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.

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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.

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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.  

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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.

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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.


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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.


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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...

Trying To Get An Agent (part one)

I started soliciting literary agents when I was back in Los Angeles in July. I used the e-mail at the bank where I was working to send them out when I had spare moments. Then in August I made the move to Indianapolis-- I was in the Midwest by the 16th, having traveled almost 3,000 miles by land in my pickup truck.

I was worried that the one agency that asked for a submission would not be able to get back to me due to my not being at the bank anymore (since I was using their e-mail it would no longer exist when I left the company) but I also did not want to spoil anything by asking about it before the allotted period of three months passed.

So I sent an e-mail in September updating my e-mail address and waited until October to officially inquire as to whether it was a 'pass' or a 'go'. When October came, I sent the inquiry follow-up and waited some more.

Meanwhile, the latest and so-far-the-best edit of my novel has been trapped on the hard drive to a dead laptop. I haven't had the time to retrieve the manuscript from the hard drive, but to be honest I wasn't too thrilled about the submission I'd been sending to agents: I kept rewriting it as I e-mailed them, and that's not a good sign.

Mind you, I've only solicited about 50 or so agents. The sole reply that asked for a submission is merely one agency. The rest either didn't get back to me or passed. But there's still hundreds and thousands of agents out there. I've barely begun the process. However, I am still not satisfied with what I have to offer.

I decided that, no matter what happened with this one agent, I will send a stronger chapter of my novel when the next round of solicitations begins. I imagine that I will have something ready to send by the end of the year, because the holidays are upon us and I don't know if any agents will be in their offices from now until the new year.

And just when I decided to take this tack, I received a pass letter from the agent in question... dated August 13, 2011! I guess they replied to me sooner but I was en route to Indiana when it was sent. The September e-mail update must have gotten buried in the mix, and my October follow-up was probably confusing to them until they realized that I'd never received the August reply.

So, in other words, I was passed on almost three months ago and I've been twiddling my thumbs doing nothing about it. But now at least I know what's up, and I can go forward with a better query and better material to back it up with if I get another request for a submission.

I do feel a little dumb, but then again my strong suit has never been the business side of things. I'm learning this as I go. It will probably be a long long time before I see anything worthwhile coming my way. I am not daunted, however-- this is only the beginning. I should've taken this seriously in the past but I was too busy writing and loving it.

But there's no rush, is there?

"The King Of Politics"

Watching Martin Scorsese's The King Of Comedy on DVD reminds me of the time when I was working in the Network Operations Center of the corporate radio network owned by that behemoth of media conglomerates, Clear Channel.

In the movie, Robert De Niro plays aspiring comic Rupert Pupkin, who kidnaps a late-night talk show host (modeled on Johnny Carson but played by Jerry Lewis) in order to get his big break on the airwaves. The movie wasn't a big hit but in terms of foresight it is extremely prescient. Forget Andy Warhol's 15 minutes, this movie practically guarantees that the criminal class will inherit the media of the future.

It reminds me of my job in radio because there was one moment in time when I had the idea to switch the feed that sent Rush Limbaugh's show from West Palm Beach (where he broadcasts) via a satellite connection that ended up in Denver and scattered all over the network, which was nationwide at the time.

I wanted to switch the feed with a filthy comedy routine by the late Bill Hicks, wherein he wondered aloud if Rush Limbaugh and some of the Republican ex-presidents (with Barbara Bush in tow) engaged in kinky coprophilia. I had the CD in my travel bag, and my position was such that I could've done it easily, and by the time anyone was the wiser the bit would've ended... along with my career in radio.

I often wonder what would have happened had I done that. First of all, I would've been fired and probably fined for violating FCC standards and practices. But the prank would've made the news, and people who hate Rush Limbaugh would've picked up on it and had me on their shows and I might have become some sort of low-level celebrity in left-wing circles. Maybe I would've ended up working for Air America.

But I also would've incurred the wrath of neo-conservatives and right-wingers. Not that it bothers me, but then again they can be a hateful bunch, and the quiet solitude I enjoy now with my wife and son would not be possible due to never-ending torrents of hate mail and death threats. I mean, this would have happened in late 2000 had it actually been carried out, long before I ever entertained the thought of settling down. But I don't think I would've found the kind of peace I enjoy now. Some people have long memories, and the ones who I would've angered tend to carry guns and shoot abortion doctors, so someone like me would be fair game.

Still, I wonder what might have been, as we all do when we think about the paths we didn't take in life. And I don't regret not doing it, because ultimately such an event would only make Rush's supporters more defensive-- after all, they do refer to themselves as 'dittoheads' so there's really nothing a prank like that would've done to convince them otherwise. In fact, it may have only fanned the flames of their devotion to such an extent that maybe it would've made today's current political climate --replete as it is with Tea Baggers and Occupiers and the whole lot --much less tolerable.

Part of me does wish I could've socked it to the right-wingers in such a spectacular fashion, but I think someone like me does it every day here in Middle America, where sometimes my mere presence in a public market stands as an affront to any white upper middle-class American who thinks that minorities are inferior. I think the fact that I am here and raising a son and living the Dream with a capital D can sometimes be more of a 'fuck you' to the dittoheads than any rhetoric I can espouse.

I dunno, maybe I'm just rationalizing a missed opportunity. Or maybe I just have a hankering to do something along those lines again. I look at the papers and the blogs and the news websites and see so many people taking it to the streets, I wonder if I ever did enough. But there's no answer to that, because even if I had hijacked Rush's radio show for a minute in the post-election turn-of-the-millenium, there's no way I could ever top that. I'd have to live that down, or outdo it. And that's the consequence of such an action: once you pick a side of the fence to be on, you have to stay there.

Believe me, it's much more enjoyable being here, in the Heartland, the Crossroads of America, where no one knows my name and yet I can still sympathize with those who believe what I believe as I send my son to a decent preschool and my wife wins Halloween contests by dressing as the leg lamp from A Christmas Story. I don't think I'd want it any other way, the more I think about it.

Back to blogging.

Last night as I watched my son, I went through my Facebook profile and did a little editing, mostly just un-friending people that I once thought were cool but suddenly realized I didn't actually have any connection with; it wasn't a prerequisite that I actually know them in real life, because a lot of my favorite people are online-only friends whom I have yet to encounter in the real world. Rather, I decided a little pruning was in order, simply because I am sick of going onto Facebook and seeing updates from pages I once deemed (for a few seconds at that) funny and clever. I am not alone in this, I am sure. I have noticed the times when I have been un-friended and thought to myself, "Maybe I post too many You Tube videos that are random and meaningless."

I put on Blue's Clues in the Netflix queue for J.R. and got around to reading a book about Charles Manson. The book is not a rehash of the Tate-LaBianca murders but dwells on what Manson is doing now. As you can guess, he isn't doing much save for rotting in jail and rambling nuttily at length about the most whacked-out shit ever conceived by a madman.

Then, my wife came home from a fashion show. It's Midwest Fashion Week, and she works in fashion, and we're in the Midwest, so it all makes sense. She had a ball, and she even got offers to model from other designers. I was happy for her, but that happiness was tempered by J.R.'s excitement at seeing her come home, even if it was almost midnight. (Yes, I know, he should've been asleep earlier, but I worked late and he wasn't tired in the least) Little Man went into hyperdrive as we labored to calm him down.

My, how things have changed since those heady days when I wrote in this blog several times a day, searching for a connection in the vast cyber-wasteland of the (ack) blog-o-sphere...

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I had a dream that my co-workers and I were giving a going-away party to our manager at the bookstore. It was one of my "big house" dreams: If I ever could claim that I had a recurring dream motif, it is the Big House. I often have dreams that take place in a huge mansion with multiple rooms. The house never belongs to anyone in particular, and the people living in the rooms are often just friends and acquaintances. Thus, the going-away party took place in a Big House. I invited everyone I ever knew -- or, more to the point, everyone I am friends with on Facebook, which goes back as far as my grade school days. I was so wrapped up in planning the party that when it actually started and people began to arrive I greeted them cursorily and went about my business of renting recording equipment for some big jam I had planned.

The dream then skipped to the next day, when most of the people had left and only a handful of us from the bookstore were busy cleaning up. And that's when Manson showed up. He was the one who rented us the recording gear, and didn't want us to record over some of his songs that were on the 2-inch tape. We listened to the jam and decided to forward the tape past Charlie's tunes so we could record another post-party jam, mostly because I had not been included on the first jam and I needed to be a participant. So I grabbed a microphone and sang, improvising words and the musicians played, and at the end (when the music suddenly turned violent and thrashy) I handed the mic to Manson and he finished it off.

As the dream neared its end, I was helping my co-workers get the gear loaded so we could return it to the rental place. One co-worker made a snide comment about Manson, and we were shocked to discover that Manson overheard it, as he was standing behind a hedge only three feet away from us, undetected. He was a little pissed, and the co-worker who'd made the comment instantly became frightened and walked back into the Big House. Manson assured me he wasn't going to seek retribution, but after giving me a bear hug he slinked away and headed towards the Big House. Concerned, I followed suit.

When I got to the Big House, it was completely empty. My co-worker had a sawed-off shotgun in his hands with the barrel in his mouth. His aim was to commit a murder-suicide, aiming the shotgun in a manner that would allow him to also kill Manson as he killed himself. But when Manson entered the room, my co-worker pulled the trigger and MISSED Manson (not surprising, seeing as he had to face the opposite direction in order to send any buckshot in Manson's path) and also failed to fully kill himself.

The big irony was that Manson was holding a pipe and a bag of weed. He had intended to offer a peace treaty to my co-worker instead of vicious revenge. But the look on Charlie's face made me wonder if he hadn't "mind-controlled" the kid into blowing his own face off.

And that's when I woke up, and I swore to never browse Facebook and read about Charles Manson in the same evening ever again.

He's Outta My Life

Of course I made a joke when I heard the news about Michael. I sat there watching Fox News Channel at a friend's house, holding my little boy on my lap. I looked down at him and said, "It's okay, you're safe now." That one got a laugh. So did the next one: "I'm not sure if he's really dead... I mean, we are watching Fox News."

But after the jokes subsided, the reality set in. And no amount of conspiracy theorizing or joking or analyzing can take back the fact that Michael Jackson, the self-proclaimed King Of Pop and an extraordinary performer, is now dead.

I'm glad he's dead, because now he is at peace. Never had there been so restless a personality as his. I doubt he ever felt like what he'd accomplished was good enough. I'm not saying he was unhappy, although the amount of plastic surgery he foisted upon himself might point that way. I'm just saying that he wasn't at peace. Even as he died, he was on the verge of another comeback.

I mean, was Ed McMahon or Farrah Fawcett as deeply troubled and as endlessly fascinating as Michael? Believe it or not, there are people who do not know who those other two people are, or didn't know until earlier this week. But everyone knew Michael. Everyone.

And that's what I'm wrapping my head around right now. No other artist has permeated my life or the lives of so many people like he has. Even Prince, whom I prefer musically and whom I defended against Michael fans back in the '80s, does not inform my every memory as pervasively as Michael.

He was there when I was a little boy, as the Scarecrow in The Wiz. He was there when I was watching the breakdancers cop his moves in the early '80s, alongside Kurtis Blow and George Clinton. Eddie Murphy did a spot-on impersonation of him, both on SNL and in his own stand-up. He was an uncredited voice cameo on The Simpsons, and I didn't learn until decades later that he really did do the voice and it wasn't an impersonator. He gave Alfonso "Carlton on The Fresh Prince" Ribiero his big break in a Pepsi ad. His songs were the soundtrack of my childhood, and were parodied by cult heroes like "Weird" Al Yankovic. His sister was on two TV shows that I grew up on, and I had at least three vinyl copies of Thriller at one time in my life. I saw Captain EO at Disneyland in 3-D. I remember watching the full-length version of the "Thriller" video on Friday Night Videos (we didn't have MTV at my house yet). I've seen countless comics pull off his moves, from Eddie Griffin to Tommy Davidson. I remember my best friend doing Michael's dance routine at the after party of our prom night while my girlfriend and I watched and laughed. I also remember watching Michael do the Moonwalk for the first time on TV, for that Motown anniversary special. I remember in high school a guy on the bus singing "The Way You Make Me Feel" with his headphones on, singing very loud and snapping his fingers as if he was in the shower. Even as recent as Monday, I overheard someone describing the "Say Say Say" video with Paul McCartney to someone who had never seen it.

He was everywhere, and now thanks to the fact that he is dead, he will live forever in the public's mind.

My conspiracy theories are in full effect: He faked his death to get out of debt, for example. If there was ever an artist that could pull that one off, it was Michael. I mean, he's the one who started all the weird rumors about himself because he knew it would keep people talking about him for years; the oxygen chamber, the Elephant Man's bones, Bubbles the Chimp... he was the source! He was a master manipulator and probably wasn't half as weird as everyone thinks.

I also had a theory that the REAL Michael died in that aborted Pepsi commercial that burned him up, and that the Jackson family dug up and dusted off an extra Jackson brother that wasn't doing anything other than buggering little boys and living under the sink. They gave him plastic surgery and taught him how to sing and dance, but he couldn't break that one bad habit...

Sorry, I know it seems disrespectful... but Michael is now at a stature similar to Elvis, perhaps beyond. Nothing I can say or do would take away that stature. And to all the talk-show hosts and hack comics and snobby music critics, you won't have Michael Jackson to kick around anymore.

But that's the irony: He isn't going anywhere. Like I said, he's going to last forever. When I'm dead and buried, they will still be listening to him in Liberia.

As for me, I am listening to my all-time favorite MJ track, the last song off Thriller, and also the last time Michael made any sense to me. It's "The Lady In My Life" and I never EVER get tired of that song because it's one of the few Michael songs where he's begging to get some from a girl at the end. It was the finest song he ever did, if you ask me... and this is a guy who sang "I'll Be There" and "Never Can Say Goodbye"!


"And I Will Keep You Warm
Through The Shadows Of The Night
Let Me Touch You With My Love
I Can Make You Feel So Right
And Baby Through The Years
Even When We're Old And Gray
I Will Love You More Each Day
'Cause You Will Always Be
The Lady In My Life..."


That song reminds me of my wife. And as I look at my son, who is asleep, I realize that he is growing up in a world that is missing a few things, such as the World Trade Center, or cassettes and vinyl albums and VHS tapes... or like The King Of Pop.

baby

So here we are in the middle of July or somewhere roundabout, and in two months I will have been married for an entire year, and I haven't blogged in five months (which is a world record for me) and life has continued in its own slow way...

...and my wife is pregnant, and I'm going to be a father.

And there is so much to say, so very much to say.

And blogs just don't cut it anymore when it comes to my feelings.

And yet, I feel that this is something worth blogging about.

And I'm going to try and document as much as I can before the inevitable crunch of hours and weeks and months and years spent raising a child descends like cloud seeds upon what is left of my free time.

And I think that one day I'll blog regularly again but with a different goal in mind, that goal being a true need for communication born out of genuine desire to be expressive and not just some hollow trumpeting used to back up my claims to literacy and all.

And when my child can read, they might see these pages, and laugh, and cry, and wonder why.


*/*


My wife is entering into her second trimester. She is starting to show. Her womb is transforming and altering itself, tailoring itself to accommodate the impending arrival.

She has slight aches and minor pains. Her nausea is waning. She forgets things and her moods swing like a suspension bridge in a stormy wind.

I have never seen anything more beautiful than the sight of her sitting upright in bed, her mousy librarian's glasses perched upon her pointy dainty nose, her eyes aglass* with expectancy...

(*= A combination of "aglaze" and "glassy")

I rub her paunch every chance I get.


*/*


Now that my own father and I have buried the hatchet, I find that the wardrobe of fatherhood feels good and slinky when I slip its tender robes upon my rough, flabby skin.

We never argue anymore. I harbor no hatred towards him. We don't even get into religious debates the way we used to, and it is a pleasure to hear from him when he calls me up to talk.

I will never forget his sins, what he did. I cannot, I will not.

But I never thought I'd ever forgive him either, and yet that is exactly what I have done.

I can keep vigil, as a reminder to myself and to my child, a way of making sure that history does not repeat itself, that my child does not become first a victim and then the victimizer of a similar offense to what befell my father when he was only a young boy.

I can keep a diligent eye. In that respect, I won't forget.

But I forgave him finally, and that lifted the heaviest burden from my shoulders at a point when I could no longer carry it.

I don't care if you believe in God or not. The fact is, forgiveness is good for the soul.

Yes, it is.

Make sure you forgive someone before you have kids of your own.

take care

Happy New Year. Happy 2008.

It's amazing how the urge-- no, the compulsion --to write has waned in me since I got married. It is as if I never possessed it in the first place, like I have always been indifferent to any literary aspirations.

I cannot blame it on being busy or preoccupied with other things, because in the past I always managed to make time even for the most trivial blog entries or notebook scribblings. There is so much to write about in this new life I am living: My wife is quite simply the most amazing person I have ever met, and every day she and I grow together as well as individually. One day I will find the motivation to translate our relationship to the written word, but for now I am basking in the glow of our love.

Sentimental words for the likes of me, yes? I don't deny this. I am not ashamed to be in love and committed to one person. I guess it's all I ever really wanted and needed. Not that everything else I used to fill my life with was unimportant or meaningless-- rather, I feel like it all led up to our meeting. All of it-- the joy, the pain, the laughter, the adventures, the sorrow, the outrage, the lessons to be learned either easily or the hard way --was a prelude to this moment that I exist in currently.

I think of times when I had Writer's Block or I didn't have the focus to sit down and write/type something out, and they were always desperate periods in my life. They were informed by depression or sadness or anger, even frustration. I sometimes forced myself to write, to purge it all like some kind of paragraph bulimic. I find that on those forced occasions a metaphor such as bulimia is apt: I thought it was doing some good, based upon distorted preconceptions that I had about myself. Like an 80-lb waif with an eating disorder, I never seemed satisfied with my current state of affairs, no matter how emaciated and undernourished I was in reality.

But in this case, my sickness was spiritual, not physical. I did not look in a mirror and project the image of fat onto a skeletal frame; instead I looked into my soul and found malaise while ignoring the beauty that was struggling to rise to the surface.

To bring the metaphor full circle, I guess you can say that I am eating right for once in my life. My appetites are healthy and my attitude towards myself is one of respect and acceptance.

I think about the times when I vented my fury in this blog. I chastised readers for not commenting; I changed the names of real people then proceeded to detail their lives in accusatory tones; I engaged in feuds with people I had never even met in real life. It all seems pathetic and sad in hindsight, but each blog that I composed-- for better or for worse --was necessary for my mental health. I bared my soul in these blog entries. Sometimes I held back, but more often than not I let loose in a way that I had rarely done in my private writings.

Overall, I am proud of this minor achievement. I am not done with writing, nor am I done with blogging... but if there's anyone out there that still stops by here to read what I have to say, let me just state for the record that for the time being I am taking the time I normally spent slaving away at a keyboard and putting it toward another use. It's not a better use of my time, and it's not a lesser exertion of energy either. It's just something different, a change of pace if you will.

I think that I have found something more important than a blog.

Writing is still important to me, and my new wife sees nothing wrong or inappropriate about the blog or my novel (which I am also lagging on, for the same reasons that I have neglected my blog). She would never stand in the way of my pursuit of enlightenment via the written word, whether it be in print or online. But she is not as consistent with her internet browsing, so in a way I find myself blogging less because the one person I would really like to read it doesn't devote as much time as I do cruising cyberspace. And that's okay with me, because she is really the one person in my life now whose opinion matters to me the most.

So I am not calling it quits or throwing in the towel. Instead I am taking a semi-break from this. I will try to do it once a month, so as not to get rusty or find myself without an occasional outlet. I cannot predict what kind of content I will focus on in the future, whether or not it will be personal or impersonal or a mixture of both, but I can say confidently that my life right now is functioning fine... and maybe it will take time for me to get back into the swing of things.

I have been convinced for most of my life that I could not write unless there was pain or trouble in my heart, so I will look upon this new path I am on as a challenge, to see if I can write in the absence of misery and turmoil. I think I can, but it will be like starting all over from scratch. Forgive me if I get sappy or maudlin or sentimental or even mushy. I will make an effort to not sound like a lovestruck freak gloating over how he won the romance lottery.

I will end this entry with this: When I was beginning my adolescence, I started to take writing seriously but I hadn't learned anything yet. My first forays into writing were plagiarizing and embellishing on my favorite song lyrics and passing them off as love poems. But after a while, I made a promise to take a different tack when composing odes to whoever was my beloved at the time. I told myself that if I ever wrote a love song, I would refrain from using the word 'love' so as not to fall prey to cliches and pat pronouncements. I did a pretty good job of it, but now is the time to explore the public domain of pop cultural consciousness.

In other words, I think it's alright if I use the word 'love' from now on. I give myself permission to do so, and I hope that I can find a way to do it without succumbing to cheese and schmaltz.

I hope that any readers I still have will enjoy this new year as it unfolds, and if they don't have any comments to leave then that's just nifty. I can finally leave well enough alone and not make unrealistic demands. I know you all have your lives to live... and I have mine.

Take care.