriage? Was it wrong of me to criticize the gay movement's mishandling of the "No on Prop. 8" campaign in California in 2008? Is there a satisfactory answer to any of these questions, one that will sate everybody's lust for judgment?

I guess the answer to all of these is: depends on where you live. There's a Chick-Fil-A in Santa Clarita, just north of Los Angeles. It's been there for a little over a year. I don't know if there was a huge show of support out there on August 1st. I'm sure that even if there was, it paled in comparison to out here, where there are more Chick-Fil-A's than I can stomach (pardon the pun).

Personally, I think their food is a little bland, but my son loves their playground area. But then again, what does he care? His best friends are the neighbor kids who are being raised by a lesbian couple. Given a choice between hanging out with his best buddies or a chicken sandwich, I know what my son would choose: he'd choose his friends, because that would make him the happiest... and that's what it's all about, in the long run.

Right? Right.


*/*

Last year I only blogged four times, and all of them came in the Fall.

So what was I doing last year in the first half that wasn't blog-worthy?

I had gone back to Los Angeles. The move to the Midwest occurred in December of 2010 but I was having trouble finding a job out here. If I'd stuck it out I probably would've been hired at my current job in February of 2011, but we were living with my mother-in-law and she's retired, gets a pension check and the money was tight.

I had to take care of unfinished business: We left my truck and half of our belongings in Albuquerque, New Mexico after one of the tire pegs on my truck broke. I also had to pay off some tickets in L.A. and grab some things we didn't take with us. But the clincher was when my cousin said there was a job opportunity that was paying well.

With the help of family in Denver, Colorado, I was able to get to New Mexico, fix my truck, drive it back to L.A., apply for the job with my cousin's company, and work my ass off until I had enough money to bring my wife and son back to the West Coast.

But I was going to have to be apart from my wife and son for at least six months.


*/*


I stayed at the house where my grandparents lived, but the house was already filled to capacity. After my grandparents' passed away my aunt and her family took over the house, plus my aunt and some of my cousins were staying there as well. There was room for me in the garage. My dad converted a section of it into a small bedroom the size of a jail cell.

I had to do this because I could not afford rent. I was sending the majority of my weekly pay to my wife and keeping only enough money for gas and food. I crashed on a lot of couches as well. Many of my friends who tried to help me out couldn't understand how I was making so much money and yet sometimes had to sleep in my truck or rent a crappy motel room for the night.

Meanwhile, I got the job with my cousin's company: Bank Of America. Foreclosure Department. As if my situation wasn't depressing enough... but it was money, and I hadn't worked in almost two years. That job kept me afloat and got me through a rough time.

And during that time I began to realize that, while I was back home where I was raised and came of age, my real family was living in Indianapolis, braving the worst winter in recent memory without me.


*/*


I saved up enough money to fly out to Indianapolis for Easter. When I called my wife to tell her that soon we'd be coming back to L.A., she told me she didn't want to come back. Things were going good for her out in the Midwest. She was working in her field, something she couldn't do in L.A. Our son was making friends and going to a good daycare, and they were on the verge of getting into a nice apartment thanks to the money I was sending.

While this made me feel a little bit sick, I also knew that my family was happy. The only thing that would make it perfect would be for me to be there.

I remember the morning after my flight arrived. I hadn't seen my son when I got in because he was asleep. My jet lag caused me to wake up extra early, and I hid behind the couch when our little man woke up and walked into my mother-in-law's living room to watch cartoons.

When he saw me, it was a look I will never forget: a mix of incomprehension and familiarity. He didn't know who I was, and yet he knew exactly who I was, and he was trying to figure it out. It took him ten minutes to warm up to me, but when he did it was as if I'd never left.

That Easter was special, and when it was time for me to go back to L.A. I took a walk with Little Man in the park and talked to him.

"I'm leaving tomorrow. But I'll be back." I don't believe in talking down to children, just talk to them straight up and they'll understand.

Little Man lowered his head. He was not happy about it.

"Hey, listen to me," I said to him. "You have to be brave, for your mama. Take care of her. You're the man until I come back. But I will be back. You have to be strong, OK?"

He nodded his head. He didn't cry or whimper or anything. We just enjoyed our time together for as long as we had it.

The next day at the airport, he was so happy, so chipper. I was the one who couldn't hold back my emotions, but my son made me so proud.


*/*


Six months turned into seven, then eight. But I was now ready to drive from Los Angeles to Indianapolis, with a stop in Denver to recharge with my uncle who had so graciously helped me to get back out to L.A. in the first place.

It would take me five days.

As I drove, I started to manifest symptoms of high blood sugar and diabetes. It runs in my family, and I was overweight with a bad diet. My eyesight became blurry and I had to stop almost every hour to urinate. But I soldiered on.

I think I could've made the trip in three days had I not stopped so much, but it was better to take my time. Soon I would be back with my wife and my son, for good. No more having to send me money from afar, or relying on photographs and video text messages to keep my memory alive for my son. I would not have to miss any more moments with my family.

On August 15th, 2011, I entered the Indianapolis city limits. I was in the home stretch, as they say.

By that time, my wife had moved into the new apartment. It was there that I drove, and when I entered our new home I heard Bob Dylan playing, and I saw my wife and son, and I hugged them and kissed them, and I swore that I would never leave them again.

The year anniversary of that trip back to Indy just passed, and it fills me with a strange sorrow and a complex joy. I can't believe I went through all that. There were some lonesome nights out there, to be sure.

And I wonder if I really had to do all of that, just to end up here. I mean, I think I could've found work if we'd just held out a bit longer. But then again, if we'd been the types to hold on just a little bit longer, we would have never moved out of L.A. to begin with-- we would've just stayed put until that Bank Of America gig came along.

We all did what we had to do. And I suspect that somehow we are better off for it, as a family. My son will never remember that for eight months I was away, and even I have forgotten how long it seemed I was out there until now. My wife is embarking on the career she always wanted, and I am a working stiff once again.

As for how I feel about the city of Indianapolis, that's another blog entry. But suffice it to say, I'll endure anything if it means making things better for my family. And I am not just saying that-- I can back it up.

Happy Birthday to The Hamburglar. Robble robble robble.

I'm getting that Authorial Vibe again. What I refer to as That Writerly Urge.

I don't have a whole lot to say right now. That is, I have nothing special to report. My life is surprisingly normal. My wife is great, my son is great, my job is great... no complaints here.

I am feeling the need to write again. But this time, my need to be creative is motivated by something other than loneliness and a desire for attention.

Yes, I can admit it now: the crux of my writing in the past was informed by low self-esteem and a paucity for genuine love in my life.

Wait a minute: I was copping to that even back in the day! A cursory glance through my archives proves this. EVERY post was some lovelorn lament or a bitter screed against some perceived threat against my well-being.

I used to get mad when people had nothing to say. I used to get mad when people didn't leave comments on my page. I used to write every day, several times a day.

And now look at me. Sporadic posts, no one reading my scarcely updated entries, and not a whole lot to impart in terms of content.

What happened to me?

Oh yeah, that's right. I became happy.


*/*


Misery is not a prerequisite to creativity. I know this. But I used to think I had to be tortured, whether by myself or by others, in order to create.

I realize now that, while confronting personal demons can result in spectacular bursts of creativity, it is not a prerequisite by any means.

After all, isn't the pursuit of creativity the same thing as pursuing personal happiness? Wasn't it my goal to be satisfied with what I had accomplished through my dalliances in writing, music and art?

The truth is, I am proud of the things I undertook. I am proud of the works I created, even if they never went beyond my own personal circle of friends and associates. But when I look back and see the pain I was in, that kind of makes me shutter.

It's sad. It's so obvious now that I was not happy. And that marred my work.

I'm glad to be writing from a healthier perspective, that's for sure.


*/*


So I perused the Archives and found this post from December 2004. Rather than link it, I am going to simply cut-and-paste the relevant section of the post.

I think it speaks volumes about my state-of-mind back then. But it also serves as a forward reminder, in a way. It's almost as if I anticipated the day when I'd be slacking in the blog department and needed to send myself a wake-up call for posterity.

That makes me seem prescient as all hell, but what is art if not bordering on the clairvoyant every now and then?

So here it is. I hope you enjoy it as much as I did.

And I'll be writing more later. You can bet on it.


*/*


POST FROM DECEMBER 2004

Don't turn your back on the blog. One day, you're gonna need it on your side. But will the blog be there for you when you need it most? Not if you keep mistreating it.

Show some love and respect to your blog. Make at least one post, even if it's two lines, six words, and five syllables long.

If you don't do it for yourself, then do it for me.

Okay?

Hell, I don't have anything to say today, and I'm swamped with work, but I still manage.

I always manage...

Stop browsing for junk online. Stop ordering from Amazon. Stop frequenting gossip forums and porn sites.

All I'm asking you to do is make one fucking entry.

Just one.

If you really are in it for the love, then write one word.

That's all.

OK, gotta go-- I have a life too, you know.


*/*

Obama: The Blazing Saddles Connection

Dave Chappelle was right when he said on his short-lived TV show, "Never be the first black person to do anything." He was referring to how hard African-American pioneers have it when breaking new ground. Of course, he then went into a skit about the first black person to use a segregated white toilet, but the general point he made was that the first black anything-- whether it be athlete, performer, or politician --will face severe hardship and opposition. And this was before Barack Obama became President of the United States.

So now, here we are, almost four years after the historic inauguration of America's first non-white Commander-in-Chief (or at least half-white)... and it looks like Dave was right. Not only is Obama hated by his apparent political enemies, but even former supporters (you know, the ones who almost called me a racist because I supported Hillary Clinton early on in the 2008 primaries) are now calling for his resignation. And of course, NO ONE is doing it for racist reasons. No, they just hate his policies, or his lies, or his flip-flops. Just because he's black has NOTHING to do with it, right?

I'm not going to call anyone who opposes Obama a racist, even though everyone did that to me four years ago when I stated that Hillary was a better candidate. You see, I wasn't fooled by Obama's smooth rhetoric. Chris Rock once made a point about Colin Powell, how everyone liked him because "he speaks so well", like he's expected to shuck-and-jive and people are so shocked to see that he is educated. Same with Obama. I thought he was smooth, yes, but nothing he said was really substantial.

However, what DID impress me about Obama was how he stole that Democratic nomination away from her. He stole it not as a black man, but as a politician. Coupled with his Chicago political clout, he had the makings of a real winner. Fuck his eloquence, this man wielded true political capital. To be able to take out the Clintons in the primaries is no mean feat. So I voted for him... and I must admit, while he has been less than stellar, I also feel he has done a lot in a short time and that history will be kind to him. He is not perfect, and the outrage many people feel towards him is understandable, but it is perplexing to me how the people who voted for him are so upset. Don't they realize that they have no one but themselves to blame for electing a candidate with very little political experience to his credit simply because he was a black man with a spectacular speaking style?

They should've listened to Dave Chappelle and Chris Rock, two other black men with a flair for spoken word. But they weren't running for office in 2008.


*/*


I have compared Obama's presidency with the movie Blazing Saddles ever since the debates with Sen. John McCain. If Obama was Sheriff Bart, then McCain was the first of many Hedley (not Heddy) Lamars that Obama has had to face. I always root for Obama because of this comparison in my mind, because I love that movie and I see it being played out in the political arena constantly.

I love that movie because it is truthful about America's attitude towards African-Americans: they only love them when they are doing something to save them from the mess they made. The minute a black man in power tries something new and risky, though, the American people get skittish, and latent racist tendencies emerge. And the irony is that they come out strongest among the liberals. Conservatives at least make no bones about their feelings for Obama, even if they do lie to themselves by saying they oppose his policies and not his race. But it is shocking to see liberals act as if the President robbed their house or dated their daughter. They may have legitimate gripes about some of his decisions in office, but it is couched in such condescending language that it makes me sick.

"He should know better."

"I am so disappointed."

"He is worse than any other President we've ever had."

Yeah, as if eight years of George W. Nixon never happened.

The attitude towards Obama as of late is akin to this: "We gave you a chance, Negro, but you're blowing it and now we'll never trust one of your kind to run things ever again." And those who speak with this tone in their voice will deny it to their dying breath. But if they only watched Mel Brooks' comedic Western farce, maybe they'd see how close of a resemblance they bear to the people of Rock Ridge, who only warm up to the Sheriff completely after he has defeated Hedley Lamar as well as saved them from Mongo, rebuilt the entire town of Rock Ridge as a decoy, and broke through the Fourth Wall by instigating a good old-fashioned pie fight on a Warner Brothers sound stage.

I mean, what's a brother gotta do around here to get some respect?


*/*


I'm voting for him in 2012, and if anyone gives me any shit about it I'll whip out this handy link reminding people what Obama has done so far in his Administration.

Yes, I know about the Wikileaks memos, how his Administration is practically pardoning the Bush Crime Family for their torture tactics. Yes, I know. Yes, I've heard. Yes, yes, yes. You don't have to tell me. I may be Latino, but I do read the papers, and I keep up with current events, so you don't have to talk to me like I'm five years-old.

By the way: Did you know that more marijuana users were prosecuted under Bill Clinton's watch than under Nixon? Did you know Clinton signed the Telecommunications Act of 1996 which allowed broadcasting companies like Clear Channel to become monstrous monopolies and foment the toxic spew of conservative talk radio? These are some of the reasons why I voted for Ralph Nader in 1996. And I won't even get into the adultery because it makes no difference to me in terms of whether he was a good leader or not. But I will mention some of his barbs at Obama during those 2008 primaries, barbs that made me sigh and say, "Et tu, Bill?"

My point is, politicians lie and make false promises and disappoint and dash hopes and dreams and make cynics of us all. Obama is no different. But I ended up liking him, and I think I like him more now that everyone's true colors are emerging. Because let's face it: if you voted for him because you bought into the whole Hope angle, or because he "speaks so well", then you deserve to be pissed off and upset... at yourself, for being so stupid as to vote for someone for such shallow reasons.

But if you voted for him because you saw that he would make a better leader than John McCain, like I did, then you probably don't feel hornswoggled right now. Because like me, you knew he'd make mistakes and implement questionable decisions. But you also knew, like me, that he'd probably catch Osama bin Laden and push through the basic bones of health care reform, something Bill & Hillary weren't able to do when they were in charge.


*/*

One final note: Toni Morrison once called Clinton the "first black President" because of the way he was treated by the press and by Congress. Now that we have a real black President who is facing re-election, I wonder how many more we'll have after this. Will it be like pro sports, where the allowance of one black athlete led to almost absolute dominance by black players? Or will it take a few more Clinton-style black Presidents before we can even think of going for the Real McCoy again? It bears noting that Obama is a mulatto, so he is not 100% black. Will we ever have a President that is as dark as Wesley Snipes? Or will they always have high-yellow complexions for the next 40 years?

All I know is (thanks to Obama) my wife, son and I had a fighting chance during this terrible recession. Stimulus money kept us afloat, credit card reform minimized our debt, healthcare reform ensured us a future for our child, and job creation has allowed me to contribute to our finances again after being unemployed for nearly two years. And for my money (and my vote) that is enough for me to invest my allegiance to another term for him.

Just call me The Waco Kid, I guess...