"tunacy"

You see, I have this tendency... to obsess over particular songs... or even entire albums, depending on how perfect they sound... I end up listening to them repeatedy, as a subtle form of brainwashing I suppose... there's something in these recordings that makes me want to hear them over and over again and again...

When sampling became the big rage in hip-hop, I understood its purpose: there are small parts of songs that hit you so close to home that you wish the entire song were made up of just that one killer part. You want those pristine moments to never end.

I haven't changed much in that regard. Currently, I am obsessed with a nearly-forgotten pop nugget from the mid-'70s. I have it burned onto a CD-- the only song on the CD, I might add... this automatically causes the stereo in my car to play it again once it reaches the end.


*/*


I'll tell you about the song but I'll have to demonstrate sheer restraint when describing it to you, because I also have a tendency to deconstruct these things limitlessly. This includes recitations of the lyrics, pointless-yet-somehow-related anecdotes and footnotes, and my own personal meanings invested in the fabric of the song itself.

Before I tell you about the song, I have to build up to my discovery of said song. It is well-known that I am a virtual encyclopedia of useless knowledge. I routinely win Trivial Pursuit games and have been urged to sign up for numerous game shows (I have only been on one: Win Ben Stein's Money, where I lost to a former Jeopardy! champ)

For me to come across a song and not know who the band is nor the song's name is usually an adequate trigger for my obsessiveness regarding popular music. It's one thing if I discover something either obscure or dated, but it's another thing altogether when I hear a song that was a major hit and yet I have no point of reference.


*/*


The catalyst for my latest foray into "tunacy" ("tune" + "lunacy"= "tunacy"-- get it?) was Jack FM, the new format over at KCBS-FM that is also sweeping the nation as we speak. Check the link for my initial thoughts on Jack, but I have to admit that I never changed the station on my car stereo presets because... well, there's that sense of familiarity with all the songs on their playlist, most of them being lost gems that I hadn't heard in a long time.

One day, I switched over to Jack and I caught a song midway through. It held my interest and I listened until the end. I'd never heard it before, and I was curious. It sounded familiar but I couldn't place it. And, of course, one of the more retarded aspects of the Jack FM format is that there isn't a DJ, and no one announces the songs before or afterward.

Later on in the week, I heard it again, this time at Paulie's Garage. I was working on the animation (second episode) and it came on the speakers. No one knew who it was, but Paulie's brother Peter claimed that he'd heard it recently in a movie.

The song's production values led me to believe that it was either something from the late '70s or a current piece of retro-rock. And before I knew it, I was humming what little of the melody I could recall.

That humming turned into a bona-fide obsession as it swirled inside my head, looking for some sort of emotional anchor. Pretty melody, typically vague lyrics about love and baby and all that jazz... I couldn't shake it. The voice-- who was singing? I've heard that voice on other occasions...


*/*


Two weeks passed, and the song was growing to epic proportions inside my skull. I tried to remember lyrics but the ones I had were of no help (it bears noting that my interpretation of the words turned out to be dead wrong) and I didn't know where to begin with a search engine. I tried looking up Jack's playlist online, but that led nowhere.

I was starting to see myself as a musical detective, and I had a very thin lead.

I tried to forget about it but it kept creeping up on me everywhere I went. I kept the car stereo set to the Jack FM preset, hoping to catch it one day while commuting. But it seemed like the song disappeared from their playlist, because they I haven't heard them play it since-- the watched pot never boiled. They have probably played it a million times since the last time I heard it, but I haven't been so lucky as to catch it.

After a while, the song started to fade in my mind. I didn't have anything on deck to replace it but I think I also knew it was necessary for me to let go of this one for the time being. If past experience with tunacy has taught me anything, it's that I'll eventually come across it again in a bout of synchronistic epiphany-- what I've woefully termed "serendipity" as of late.

What do you think happened next?


*/*


Late night, or early morning (whatever you like to call it), sitting on the couch, smoking pot and reeling from a night of drinking with friends... lighting the bowl in my darkened living room, the TV blaring an infomercial for a CD compilation, hosted by Barry "Greg Brady" Williams... paying just enough attention to keep me from changing the channel...

Then, I heard the song.

I dropped my pipe and stood up. There it was, in bold '70s-style bubble lettering: "Go All The Way" by The Raspberries, superimposed over a live clip of the group performing-- their hairdos and clothes were ridiculously anachronistic. The clip lasted five to ten sceonds, but it was enough for me to register.

I froze. How awesome was this? I felt like Richard Dreyfus in Close Encounters of the Third Kind, recognizing the Devil's Tower; I felt like Kevin Costner in Field of Dreams, seeking out Terence Mann after encountering the ghost of Shoeless Joe...

But then another realization set in...

"Who the fuck are The Raspberries?"


*/*


Ever heard of Eric Carmen? Women will know him as the singer of "Hungry Eyes" off of the Dirty Dancing soundtrack. More people know him for his doleful solo hit "All By Myself".

But before he was all by himself, Eric Carmen was the singer of The Raspberries, ancient rock dinosaurs who roamed the Earth around 1971 A.D. One biographer noted that groups like the Small Faces and the Who were "the blueprint for The Raspberries." Other influences included the Kinks, the Left Banke, the Beatles, the Byrds and the Beach Boys. And you can definitely hear those influences in The Raspberries' music: in the song "Go All The Way", there's even a direct bite from The Beatles' "come on come on" chorus from "Please Please Me".

Most of those groups I listed above are British, and The Raspberries were trying to make music in that vein: a throwback to the singles-oriented days of the British Invasion. Those legendary groups built the bulk of their reps on strong, well-written Top 40 singles.

Very few artists today take the single-oriented tack because the way the music industry works nowadays only gives birth to disposable one-hit-wonders, as opposed to pop bands with a long shelf life.

Coming from Cleveland, Ohio and forged from the ashes of countless other bands with varying line-ups, The Raspberries had some hits in the early-to-mid 1970s, but never went further than simmering mainstream courting. Eric eventually went solo and made mad cash, but The Raspberries were his catapult.

I learned all of that online, poking my nose around. And now that I know about The Raspberries and the song of theirs that Jack FM plays the most, my life should be balanced again. Everything must return to normal again, right?

Wrong. It only opened a whole new can of worms, because then I wanted a copy of the song to play in my car.


*/*


Whenever I go into a fit of tunacy, I hesitate from jumping in completely. It could cost me lots of money if I start buying up everything I can get my hands on that will temporarily sate my appetite for more knowledge.

For example: I used to be obsessed over the song "They Don't Know" by Tracey Ullman. Yes, she recorded a song... an entire album, in fact. You Broke My Heart In 17 Places, I believe it was called. Released in the early 1980s. Paul McCartney was in the music video. The song was originally recorded by the late Kirsty MacColl, one of the most underrated songstresses of the past two decades.

That album is hard to find now, so when I re-discovered the song years later, I settled for just finding a copy of the single. I had it on a cassette that I looped by hand, so that it would flip sides in my car stereo and repeat. That's all I needed-- no need to buy the album, although its rarity makes me wish I had begun collecting vinyl at a much earlier age.

I wasn't sure if I wanted to buy an entire Raspberries album, even a Best Of comp. Those suits, those hairdos... it really kind of made me sick, seeing what they looked like. But then, I found a free version online somewhere, went through all the necessary wrangling and hacking in order to get a downloadable version, cleaned up the sound a bit... and now, it's on repeat in my car.

I haven't stopped listening to it. Once in a while, I pop in something else (I am also concurrently addicted to Captain Beefheart, but not as much as this) but I always go back to that song and listen to it. And I can't figure out what holds more fascination: the relative obscurity of this tunacy, or the fact that "Go All The Way" is (in my opinion) a perfectly crafted pop song?

I theorized, while driving stoned through smoggy L.A., that maybe what I am responding to is the sheer superficiality of the song. The lyrics, as stated earlier, are the usual pap that gets foisted upon the listening public: when I was struggling to recall the lyrics, I came up with "If the love is true/ I still care for you" and found out later that the line was "It feels so right/ being with you here tonight"...

I may have been off in terms of actual wording, but the sentiments are interchangeable. Pretty generic, no?

Plus, the title... go all the way? Does anyone even say that anymore? I can't imagine any of today's generation of teens trying to seduce their crushes with such verbiage. And yet, I do have a vivid image in my mind of shaggy-haired youths coming of age in 1972, high off of Quaaludes and wearing tight soccer jerseys, making out with their beloved in the back of someone's van, looking like extras from that TV show with Ashton Kutcher...


*/*


So anyway, back to my theory...

My obsession with this song stems primarily from my response to pretty pop records, but it also has to do with an imagined reality, as if I am eavesdropping on the shared dreams of a manufactured culture, one that exalts the precision of three-part harmonies, soulful crooning, and Anglophilic cock-rocking above all, christening such creations with the bland lyrical fantasies of adolescent sex and insecurity...

Basically, it recalls a time that never existed for me, and one that probably never existed for anyone except for people like my parents.

For me, it is akin to digging up a time capsule from a long-dead era and finding something that is so far removed from my everyday experience that I have to bask in it for a while in order to fully understand it. For all my admiration of this tune, I could never fathom myself ever writing a song such as "Go All The Way"-- and that qualifies it as both a blessing and a curse.

You see, I'd like to write a song like that one day. But if I ever did, I wonder if it would be sincere. Would it pour from my soul fully formed? Or would I have to treat it as a work-for-hire type of deal?

It doesn't really matter at this point, because I'm not sick of it yet. And when I finally do become sick of it, will it be relegated to the dustbin of my mind, where esoteric pop cultural references go to die? Or has this whole tunatic episode been merely a preamble to something more?

I don't know. But could you do me a favor and find a copy of the song and listen to it, and then tell me if you think I'm fucking nuts or not?

I think that would help a lot.

the christmas miracle

Holly called me on Thanksgiving and left a message. I didn't remember to call her back until today.

She reluctantly answered, wondering why the numbers on my outgoing line were nothing but a series of zeroes. The call block from my work does that-- it freaks people out, because they think they're getting a call from the Feds or something like that.

She said she loved me at least five times during our short conversation. Each time she said it, I felt like it was some form of mockery. It lacerated me every time to hear it. Is she one of those girls who just says they love you, regardless of how they really feel?

If she really loved me, she'd be here and not 3,000 miles way.

Same goes for Monique. She's just as far away as Holly is. She told me she'd be back in October. It's December now. No e-mails, no phone calls...

Where are these women when I need them?

It all goes back to feeling rejected, feeling unloved by the ones I wanted to stay but never returned... if they elected to return it was not out of choice...

Eventually, all the women I have ever loved leave me in some way, shape or form. They die symbolically in my mind and then I mourn them, and then I move on to the next one. Some of them are maidens ripe for the ravishing; others are combination madonna-whores who do not demand anything of me except what I am unable to give.

When Monique left, I made a decision not to act like I was waiting for her to come back. I dated other people. I didn't want to be left holding the bag. But now that I have been proven right, I still feel like I've been left holding the bag. My only consolation is that I didn't sit around like a puppy dog, expecting her to return.

I have female friends who can keep me company, keep my spirits up, maybe even keep me warm on a cold winter's night. But there's no one special with whom to look forward to the season.

Eve is special, but she would rather not snuggle with me. I guess I'm just not as hot as I thought I was.

Tonight I'm going to take the fake mini-Christmas tree out of its box and put the decorations on it. I'm going to make mix CDs for my friends so that they can get into the Christmas spirit without having to gag on hackneyed hymns and tired carols. My mix CDs are clever, hip, and ironic. But they are a poor substitute for whatever it is I am wishing to fill inside of my soul.

Where is my Christmas miracle?

Or better yet, what makes me think I'm deserving of one?

a brief obit

I met Wendie Jo Sperber once, and only once, when I was working at the old radio network, working the board for some weekend programming.

One of those shows, The Group Room, is hosted by cancer survivors who give support and advice to cancer patients.

Sperber was a guest on one of the shows. I instantly recognized her from the dozens upon dozens of TV shows and movies she'd appeared in, among them Back To The Future and Married... With Children. But it was her role in the '80's TV sitcom Bosom Buddies (which is notable for being Tom Hanks' first starring role in anything) that I remembered best.

She was incredibly gracious and sweet, humble and grateful for the opportunity to share her story on the air. It looked like she had overcome it, and we all wished her the best.

I think something like this makes me even sadder because of the fact that I actually met the person and had more than just a light conversation about the weather. We talked about life and death, treatment and disease, pain and joy. I barely knew her, but it seems like I knew her very well because I saw her so much, on the small and big screen. I grew up with her, in a way.

This is different than being sad over Pat Morita, who recently passed away. That makes me sad, that someone I liked as a performer is no longer with us. But this one hurts just a little bit more, because I shook her hand. I shared orange juice and bagels with her. I even impressed her with my knowledge of the things she'd done, even the failed TV pilots and lesser-known movies.

She was funny and thoughtful, and now she is gone.

Rest in peace.

which way google

I was Googling my name today and came across something interesting.

At the very bottom of each page, just below the suggestion to use Google Book Search, is a Sponsored Link with my name all over it. The URL is www.kcrw.com.

KCRW-FM is the big public radio station out here in Los Angeles. They play great music and host informative, intelligent shows.

This link leads to the KCRW archives, in particular an audio file of the show Which Way L.A., dated Thursday, May 14 1998. Among the topics that host Warren Olney handled that day: "A look back at the Governor's debate with average voters who watched it on television, and the people who get paid to tell you what you really saw."

I was one of those people who got paid to sit in a sound stage at PBS Studios in Hollywood and watch the open primary debate for the Governorship of California that year.

Six months before, I had participated in a phone survey (I was in a good mood that day) regarding politics, and my name was placed on a list of potential debate watchers. They called me back and promised to pay me $50 for my time and my opinion.

The 1998 election was considered semi-historical simply for the fact that it was preceded by the open primary, which meant that any registered voter could vote but only for candidates of one party... whatever that means.

The Republican candidate, Dan Lungren, ran unopposed-- for him, the primary election was a mere formality. All he had to do was show up. And let me just say this now: if you think The Governator is bad, thank your lucky stars that Lungren didn't win. California would be a much colder place now if he had stepped into the fray.

Racing neck-and-neck for the Democratic nomination were: Al Checchi, a Riordan-ish airline tycoon throwing his hat into the political ring; Jane Harman, a local Congresswoman; and Gray Davis, career politician and future recall recipient.

Myself and several other citizens of all walks of life were sequestered into the PBS studios, where we watched the entire debate and were subsequently asked by the producers of PBS' Life & Times program for our opinions. As I was walking out, a CBS news reporter queried me for a sound bite for the evening news. Then, I was asked by an associate producer of Which Way L.A. who happened to be in attendance if I would like to be a call-in guest for the following day's show.

The next day, I did my guest bit on my work phone. Warren Olney himself called me up at my job and prepped me for the show. I stayed on the line and listened in, waiting for my cue. I even did some work as I gave my two cents-- Olney introduced me on the air as a "tape duplicator for a radio network".

I never received any kind of copy or recording of the show, and only one person that I know of actually heard it while it was being broadcast, purely by accident-- he happened to have the radio on 89.9 when I came on. I hadn't thought of recording the show myself for posterity, and so it came and went rather quickly, settling into my consciousness as an entertaining anecdote for cocktail parties and formal affairs.

On my old blog, I actually devoted some considerable space to the whole process, but soon I became bored with the notion of novelizing something as seemingly unimportant as the California Governor's election of 1998. But in light of the eventual recall of Davis (who obviously beat Lungren in the election, and four years later went on to defeat Bill Simon as well) and the ensuing media circus that accompanied, there is some political hindsight in hearing this radio broadcast from seven years ago.

If you scroll down a bit after opening up the link I provided, you can read short descriptions of the guests. Here's mine:


Disliked Lungren intensely, but had thoughtful responses during the focus group discussion. Will likely back Harman or Davis.


I sounded distracted, nervous, and mildly informed. I didn't come off as a total idiot, but I also said "um" and "you know" an awful lot.

If you have Real Player, you can hear it by clicking on the RA button. If you don't have speakers, I suggest you get some, or better yet: plug your headphones into the speaker jack. You wanna hear how I sounded in 1998? Now you have your chance.

Olney introduces me eighteen minutes into the broadcast-- 18:18 to be exact.

I never thought I'd ever hear this brief foray into radio again until today. Hell, I didn't even hear it the first time around-- you can't turn the radio on during the show or else the tape delay will disorient you. I never recorded it, and I never requested a tape or a transcript.

God, I love the Internet.

the other 'L' word

Eve, with her hair ponied and her sweater tightly hugging the contours of her upper body, brought over to my apartment the entire second season of Showtime's The L Word on DVD.

I hadn't even seen the first season. I had no interest in seeing it, because I felt that it was going to be a gay version of Sex & The City, a show that (quite frankly) I've never been able to stand watching for more than a small eternity.

Eve has always flirted with lesbian chic, even back in the halcyon days of our schooling. My attitude towards her openly bisexual tendencies was one of sincere bemusement: I never really believed that she was into girls at all. I have never personally witnessed her do anything beyond flirtatious socializing. I am quite used to seeing girls kiss, whether it was out of drunken passion, bold daring, or sensual femininity.

This is not to say that Eve hasn't had encounters with girlfriends and lovers of the same sex. But it's not my business, otherwise I think I would've factored into the equation somewhere down the line.

It doesn't bother me, that's for sure. In fact, like most red-blooded males, the notion of lipstick lesbians and femme dykes getting it on... well, I don't think I need to elaborate any further than that.

Would I like to be a part of such an event? Yes, just as much as I would love to win the lottery or win a date with Angelina Jolie. But I don't torture myself over it, because I know that the odds of my ever being a part of some lesbian tryst with Eve and another girl are exactly the same as winning the Lotto or dating Angelina.

I think I should mention at this point that Eve and I haven't been having sex. Sure, we've been touchy-feely, and we've shared a bed or two in the past month or so... but she has shut me down in the sex department. I'm not sure why, but I suspect it has to do with the fact that I'm a horny bastard who is never satisfied, and she wants me to value her for more than just toe-rattling sex.

Yeah, I think that might be the reason...


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So Eve brought over the DVD set of the show, and introduced me to one of the more entertaining and erotic cable TV shows in recent memory. I realize that it is merely a soap opera that bares more flesh than the norm, but the stellar acting from the ensemble cast makes up for the melodrama.

And then there's Shane, played by Katherine Moenning. Eve and I both agree that Shane is the most bad-ass character on the show-- on any show, really --and that she is a Goddess. I like Shane because she is a straight-up gangsta mackette when it comes to picking up fellow lezzies, while Eve probably sees her as a role model.

When Eve came by with the goods, I warned her: "This is going to get me extremely horny. I can't be held responsible for my actions once things start rolling..." And of course, there were multiple scenes of girl-on-girl action spliced in between the plot and dialogue. We got through roughly six episodes before Eve went home for the night.

I behaved myself. I was a perfect gentleman.


*/*


The reason why I bring this show up is not to drool over hot girls in panties touching each other delicately... I can always write about that.

No, the reason is that there was one episode featuring Sandra Bernhard as a college English professor. One of the show's leads was applying to Bernhard's character's writing class, and Bernhard kept on ragging on the poor girl's writing.

"You have no imagination. You aren't writing fiction. You don't write-- you journal. You haven't transformed it into fiction yet. Talk to me when you learn how to be a writer first..."

(Obviously, I'm paraphrasing here...)

And then I thought about this blog, and how I have become accustomed to journaling instead of writing the lush and dense prose that I used to employ in my first primal bloggings. I deleted half a million words because I thought it was too excessive. I have tried since then to radically alter my approach to writing in order to understand how to write in a blog.

Well, now that I've been blogging for some time, I think I know what it is that I want to do: I want to write, not journal.


*/*


I recently had an encounter with a girl I met on My Space. She is a writer, and she actually went out of her way to meet me at my work one day. She wanted to know if I was full of shit for claiming to work at a radio station.

I was surprised to see this petite curly-haired redhead named Lana standing in the lobby. She just barged in and told the receptionist that she had an appointment with me.

We discussed music and recording (Lana used to be a assistant sound mixer), and then we started talking about writing. Lana makes her living by writing, and I asked her how I could get a writing gig for myself.

"Well, what kind of writing do you want to do?" she asked me.

"Uh, I want to write fiction... characters... literature."

"Well, I'm a journalist. I don't write fiction. I can't help you there. But, if you know how to transcribe, I can get you some gigs, possibly."

"I can type 56 words per minute."

Lana looked at me as if I were some sort of writing anomaly. She was attractive and well-toned, but her face was hard and suspicious. As a New York transplant, she is probably inured to phonies telling her whatever they think she wants to hear.

"Fuckin' A. No shit?"

"No shit. How about you?"

"Oh, well, I type like an old lady. One finger on each hand. It takes me hours to transcribe my interviews sometimes."

"I type with one finger also. And I'm fucking fast."

"Well, if you're not bullshitting me, maybe you can help me meet this deadline I've got in December. Help me with this and I can definitely help you out later on down the line. I can't pay you shit, though."

"I understand. Just keep me posted. I've got a lot of free time."

Nothing is set in stone obviously, but if she is for real, then she will find out soon enough that I am for real as well. If I get some sort of job assisting her with her assignments, it could turn into something lucrative in the future. Or it could not.

No one knows for sure. That's the beauty of it all.


*/*


I walked Lana to the elevator, and she turned to me and said:

"Well, as long as you don't stalk me or hit on me, I think we won't have any problems."

You have to understand something here: In the spirit of pure Jungian synchronicity, I actually saw Lana about a week before she visited me at my work. I was walking to my car and saw her strutting towards the parking lot. I instantly recognized her from her online profile, but she was talking on a cel phone headset and didn't even see me as she passed me by.

I e-mailed her the following week, and told her that I worked in the Sherman Oaks Galleria building. She explained that she worked out in the 24-hour gym in the mall. I replied that, since we'd never met before, I didn't think it would be right for me to walk up to her and startle her by revealing who I was. She replied by saying that I was smart for doing that.

So when she walked into the elevator and said what she said about stalking her and hitting on her, I was ready with a response:

"Yeah, well, don't worry-- the last thing I need is more problems."

We shook hands, and the elevator doors closed.


*/*


And now I think about Sandra Bernhard's advice, and Lana's aggressive lessons, and Eve's alluring teasing, and I realize that I need to get back to that original seed, the root of my desire to novelize and turn everything that happens to me into a work of art.

I am not content to simply catalogue the events of my day. I want to alchemize it all and shape it into a monument to the eternal, the infinite...

I want to indulge in that other L word, the one known as 'Literature'... I think I'm done with journaling. I was never really good at it anyway-- all of my early attempts at keeping a diary were always foiled by two things: inconsistent chronicling, with boredom setting in after a month or two; and a tendency to embellish upon the truth via artistic license.

Tonight, I will go over to Laurie and Daniel's place, and talk about the novel I wrote, the one that needs to be edited, the one that has become a labor of love for me, the one that I used to have partially linked to this blog before Laurie suggested I take it down for protection's sake.

I think it's the only thing I can do at this point.

"Show me... wax on, wax off!"

Yet another part of my childhood dies...

Pat Morita was not only Mr. Miyagi-- he was also Arnold from Happy Days, and he had the good sense to leave that show before it jumped the shark.

R.I.P. Pat...


*/*


I am in limbo, as a result of my living in the moment. I don't know whether things are good or bad. All I know is that they are what they are.

Thanksgiving was great-- I had an awesome day. Then I ruined it by depressing myself on the way home. And it doesn't help that I'm on my last day of filling in on the graveyard shift.

At least the first major holiday at the end of the year is out of the way. Now, on to Christmas and its attendant surreality.

Have a beautiful weekend, all of you...

her epiphany

I had to take a bit of a break from blogging. Too many things happening at once, clouding my mind.

There were some funny stories, anecdotes. A year ago each and every one of them would've made it to this blog. The post would've been ten thousand words long and in dire need of some editing TLC.

And now, here we are, approaching 2006, and what am I doing? Telling one-liners with no punch lines...


*/*


I will tell you this one story, to give you an idea of the "magical realism" invading my life as of late.

Nicole is a girl I went to high school with, and we were always acquaintances. Not friends. I barely knew her through mutual friends but we never hung out or talked to each other on our own.

This past summer, she and I met up with each other via e-mails. We agreed to meet for drinks somewhere in Burbank. We talked and talked, and Nicole began to tell me things about her life-- deep, personal things that floored me. She didn't have to tell me any of it, she just volunteered it.

To even the balance, I shared with her many of my own demons. She was just as shocked to hear my stories as I was shocked to hear hers. We marveled at how much we had in common, how we could've definitely been better friends in high school if we had only bothered to stop and recognize the other.

We walked to her place. I spent the night.

The weeks following our rendezvous were strange. I visited her once again, and a repeat was in order. Then, she suddenly became very busy and I heard from her less and less. All the while I was wondering what was going to happen-- it had only been three months since I decided to start "living in the moment" and I was already confused. Where is this going? What does this mean for us? Is this something that I want, or is this just something I'm enjoying for now?

The last time we got together was for a concert. She informed me that she quit drinking and went on some medication for her mood swings. I felt an odd sympathy for her, but at the same time I knew that she was also sizing me up, to see if I was just trying to "tap that ass" again. I've been a guy all of my life-- I know when a girl is trying to guess my intentions.

I think I did a good job of straddling the fence in regards to Nicole: I knew that any weirdness she was directing towards me was not intended to hurt me. Judging from the things she told me that night at the bar, Nicole had some major guilt issues, most of them involving her relationship with her former husband. I tried not to take her evasiveness and instability as anything personal, but I'd had enough of feeling like I had to walk on eggshells... so I called her and left a drunk message on her voice mail wondering what I did that was so wrong.

This prompted an irritated reply from her, which confirmed what I felt about her dealing with her issues. I apologized for being so bitchy and told her that she could call me any time to discuss anything on her mind.

She told me that there was nothing I could do, and I agreed.


*/*


Last Tuesday, I had a case of what Dave Chappelle affectionately termed "mudbutt" on his short-lived TV show. I must have eaten something pretty rancid, because my bowels were surrendering to the forces of bacteria quite profusely.

As I reclined on my couch that night, recovering from a fever and near-dehydration from the plentiful amount of bathroom visits I'd made that day, the telephone rang.

I picked it up.

"Hello?"

"James."

"Nicole. How are you?"

"Good, real good. How are you?"

"Oh, man... I think I got food poisoning. You don't wanna know how bad."

We exchanged small talk formalities, and then she said:

"Something happened to me yesterday that I wanted to share with you."

"Oh... okay, shoot."

"Well, as you know, I am crazy. I know, you say I'm not crazy, but I feel crazy. I can admit it. Anyway, I just couldn't take another day of going in to work-- I felt positively suicidal. I couldn't deal. So I called in sick and I drove out to the Santa Monica Third Street Promenade. I wandered a round a bit, aimlessly, just trying to clear my head.

"At one point I sat down and read my book. Then I heard a familiar voice call my name. When I turned around, it was him."

"Him who?" I asked.

"My ex-husband. Of all the places in the world to run into him... Anyway, we started to talk, and he suggested we get some coffee and sit down and play Catch-Up. So we did. James, I cannot express enough-- I feel like such a different person now that I've talked with him."

"Wow. What did you two talk about?"

"Basically, I brought up the fact that I cheated on him, and... he said he forgave me for that a long time ago. And it was like, suddenly, a weight lifted from off of my shoulders. I needed to hear that from him, you know? I've been beating myself up for it for so long, and I was running away from it and at the same time I knew it had to do with my guilt..."

"And now you have closure."

"Oh yes, definite closure. I have confidence again. I can lift my head up and feel proud to be who I am. I never realized how much this whole thing affected me until I saw him again. And don't get me wrong-- we're not getting back together or anything like that... but I'm no longer ashamed of myself. I know it sounds weird-- I shouldn't have to base my feelings upon what he thinks. But I know I hurt him so badly, and I just wanted to make sure he was okay about it, and not knowing tore me up inside..."

"I know, I know. I've been there, believe me!"

"I know. And that's why I'm calling you, to share this with you. I didn't think you understood what I was going through... but you did. You understood more than I thought. I am sorry if I ever doubted your intentions. It's just been so crazy lately, and... well, I was a bit confused about everything."

"So was I. I'm not any different. But I also knew that whatever you were feeling had to do with the things you told me before we slept together. I just feel bad for letting it get to me, but then again that was my point-- if you think you're crazy, then I'm a fucking loon! The only difference between us is that you're getting treatment for your neuroses. And I have to admit that I was a little insulted, but that's because I thought you reckoned me for a player."

"I didn't think you were a player. But I did trip out on the whole thing. And I'm sorry if I've been acting crazy."

"Once again, stop with the crazy talk. You're not crazy-- you're just human, that's all."


*/*


We talked for a bit longer, and then she had to get off the phone. And as I hung up, I thought about how everything seemed to work out for the right reasons, even if there was a rough patch along the way for a second.

As I age, I guess that I'm getting a bit better at handling life's twists and turns. Not that I make wise decisions-- I still manage to stumble into things inadvertantly, unexpectedly, almost accidentally. But I'm learning how to navigate my way out of it much quicker.

And hearing about Nicole's epiphany-- and thinking about how unlikely it is to see an ex-spouse standing on a street corner after six years' time --I began to wonder about my role in this world. I began to think not in terms of why I am here but in terms of what I have been sent here to accomplish.

I was totally happy to hear that Nicole found some answers to her personal questions, because I had serious concern for her well-being. I did understand what she was feeling very well. Sometimes you don't want to hear the platitudes, the "everything-will-be-alrights" and all that hi-falutin' jazz.

Sometimes you just wish you were dead and that's the end of it. And nothing that anyone can say will make you feel better. So I didn't tell her any of that-- instead, I told her what was on my mind, because that's all that mattered.

I didn't want to call her bluff, for fear that she would call mine and hurt herself. But I didn't want to "save" her either. We all know how good I am at that.

I'm not insinuating that I had anything to do with her encounter with her ex-husband. But I do feel better knowing that maybe our short summer fling might have pushed her in an alternate direction, one that led her down the path to this epiphany. I'd rather feel like I helped her rather than feel like I only added to her misery.

I felt guilty after the second time we hooked up, because I felt like I was taking advantage of a vulnerable woman who was looking for something to get her through the night. Then, when I felt like I was the one who had been used, that's when I realized that my guilt had nothing to do with what she was going through. Fuck me and fuck my narcissistic brand of guilt-- Nicole was hurting, and all I could think about was my feelings?

Anyway, I don't know where this leaves us, but I think right now it's best to just be friends. She's going to need one, and so will I.


*/*


PS: My attack of "mudbutt" finally subsided around Friday of last week...

one woman

One woman cries because she is happy

One woman smiles because she is sad

One woman's father is dying of cancer

(This might be the last time she sees her dad)

One woman's man left for South America

One woman's man found the girl next door

One woman's convinced her man is an angel

One woman's man thinks she's a whore

One woman's ex said "You are forgiven"

One woman's ex said "I'll never forgive"

One woman told me she wanted to die

Another one whispered she wanted to live

One woman wallows in wells of self-pity

Another woman never looks back on the past

One woman trapped in a cell of her making

Another woman wonders how long it will last

One woman kisses me just before leaving

One woman slaps me as she enters the room

One woman walked up to me and laughed while

another woman swept me up like a broom

All women suffer and all women sigh

All women wonder but some wonder why

All women exist to awe and inspire

All women add their fuel to my fire

All women quench my burning desire

All women elevate my mind higher

All these women I truly admire

and I will love them all 'til the day I expire

sick

I hate being sick.

This is the second time in a month's time that I've been sick. This time wasn't as bad as the last time-- a cold instead of the horrible flu I had the first week of October --but I haven't regained my equilibrium and now I feel sluggish, lethargic, devoid of energy.

I am lagging on so many things, and the weather change is making me angry because it is part of the reason I am getting sick.

I hate feeling this way. Everything in my life can be rosy but one virus in your system and it all feels like crap.

Sorry to whine, sorry to complain... I just really hate being sick.

Wish me well. I can't even write right now because I'm so mad at myself for letting myself get into this.

"What Do You Think Of Me?"

Okay, like I said in the first post of this series, the question "What do you think of me?" is a tricky one when asked on a blog. I am answering an imaginary interrogator. My answers, however, are predicated upon what I think of said questioner.

Each of my answers will start with "I think you are..." but who is "you" in this case? Is it you, a specific reader? Or is it a general You, a collective You, perhaps related to the infamous They that I'm always hearing about?

I have decided that the "you" in this case is whomever crosses my mind as I answer the question. And since the question will be asked 25 times, I suppose that there is a possibility of 25 different "yous" being represented in my mind. Hell, maybe there'll be more than 25. Maybe there'll be less.

In any case, here I go with the last installment:

What do you think of me?

I think you are everything that I love

What do you think of me?

I think you are everything that I loathe

What do you think of me?

I think that I need to impress you all the time

What do you think of me?

I think that you are someone who might understand me if only I could express myself perfectly

What do you think of me?

I think that I love writing to you

What do you think of me?

I think that you egg me on

What do you think of me?

I think of you like an old friend who knows me well yet doesn't know me completely

What do you think of me?

I think you must like me in some way

What do you think of me?

I think you are a force of nature that cannot be stopped

What do you think of me?

I think you are a projection of what is inside of me

What do you think of me?

I think you are a reflection of my own fears and dreams

What do you think of me?

I think you want to know what becomes of me

What do you think of me?

I think you wish I wasn't so angry

What do you think of me?

I think you sometimes wonder if I'm telling the truth or not

What do you think of me?

I think you probably get a few good laughs out of my posts

What do you think of me?

I think you are incredibly patient with the likes of me

What do you think of me?

I think you are amused by my solipsism

What do you think of me?

I think you think I'm a fool

What do you think of me?

I think you find me irresistible

What do you think of me?

I think you are unknowable

What do you think of me?

I think I know you very well

What do you think of me?

I think you split my mind in two

What do you think of me?

I think you torment me pleasurably

What do you think of me?

I think you watch in morbid fascination as I flagellate myself

What do you think of me?

I think you are the something to help me get through this life


HAVE A NICE WEEKEND, FOLKS!!

"What Do You Pretend To Be?"

What do you pretend to be?

I pretend to be in control

What do you pretend to be?

I pretend that nothing hurts me

What do you pretend to be?

I pretend to be careless

What do you pretend to be?

I pretend to be happy

What do you pretend to be?

I pretend to be the smartest person in the world

What do you pretend to be?

I pretend that I am a scoundrel

What do you pretend to be?

I pretend to be detached

What do you pretend to be?

I pretend that I don't matter to anyone

What do you pretend to be?

I pretend to be a nice guy

What do you pretend to be?

I pretend to be crazy

What do you pretend to be?

I pretend to be cutting-edge

What do you pretend to be?

I pretend to have no emotions

What do you pretend to be?

I pretend that I am not biased

What do you pretend to be?

I pretend that I am original

What do you pretend to be?

I pretend that I am the most hated person on Earth

What do you pretend to be?

I pretend to be invisible

What do you pretend to be?

I pretend to be unorganized

What do you pretend to be?

I pretend that I am a legend in my own time

What do you pretend to be?

I pretend that I am insignificant

What do you pretend to be?

I pretend that I didn't want it anyway

What do you pretend to be?

I pretend to be full of shit

What do you pretend to be?

I pretend to be wise beyond my years

What do you pretend to be?

I pretend that I am unpretentious

What do you pretend to be?

I pretend that certain things never occurred in my life

What do you pretend to be?

I pretend to be fair

"Who Are You?"

My high school days were singular in that they doubled as the college years I would've experienced had I decided to go to a university. The Humanities program at our high school covered a lot of the same terrain as the first two years of college, according to all of my friends who went on to a four-year and beyond.

The CORE program at our high school taught Philosophy and Social Institutions instead of History and Government; we studied Literature and Art History instead of the standard English classes that most high schoolers have to endure.

The curriculum was definitely left-leaning, as were most of the teachers. We went on odd field trips, learned alternative theories on accepted history, and were generally taught to ask a lot of questions.

Sometimes we had these weird diversions from our curriculum, events and/or speakers that had nothing to do with what we were learning but at the same time the kinds of things to which our teachers felt we should be exposed. One of those diversions was a day devoted to various groups visiting our school and scheduling "seminars" that we had the option to attend. We were given passes from our normal classes and asked to participate in some way.

I can't remember my second choice, but my first choice was a lecture on communication put together by the National Coalition of Christians and Jews. They have since changed their name to the National Conference for Community and Justice, which I feel is a smooth move because just the mere mention of Christians and Jews conjures up negative connotations for those who resent organized religion.

I know for a fact that, when I showed up at the lecture and found out the NCCJ's full name, I was wary at first. Fortunately, the agenda of the NCCJ was not to preach or sermonize, but to provide tools for people of all races, creeds and beliefs to cultivate communication between those boundaries that sometimes keep us from understanding one anther.

One of the things they asked us to do was an exercise where, after teaming up with another person in the room (preferably not a friend), an exchange of questions would be conducted.

Even though the questioning goes both ways, the execution is deliberately one-sided. Basically, one person asks the other person the same question over and over for a reasonable amount of time; the person being asked must answer that same question differently in every instance. When the questioner is satisfied, they switch roles.

There were three questions for both parties to use as templates:

1. Who are you?
2. What do you pretend to be?
3. What do you think of me?

I teamed up with this kid named Aaron, who later became a pretty good friend of mine. I think we may have variated from the script a bit but for the most part it was an interesting foray into the realm of communicating. Forced to redefine my answers at every query, it made me aware of what we as humans tend to share and what we as humans also tend to hide.

For years afterward I would use that question-answer format when meeting people for the first time, mainly on girls with whom I was enamored. Eve and I did it at a speech tournament once, back when we first met.

And now, I feel like trying it out here. But it takes a long time to do, and plus there is no one asking me the questions or setting the limits of how many questions to ask. I will restrain myself to 25 prompts, and spread them out between the next three days.

Here goes:


Who Are You?

I'm J____ L______ (I'd give the full name but I'm trying to cut down on cyber-stalkers)

Who Are You?

I'm an artist

Who Are You?

I am an ordinary person with an ordinary job

Who Are You?

I am a man who tempers his passion with cold logic

Who Are You?

I am two people-- a little boy and an old man, both in the same body, sharing the same mind

Who Are You?

I am a closet Romantic, and I believe in the power of love

Who Are You?

I am a Skeptic, but not a Cynic

Who Are You?

I am a spiritual person who doesn't advertise his journey

Who Are You?

I am a dreamer

Who Are You?

I am a deliberate mystery

Who Are You?

I am a narcissist who is aware of his ego and its potential

Who Are You?

I am an insecure mess who projects stability and calm

Who Are You?

I am a person who is overly sensitive and easily hurt

Who Are You?

I am a man who is in touch with his masculine and feminine sides, in equal measure

Who Are You?

I am a music lover who eventually taught himself how to play an instrument so I wouldn't feel left out

Who Are You?

I am a person who sees his life as either an epic novel of ideas or the kind of B-movie where a healthy suspension of disbelief is strongly recommended

Who Are You?

I am a perfectionist but not to the extreme

Who Are You?

I am someone who delights in upending people's expectations

Who Are You?

I am a great judge of character-- it's one of the few things that I boast about without any fear

Who Are You?

I am a hard worker

Who Are You?

I am a restlessly curious person

Who Are You?

I am the King of All Cats

Who Are You?

I am a walking contradiction

Who Are You?

I am a 'pataphysicist

Who Are You?

I am a bookworm and a music geek


That's 25 right there. I realized halfway through that the third question ("What do you think of me?") will not have the same impact because there won't be a specific person asking me the question; thus, my answers will be more generic. But that's a bridge I'll cross when I get to it.

If I was doing this in the flesh with another person, this would be the moment where I start asking them the question, stopping only when I feel that they have been honest or forthcoming with me.

Eye contact is essential as well.

Try this out with someone you love or want to know better. Try it with someone you think you know inside-out. Let me know how it went.

Next Time: "What Do You Pretend To Be?"

submitted for your approval...

Guess which recently deceased super-freaky '70's funk singer I was dressed up as... bitch!



I look like Gene Simmons from KISS... without the makeup!

during the show I was wearing two inch tall platform heels because my costume was Rick James however the boots were a size too small and I was losing circulation in my feet during last song 'thriller' I took them off and played in socks and then something happened I became frenzied and starting whipping my fright wig to and fro and I began to beat on the strings of the bass furiously with my open palm crashing to my knees on stage Mike the singer draped me with a cape a la James Brown and I zoned out and couldn't even hear the music only the vibration of the kick drum behind me and my cheesy vinyl pants felt nonexistant as I bansheed and bandied about on the floor oblivious to everyone and everything around me...

It was a great show.


*/*


Eve was dressed as a pirate wench, Laurie was Morticia Addams, and Daniel was Claude Rains' Invisible Man-- but when he took the ACE bandage off he looked more like John Steed from The Avengers.

After the show Eve bought me a shot of whiskey and commented on how I got so into character as Rick James, how I seemed 'normal' with the wig off.

We talked, pawed each other drunkenly, and then I gave her a delicate kiss on the mouth when I walked them all to the car at 1AM.

No tongue, just a peck. She smiled.


*/*

I went home and fell right to sleep. In the morning I woke up and still felt tipsy. I took a shower and thought about that kiss, how nice it felt, even if it was a closed-mouth kiss...

She tasted so good.

I drove to work, but not before paying off my utility bills.

addicted to love

All Hallow's Eve show tonight. We're playing covers. Titles include:

"Hell's Bells" AC/DC
"Monster Mash" Bobby "Boris" Pickett & The Crypt Kickers
"Sweet Dreams" Marilyn Manson's version
"Love Potion No. 9" The Searchers
"Dead Souls" Nine Inch Nails' version
"Bela Lugosi's Dead" Bauhaus
"Time Warp" Rocky Horror Picture Show soundtrack

and... Michael Jackson's "Thriller" as the closer!

Scary enough for ya?


*/*


Saturday, October 29th, 2005: Knott's Scary Farm aka Halloween Haunt...

It was fun, I regressed... felt like a mischievious 5 year-old running amok while my parents sit in the Adult section waiting for me to tire out... Eve looked incredible in rock star regalia, which was odd considering that none of the visitors to the amusement park were allowed to wear costumes, ourselves included... she had tight pants studded up the side and a borrowed leather jacket for women-- undersized, in other words...

During our stay we sometimes held hands in order to keep from getting lost in the swarming crowd of people... the hand-holding turned into an embrace around the waist, an arm on the shoulder... at one point I pressed my luck and stood between her legs (with my back to her) as she sat waiting in one of the endless lines...

It didn't escalate... It was nice... It felt good... It felt familiar and warm and perfect...

I drove Laurie and Daniel home... They are our "married" friends... We must be their "nebulous coupling" friends... We stayed for a spell but Eve was starting to fall asleep and I had to be up early the next day... I drove Eve home, unsure of whether she wanted me to linger or not... I figured that we were both exhausted and that it would be better if I just dropped her off and left it at that... she didn't invite me in...

I'll see her tonight... I'll know she's there because the air will rarify and I will feel intoxicated, not by drink or drug but by her mere prescence...


*/*


Eve is the most addicting drug I've ever been on.

I stay away from heroin and crack, the instant hookers, the drugs that are hard to kick. Never done 'em. I smoked opium a few times and found that hard to shake-- luckily I ran out of stuff and had no money to re-up. I've indulged in coke, but I find it to be a waste of time.

Cigarettes... now THERE's a fucking killer. I rue the day I ever smoked a cigarette, but to be truthful it wasn't until I started buying packs that I became an addict. Prolonged exposure is sure to cement someone into a lifetime of addiction to anything.

I see Eve very often these days...


*/*


I've pinpointed the core of my dissatisfaction with her. It has to do with male pride. It's something I've done with all of my loves.

I want to share with her every part of my psyche, but only specific areas. I want to tell her that I love her and that she means the world to me, but those kind of sentiments cause her to recoil.

No, she is far more receptive to the times when I am keeping it all in, when I'm silent and practically invisible. She can't keep her hands off of me in those moments. But, she would never say anything like "I love you" to me, even though I know that she does love me.

And I think she wants it to be an even playing field. "I love you" is like the loaded dice on the craps table of Life: the minute you roll it you are making a conscious choice to stack the odds in your favor. Nobody else on the table will appreciate that.

She doesn't roll it on me, so I shouldn't roll it on her.

It's a simple sacrifice to make. But some would argue that it is symptomatic of her coldness-- "Hey, if she can't even say it, then she doesn't mean it..."

Right. I know that. But in Eve's case, she says "I love you" in different, non-threatening ways. It may be the realization that she has been trying to find me for the past couple of hours, calling all of my known whereabouts and passing by my house to see if I am around; it may be when she surprisingly shows up at Dre's restaurant after spending the night at my place and leaving early in the morning because she couldn't take the cat hair much longer; it may be her proffered hand offered to me when we are not in danger of being separated by the crushing throngs of haunted maze patrons...

All the dinners she's made me, the drinks she's bought me, the love she has given me at unexpected times... those things show me that she cares.

And how do I tell her that I love her without saying it? I keep my mouth shut-- that's how. Anything I could come up with would ruin the moment.


*/*


When I first started writing poems and songs as a teen, I made a pact with myself to never write a love song containing the word 'love'. I have sinced reneged on that deal, but for the near-decade that I employed that rule I was able to write the kind of things I wanted without resorting to cheap manipulation.

What is 'love' anyway? It's just a word. It could never encapsule the wealth of emotions that come with affection for another human being.

And what does that do, saying "I love you" to someone else? It isn't for Eve that I say that-- it's for me. Maybe she senses that, and maybe that's why she doesn't say it to me. Maybe she suspects that I am fishing for her to say "I love you too"...

She'd be right.

Maybe the mistake I've been making all of my life is telling women that I love them. Maybe I should show them that I love them instead. That seems to be working out better for me these days.

Talk is cheap.

Action, not words.

Overused maxims, yes, but relevant to this post.

HAVE A HAPPY AND SAFE HALLOWEEN!!

a few things

Once again, I wrote too quickly.

After Sharky and I left the show last Thursday, a fight almost broke out between the singer in my band and the bass player of the cover group that played before us. It seems that one of the skanky singers of that band (in fact, the one who gave me a sloppy kiss after I named the tune they were playing) was hitting on our singer, asking to make out with him in the parking lot of the club.

The bass player is apparently the girl's boyfriend (or maybe not so apparent-- that chick was acting like she was single that night). A drink was thrown, fisticuffs almost ensued... and I left about fifteen minutes before all of this.

Also: here's a link to a blog I haven't updated since June...

imprints

thursday

I was a little tense from the anticipation of possibly seeing my stalker in the flesh and also wondering who would show up... Eve called and asked if Gwen was going... When I said that I wasn't sure Eve said that she was going to bring a male friend... She wanted to know if it was OK with me and of course I said it was...

I showed up with my gear, ready to rumble, to be drunk and high and ornery, to shed the skin I wear for public sake and collapse inside my own soul, then wring it out and flail it in the great wide open like laundry ready for the line...

I doped up in the car with my guitarist's girlfriend and when we exited the vehicle I ran into The Wolf, freshly shaved and dressed in retro-plaid... He was ready to howl, his drums already stashed inside, and his face was expectant, also anticipating-- in his case the arrival of his latest flame, a sultry and successful fashion designer with worldly airs and a wild partying streak...

I joined Eve and Laurie and Daniel inside the bar, sitting at a table drinking their drinks... A punk trio blared malevolently, playing Misfits covers and summoning the gods of trash... they left the stage and a cover group fronted by two skanky-looking women jumped on and let loose with some estrogen-fueled garage rock... At one point one of the singers announced that it was the other's birthday, making her a Scorpio in my mind... The singer asked who would buy her a drink and when no one responded I was tempted to jump in for pity's sake... Luckily, Eve (impulsive and on cue) came to the rescue and offered up her bar tab... Later on the cover group challenged the club to name the tune they were going to play-- it was "Big Black Monsoon" by PJ Harvey... When the song was done I claimed the prize: a free Newcastle and a sloppy kiss on the cheek...

Then I saw The Shark walk into the club... Hadn't seen him all year and I was surprised he even showed up at all... At first my mind was like Damn of all the nights he had to come but then I saw him speaking cheerily with Eve and Laurie and I sighed in relief... That was my only concern, that no petty dramas would inform the evening with ill feelings and unwanted confrontations...

We went on and played our set... We knocked the regulars on their asses... I jumped around like a Mexcian Jumping Bean and even fell into my amp during the last song and played for a minute while lying on my back against the frame... I came close to falling off the stage a few times but since the stage is half a foot off the level ground it made no difference... Someone moshing up front accidentally unplugged my guitarist's amp but he caught it quickly and nothing came of it... Our singer knocked a mic stand down and I was so in-the-moment that I had to fight the urge to knock all the mic stands down as a sign of commitment to the cause of destroying eardrums and equilibriums...

In the afterglow I received accolades and stood outside enjoying a cigarette with Sharky and Eve and Laurie and The Wolf and some of the club hangers-on, some of whom were impressed by our energy-- not necessarily our songs, but the pure energy --and I met Eve's friend and helped him shop a demo to my guitarist who works at the club as a promoter during the week... Since it was a weeknight everyone had to go home but Sharky and I had some catching up to do so we drove to Denny's...

Gwen never showed up and neither did my stalker...

In the parking lot of Denny's at 3am a woman in her forties asked me to give her a ride to Sherman Oaks... Normally I would but I was one block away from Denny's and I was already late... I didn't know what to tell her because the drive would be longer than expected and I really wanted to talk to Sharky again... She saw my bloodshot eyes and surmised that I'd been drinking and told me that it was okay-- she would hail a cab... I told her if she was still wiating by the time I finished with my meal that I would give her a ride but when we were through she had left...

Sharky and I talked all night... He is in a better place now and the both of us have moved past the bullshit... One thing that I did notice was that I have less patience for his lengthy screeds... I just wish he was better and quicker at getting to the point he wants to make... He probably notices that I am less receptive and probably attributes that to whatever reason but it doesn't kill the fact that he has been a good friend to me over the years and obviously any damage that was done has healed over and ceased to sting like it used to...


friday


I slept for three hours then made the trek to Lancaster to meet my family for our trip to Carpinteria... It seemed almost a shame for me to drive all that way because the route they take goes all the way back down to Santa Clarita... I could have just stopped at a Park 'N' Ride and left my car there all weekend...

My older brother was in a terrible mood and whenever he is like that he picks on me because it's easy to get me riled up... I think that he thinks I am an angry person but really it's only him and my father who push my buttons... my sister never grates on me, my younger brothers are respectful enough to me, my mother and stepfather are always good-natured, even my sister-in-law and my brother's friends are more understanding...

My brother and I were already in an argument by the time night fell on Friday... Tellingly, he sent his friend Sam over to me to bring me back into the camp circle so that he wouldn't have to be the one to apologize... Sam and I snuck away and smoked some weed and eventually I mellowed out and returned to the camp...


saturday


In the morning we ate breakfast and showered and I walked over to the beach and watched the waves and it made an imprint on my own brain... I wanted to remember the sight of the coast, the dolphins crowning their heads above the water, the overcast misty haze and the ships off the shoreline... I wanted to have the crashing tides etched into my memory so that I could return home and paint them...

I read a book about the Black Dahlia murder of 1947 written by a former LAPD detective who thinks that his own father may have been the grisly suspect in one of the most famous unsolved murders in L.A. history... I related to the horror of discovering the true nature of a trusted family member juxtaposed against the sad symbolism of the Black Dahlia herself... Like the disposable wasted hundreds in Juarez whose blood cries out from the earth where it has spilled, Elizabeth Short is a victim of the modern male tendency to ravish and rape and consider women to be nothing but receptacles and objects to be degraded and humiliated...

I thought of Sophie-- my own Black Dahlia --a mystery fated to never be solved, pieces scattered that have no relation to each other... What happened to her? Who killed her in my soul? Is she still alive? And where is she, should she still walk this earth? Did I ever matter to her? It would nice to think that the man she most likely has settled down with and wed might resemble me in some way shape or form... That's what kills me, I have decided: not knowing if I made an impact or an impression, an imprint...

I walked the dunes of the beach, looking back behind me every so often to see my footsteps embossed in the sand...

Night fell again and this time no spats with my older sibling... The ringing bell of the passing train every two hours lent a doleful air to the evening, but we laughed and drank and talked away into the night, loudly blaring music and sharing memories... This was a fine moment for me and my family and I was satisfied knowing that the entire trip would not be spent being spiteful and mean...


sunday


Sunday morning was glorious and tentative: packing away the tents, cleaning up the mess, throwing the last logs onto the campfire... One more rift between my brother and I followed bya degree of silence... I made one last pilgrimage to the sea and realized that my brother treats me like a little boy while my father leans on me too much and makes me feel like I am his father... neither person treats me like the man that I am at this moment... I think of Eve and how she told me I am two people: a little boy and an old man... And I think that this is the reason why I am split this way inside...

I spent time with my niece and nephew whom I don't get to see very often and it's just as well... 'Absence makes the heart grow fonder'... They are beautiful children who need protection from a predatory world that wishes to swallow them up into its endless belly... I see hope and optimism and a bright future in their hearts, in their pure souls, their giddy laughter and their lust for life... They're innocent lambs whose lives have not even begun... They need a shepherd not a savior, they need guidance and attention and love and instruction... I wonder if I will ever leave an imprint on them and I have to conclude that, yes, I do... Yes, I matter to them... Yes, they would miss me if I never came back to them... All I have to do is make sure that I am still around for them... All I have to do is stay alive and pay heed to their cries...

The drive back was lovely, dream-like... I slept through most of it... The moments when I wasn't sleeping allowed me to finish the Black Dahlia book... We got home and relaxed for a spell before beginning the arduous task of unpacking the truck... Sunday also happened to be my mother's birthday and we gave her presents and told her how much we love and respect her... Then I made the drive back home in the early evening...

I got home and Eve had left me numerous messages concerning plans for dinner with Laurie and Daniel... She made me feel special but I was careful not to express this glee... Instead I let her pick me up and we drove over there and spent the evening watching a scary movie and drinking...

Eve drove me home afterwards and I got a late-night phone call from The Wolf... We talked about the show on Thursday and how great we felt afterwards... We had our usual chat and then, around 2am, the both of us agreed to get off the phone...

I fed my cats and went to sleep and dreamed of the beach scene that I studied so intently over the weekend, the notion of Mother Ocean, applying layers of paint in the forms of the symbols in my head... the tragic Dahlia... Sophia... Adam & Eve... my mother's birthday and the celebration... a hum of feminine energy growling in my chest and vibrating in my loins... an understanding of where I am positioned in relation to my art, the rest of the world, my own self...

I left so many imprints on that sand...

what about HER emotions?

Here's an example of how clueless men can be.

This is what I wrote in my last blog entry:

It was nice to see Gwen again, and I was really jazzed about the way Eve and Gwen got along with each other. I was worried for a second because Gwen and I had a short fling with each other years ago, which never went anywhere but instead morphed into a respectful friendship. There was no weird tension, no jealousies or insecurities-- just three people making conversation, exchanging points-of-view and laughs and all sorts of positive energy.

Yesterday, I received an e-mail from Eve:

"What time is your show on Thursday?"

Then, a follow-up, before I had a chance to reply to the first one:

"Sorry if I seem like I just invited myself."

My response:

"I don't mind at all. The only reason why I didn't invite you is because you have acting class on Thursdays. I'd love it if you came along."

Her reply:

"Well, I figured maybe you didn't want me there because that girl who stopped by the other night. I can tell that you either have done something with her in the past, or you want to. I'll hang back on Thursday and I won't get in the way."

I didn't know whether to laugh or gasp. I wrote back:

"Gwen and I are just friends. She's too much for me. We hooked up once, at a party, years ago. The both of us were on E. It never went further than some making out. We could never make each other happy."

Eve seemed to be okay with that. But it brought up some thoughts in my head, on human nature and the need to feel special.

On one hand, Eve always acts as if she doesn't need any pity or charity from me. But that is at odds with the times like these, where innocent exchanges give way to slight jealousies...

Yes, there was a little tension: I hadn't seen Gwen in a long long time, and even though her mother is my landlady, I hadn't so much as heard from Gwen. Then, for her to show up at my door while Eve and I are having dinner... it caught me off guard, and Eve mistook my unpreparedness for nervousness.

I have to admit, a part of me was flattered that Eve would be even slightly possessive of me. And her pledge to "hang back" and not get in my way might just be her way of dealing with the possibility that I may care about someone else.

Ironically, if I'd turned around and told Eve that SHE is the one I care about, it would send her running in a beeline to get out of there.

What's more: Eve wasn't the only one feeling tense. Gwen was looking her over as well, trying to gauge the chemistry. I don't think I ever told Gwen about Eve, and if she knows who she is it's no fault of mine. Back when I was hanging out with Gwen, I had been fairly successful in shutting Eve out of my mind.

Gwen and I didn't work out because Gwen is an outrageous flirt who cannot be contained by one man or by one bottle of Cazadores. She is a wild, elemental banshee on a mission to search and destroy (and dance while doing it).

I can't keep up with a woman like that.

I suggested to Eve, later on, that she and Gwen would probably make good friends, because they both share a propensity for drink and for driving men crazy. If I ever ended up on a night on the town with those two ladies, the casualties would be innumerable.

This weekend I'm going to Carpenteria. I'm camping on the beach with my family. This is a perfect time to get away and forget all of my troubles. I will leave tomorrow morning and return Sunday... so tonight, I play my show, then go home, sleep until 8am, get up to Lancaster at 9am, then travel with the family up to Santa Barbara and set up camp.

All these women will be on my mind-- all of them, even the ones with whom I am not romantically linked. They'll make my chest heave and my heart sigh as I lay in the sand. It will be very nice to unwind and get away for a spell.

HAVE A NICE WEEKEND

"WELCOME TO YOUR OWN EMOTIONS"

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lycanthropy

I watched the movie Wolf with Jack Nicholson and Michelle Pfeiffer the other night at Purple Paulie's house. Directed by the venerable Mike Nichols (Carnal Knowledge, Bob & Carol & Ted & Alice), this movie was less of a horrorshow and more of an update of An American Werewolf In London mixed with some Hitchcockian suspense.

This movie, when first released circa 1994 in the States, didn't really make much of an impact or so much as a ripple in the media waters. But watching it for the first time ever, I feel that it is an undiscovered gem of a movie.

I've always been a fan of werewolf mythology. I'm a rabid fan (pardon the pun) but I do know where to draw the line-- I have friends who take their enthusiasm for lycanthropy to the extreme, let's just say, whereas my interest has always been metaphorical, really-- I don't believe that there is such a thing as a werewolf, but the origins of such tales in folklore fascinate me.

I used to watch the old movies with Lon Chaney, as well as modern takes on the mythos like Neil Jordan's The Company Of Wolves in 1984; hell, even Teen Wolf had its moments. But the Nichols version is now my new favorite, because it was sexy, among other things.

I mean, Jack Nicholson is a great choice for the role, but not for the reasons you'd expect. Unlike his turn as Ol' Scratch in The Witches Of Eastwick, Jack's character in this movie undergoes a gradual transformation that gets more believable as it gets weirder.

James Spader, one of the most underrated actors out there, turns in a scene-stealer of a performance as Jack's peer and rival. I didn't know he was in this movie, and he plays his role as a conniving up-and-comer to the hilt.

And, of course, Michelle Pfeiffer is so yummy...


*/*


Nichols is known for his satirical comedies, so the script for Wolf is comparable to his other movies. There is a lot of humor mined from the whole predatory-animal-in-the-workplace angle, as well as male midlife crisis and marital infidelity. But what's cool about this movie is that it's one of the few werewolf movies that makes being a werewolf seem like a lot of fun, albeit of the damned and accursed variation.

Usually, the werewolf, or The Wolf Man, or whatever you want to call it, suffers greatly because of his fate. He may enjoy some perks here and there, but ultimately he is doomed. Any character who actively relishes and rejoices in being a werewolf is usally cast as the villain and must be destroyed.

Towards the end of the movie, you get no sense of doom from Nicholson's Wolf Man. If anything, he is delivered from doom by virtue of his "curse" which turns out to be a blessing in disguise. He doesn't break the curse, so technically he is still damned, but... ahh, I don't want to spoil the movie for you...

All I can say is: it's like Count Dracula making it to the castle on time and defeating his mortal enemies, something Francis Ford Coppola almost pulled off in his version of the famous Bram Stoker horror novel.


*/*


I like werewolves so much that I went out and read Steppenwolf by Hermann Hesse, a book that I most likely would not have read at age 15 had it not been for its inclusion in an influential literary anthology that I had found in a thrift store for four dollars.

At the time, I thought of the band Steppenwolf, of "Born To Be Wild" fame and glory; my mom had some Steppenwolf records and I was discovering the ancient classics of rock's formative eras. I felt like an audio archaeologist, combing the ruins of Western Civilization, a time before I was born (even if it wasn't too long after the Sixties officially ended)...

I read the excerpt from the book in the anthology, and immediately set out to find Hesse's novel in a bookstore for dirt cheap. It was in stock back then, just as it is today.

One of the reasons why I related to this book so much at the time is because the adolescent years are a wolf-like existence for young men: we are in the midst of transforming into obscene creatures with uncontrollable urges bubbling beneath our innocent faces; in our hormonal, masturbatory shame we may as well have sprouted hair and bayed at the moon... actually, we did sprout hair-- pubic hair, and pimples to boot... and I wanted to fuck and kill and hunt and be wild... and we roamed in packs, but then again we could go off on our own, as lone wolves...

Steppenwolf is not about a teenager, though-- it is about a nearly fifty year-old man named Harry Haller, who believes that the nature of his individual soul (and the souls of a handful of others) is split in two, between that of a man and that of a wolf of the Steppes.

This book was written and published in 1963, which only reaffirmed my then-burgeoning belief that everything that was ever good on this planet was carried out before I was even conceived.


*/*


Last night, I had a telephone conversation with The Wolf Man.

I have a lot of conversations with The Wolf Man, because he plays drums in my band. No, he's not the guy from The Groovy Goolies cartoon... and he's not a werewolf either. We just call him The Wolf Man because his last name is Wolf.

Wolf and I talk about music and what it means to us, but we also talk about girls and relationships. He is candidly torn between wanting to be a ruthless womanizer and a nice guy. This is par for the course for most men, and the reason why I talk to him about it is because (like me) he wishes he were less sentimental and sensitive than he really is. He only wishes it because he sees the full-on wolves-- the predators, the scammers and the bloodlusters, the ones not tortured by conscience or remorse --getting away with bloody murder, while he plays the sheepish lamb and gets walked over by women who probably do not know any better than they should.

As is my style, I usually let the other person go on while I sit back and listen, speaking only when trying to clarify certain points. Wolf opens up to me because (I suspect) he knows that I know he's a Steppenwolf-- that is to say, I hear the struggle in his voice, and I see it in his eyes when we jam together.

But in our conversations especially is where I can detect the traces of the Steppenwolf inside of him. He's a few years younger than me, and has led the life of the Steppenwolf even more than I have in some respects-- he's a Gemini, an astrological sign whose very nature is dualistic and polarized (and mercurial, thanks to the ruling planet Mercury, which it shares with Virgo)... the twins, the two sides of the soul locked in battle, the wolf trying to bite the man, the man trying to tame the wolf...

In the movie Wolf, a man asks to be bitten by Jack Nicholson upon learning that he is indeed a lycanthrope. When Jack wonders why, the man confesses that he would like to be werewolf: he explains that the victim of a werewolf bite is ultimately the arbiter of its own morality-- the wolf itself is not evil, but if the victim is evil then his werewolf manifestation will also be evil. This scares Jack more than knowing that he has become a werewolf!

But at one point, the man asks Jack, "Doesn't it feel good to be a wolf?"

And Jack cannot say no to this query.


*/*


I've been called a wolf in the past, but seldom in a negative sense. For example: A friend once described my sleeping habits as "wolf-like" because I could nap for an hour, after having had no sleep, and wake up immediately, ready to roll.

The times that I have been called a wolf in a negative sense? They were probably well-deserved. I make no excuses for my less-than-stellar moments. But is it the fault of the wolf side of me, or the man side of me?

Am I being fairly blamed for being a wolf, in other words? There have been times when my cruelty was not due to the wolf's baying, but to my own human ugliness. Likewise, some of the noblest and courageous acts I was ever given credit for were not commissioned by my humane side, but by my wolfen side.

Does it even matter at this point? Yes, it does... it matters to me, because I don't like running with packs of wolves who want nothing better than to roam wantonly and without any purpose other than to satisfy their own craven needs.

I don't pretend to be anything other than what I am: an animal. But mixed in there, somewhere, there is a man as well. A civilized man, with thoughts and feelings... and a soul.

Not that animals don't have a soul-- they just choose to ignore it when instinct kicks in.

As a Steppenwolf, I am not completely beholden to my instincts, nor am I a slave to Reason. I am split down the middle, and to manage that requires balance.

This coming Monday, there is a full moon rising. The Wolf Man and I will probably run together in the streets, looking for fresh meat... or we might just talk on the phone about how beautiful some women are, and how great music sounds when you've snorted Oxycontin before a show.

If you hear howls in your part of the city, holler back at us. I promise we won't harm you.

bliss

Recovering from a fever... my bones still ache, my body shutters from chills...

I don't know anything other than this moment.

My body was transformed, baptised, initiated... the years were leading up to this event and now it is upon me...

I don't know anything other than this moment.

And here is the Fall, the autumn season, a segue into Winter, the prescient omen in the wings...

I don't know anything other than this moment.

another dumb-ass quiz

I thought this was funny, however, because my last post had me wondering how immature I might actually be.

Just so you know: I'll be 32 in January...

You Are 30 Years Old

Under 12: You are a kid at heart. You still have an optimistic life view - and you look at the world with awe. 13-19: You are a teenager at heart. You question authority and are still trying to find your place in this world. 20-29: You are a twentysomething at heart. You feel excited about what's to come... love, work, and new experiences. 30-39: You are a thirtysomething at heart. You've had a taste of success and true love, but you want more! 40+: You are a mature adult. You've been through most of the ups and downs of life already. Now you get to sit back and relax.

What Age Do You Act?

what did i do this past weekend?

I rocked and rolled all night, and partied every day.

My legs are sore, my arms are tender, and my liver is recuperating.

My lungs are black and phlegmy, and my eyes are red and baggy.

How goes it with you?

uncertain

To live with uncertainty...

Western civilization tries to live without the certainty of God. He died, it has been rumored. God never existed, others say.

I was raised in a home where God existed, and even after I outgrew the notion, I must admit-- the conditioning did a number on me.


*/*


I realize that, as much as I can live with uncertainty in some areas of my life, I am unable to do it in other areas.

For example: I can live not knowing where the next meal is coming from, or whether I have a job tomorrow, or where I'm going to sleep tonight. I can deal with those things. Some people wouldn't be able to, but I can, and I have.

However, I can't seem to function properly when it comes to emotional certainty. When she is upset and I want to comfort her but she pushes me away and says "There's nothing you can do about it" and I recognize that she is right... I cannot live with that uncertainty.

So I must learn to accept it.


*/*


I must learn to accept it because if she really didn't care, if I really was such a drain on her, if I truly have made her life unpleasant and intolerable, then she wouldn't be calling me up, asking to sit on my couch and drink with her, as we zone out and watch the television set, both of us writhing in psychic pain in regards to our respective neuroses.

If that's all she demands of me, and not much more, then I have to accept that.

Granted, it's not flattering to admit that you can't save someone, or help them the way you want to help them. It doesn't paint me in the best light-- I come off as weak, uncaring, too self-absorbed to make any meaningful contributions.

But she tells me time and time again that she doesn't want that from me.

And yesterday... yesterday I was feeling bad for my own reasons. And she went out of her way to make me feel better. She made me breakfast in the evening. But as she sweated and labored in my kitchen, her own personal anguish was taking a toll, in the form of endless cel phone calls that interrupted her cooking.

Friends in a jam, old lovers, worried relatives... they won't leave her alone.

I didn't ask her to make me a meal. But I did call her that morning and asked if we could have lunch so I could "vent" about my own state of affairs.

Then my father stopped by unexpectedly, and we had an intense conversation. It changed my mood from bad to worse. When she called to tell me she couldn't meet me until 12:30, I told her it was OK, that my father had stopped by and that I was just going to go straight to work. I told her that it would only make her feel bad if I vented on her.

Later on, she called and asked me if I was OK. She offered her food, as a hearty distraction. I accepted.


*/*


Just as I accepted that, I must accept the fact that not only can I not save her, but that she doesn't want anyone to save her.

She wants someone to help her forget, to take her mind off of things. She is not like me, wallowing in my own mental gutters in order to confront my demons. She would rather not pick at the scabs, the way that I do.

I have recently resolved to stop picking at my own scabs, and I think it is helping me to cope. That's why I feel the true weight of this realization: I've been so wrapped up in my self-therapy that I have become detached from other people's suffering.

Not everyone can spill their guts in a blog, or put their energy into creative endeavors for the mere purpose of escape. Everyone is not cut from the same cloth as me.

For the first time, I am beginning to see that what makes me care about her is the fact that she doesn't want to bug me with her problems. But my designs on solving her problems and all that... they're just figments of my imagination. I have no such power.

She comes to me because I don't ask her about her life. And if we DO begin to speak on it, I try not to suggest "answers" or "solutions".


*/*


It's been hard. I must admit, it's been very difficult to reign in my know-it-all-ism, which is what I resort to when I'm uncertain. Flexing my knowledge muscles makes me feel like I have some sort of control over my life.

But she knows it's a fraud... a lovely fraud, designed to mislead, to represent a different reality other than what storms away outside the walls of my apartment in Burbank.

I just have to keep faith in the fact that she would've been long gone by now if I didn't make her feel happy somehow. For me to doubt, to be uncertain of where I stand with her, is to insult the very foundation upon which our relationship rests.

People always want examples. Like Thomas, they want to see the stigmata wounds in the wrists, the wounds in the feet, the scarred gash in the ribcage.

What did Jesus have to say to that? "Blessed are those who have not seen and yet still believe..."


*/*


I'm not trying to preach here. I'm just trying to live with uncertainty, turn it inside out and see it for what it is-- a self-defeating mind-state that I have to shed in order to evolve as a person.

I'll leave you with a humorous anecdote, to wash the taste of religion out of your mouth: One time Mr. T was at the El Pollo Loco in Sherman Oaks, on the corner of Sepulveda and Dickens, south of Ventura Blvd. Mr. T lives in the area and banks across the street from El Pollo Loco. I've seen him around town a lot.

Anyway, one day he was recognized in El Pollo Loco, and soon people started to crowd around the former B.A. Baracus as he waited in line for his food. They asked him for autographs and he happily obliged.

The chain manager wondered what the fuss was all about, and when he saw this guy claiming to be Mr. T, obtaining autographs from customers, he naturally suspected some sort of scam. He smiled and said to T (whose real name is Lawrence Teroy) "You're not Mr. T..."

T was taken aback by this, but obviously it wasn't the first time this had happened to him, because he just kept on signing autographs and quoting famous lines from The A-Team and Rocky III.

Finally, after some time, the manager was convinced and approached T with a request for an autograph. T playfully denied the man, and when asked why, he replied (in that world-famous Xzibit-on-steroids growl of his): "Because you didn't believe..."

According to whoever told me this story, a few people laughed, and the manager felt embarrassed. But after a spell, T did sign the autograph for him.


*/*


Sometimes, I find myself demanding tangible proof of love, but really-- it's right there in front of me, all the time. Every phone call, every e-mail, every night spent eating good food and watching TV while drinking Newcastle, every affectionate tease and loving dig at my ridiculously large ego... that's love.

Every time she feels bad but doesn't want to talk about it, that's not pushing me away-- that's love. But it is definitely NOT what I expect love to be like. I see it as her pushing me away, but the way she sees it, she doesn't want to bum me out with the sad details of her life.

It took a long time for me to get this, and I can't say that I have learned the lesson fully.

But at least I can live with the uncertainty, now that I am certain of what it is and where it stems from... and that's enough for me to go on.

I got a show to do, so I'll wish you all a happy weekend now and tell you all about it later.

upset

All of my life has been about loving people who end up doing terrible things to themselves and others.

I don't just mean romantic love either. I'm talking about friends and family.

I survive, of course, but at what price?

And what if I were the one who was setting himself on fire while others watched in horror? Is there anyone there to put it out for me?

I escape into the fantasy constructs of poetry, painting, and playing music. When I come out of hiding, I squint my eyes because I can't deal with the harshness of the light.

I'm feeling fine. It's the world that's upset.

the plot thickens

I found out yesterday that I may need to find work soon.

This should be distressing, but it isn't.

I mean, let's face it-- I have TOO MUCH FREE TIME on my hands...

The past two years here have been mellow, relaxed, therapeutic... and, in the case of my incident with the stalker, educational.

They let me do my thing, I kept out of trouble for the most part. I had forgotten that work can be a place that you actually enjoy coming to every day. Seven years of working for a faceless corporation did that to me.

The genesis of my blogging coincided with the layoff in 2003. I worked out a lot of issues in the past two or three years.

I have grown... I think...

The job market now is better than it was in 2003. I have more skills, more experience, more stability. I have other avenues to investigate, such as graphic design, web design and artwork.

If I had the time, maybe I'd go back to school. But that won't be necessary right now.

Maybe later on...

Anyway, I will probably start blogging more, because for me it always functioned as a great way to shake off all the tension built up from job-hunting.

Of course, there is always the possibility that I will NOT be laid off, that I will be asked to continue... but I am not counting on that, nor would I be excited at the prospect of working here some more. I know that I can find better, in other words, and this is the time and the opportunity to look for something else.

Wish me luck, all. And don't feel bad for me-- I'm not out of work yet.

GRIFTING REVISITED

Exactly one year ago, not long after I deleted two years and half a million words worth of blog, I posted this, and I must say... I'm very proud of it.

HAVE A NICE WEEKEND, ALL!!!