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?


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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!!!

so, how fucked up am i?

Disorder	Rating
Paranoid Personality Disorder:	Moderate
Schizoid Personality Disorder:	Low
Schizotypal Personality Disorder:	Moderate
Antisocial Personality Disorder:	Moderate
Borderline Personality Disorder:	Low
Histrionic Personality Disorder:	Very High
Narcissistic Personality Disorder:	High
Avoidant Personality Disorder:	High
Dependent Personality Disorder:	Low
Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder:	Moderate
-- Take the Personality Disorder Test -- -- Personality Disorder Info --

what writing has done for me

It gave voice to the demons, the supernatural voices wisping between my ears and whispering, the self-defeating tongues spoken with various sources few and far-flung...

It re-ordered my mind and helped me stack words on top of each other like giant Jenga structures thrusting upward punctuating through the sky, piercing cloud layers and spiking all those prayers to God that go unanswered, littering down upon the ground in spiral dances...

It gave me a place to rest my cares and allowed me to travel down innerspace highways unfettered by worry, unchained by fear, left to roam prowling about the surface of an ash-coated wasteland...

It gave me a shot at perfection, a chance to see God in the morning, naked and unadorned, vulnerable, disrobed and hair askew, and it also gave me dinner reservations with The Devil on a nightly basis, conversations and cigars over a meal, brokering the deal to my soul...

Writing remade me in its own image. I'm just a clone. An arm from Henry Miller, a leg from Kurt Vonnegut, cartilage cut from the septum of William Burroughs, and possibly Terry Southern's spleen...

I am a literary Frankenstein monster but I bleed real blood and cry real tears, even if they were stolen from the graves of poets and authors... the dead tissue reanimated, electricity's spark causing everything to come alive...

who's nuts?

This is guaranteed to make you laugh.

Guaranteed.

XYZ INC.

To Read Part One, Click Here...

Matt Desmond, with his bushy black hair slicked back, sat on the bus as it traveled down Glenoaks Blvd, towards Sun Valley where the XYZ Warehouse was located.

The jacket and slacks were borrowed from his father. The shoes were purchased at the Salvation Army for $5. The tie was a birthday gift from his mother: jet black, no stripes. The shirt was stolen from his older brother years ago, and never returned.

Matt got off the bus and put his Columbo trenchcoat on to combat the early morning cold. Matt never was nor ever would be a 'morning person'-- he preferred to sleep in late and stay up until the wee hours. He definitely was a 'nocturnal animal'.

Matt walked into the upstairs office above the warehouse and saw many young men, all dressed in suits, milling about, standing casually while sifting through a breakfast buffet table that consisted of bagels, coffee, and donuts.

Matt got a good look at all of the people there. He could tell who were the newbies, because they all reminded him of himself: laconic, apprehensive, exhausted from the night before...

He also distinguished the 'veterans', if there could be such a term for a job like this with such a high turnover rate. They were the go-getters, the ones who couldn't stop talking, the ones who were practicing their sales pitches on their peers and bragged about the take from yesterday and the day before.

He silently wished that he'd landed a job in the actual warehouse, lifting boxes and taking orders. But they wanted him on the front lines; Chas knew an able-bodied salesman when he saw one, and even Matt knew that much about himself-- that he could be mighty persuasive when need be, and that he possessed a sterling silver tongue.

Matt stepped outside for a cigarette. He was followed by a young man in a three-piece suit that his grandfather must have been married and buried in, because it didn't look contemporary by any means and fit quite badly on the lanky man's frame.

"Gotta light?" the man asked Matt.

"Yes," Matt replied, and flicked his lighter for the man.

"Name's Joe," the man said.

"Matthew."

"Nice to meet you, Matthew," Joe said, eyes darting furtively. "You been here long?"

"First day."

"Mine too."

Matt lit himself a cigarette and paused to savor the flavor. "What do you think they'll have us do today?"

"I dunno... that Chas guy, he said we were ready to hit the streets. I don't think I am, but I'll give it a try. Shit, anything's better than collecting unemployment right now, ya dig?"

Joe had a Southern twang in his voice, and Matt noticed he was missing a lot of his front teeth. "I dig," Matt answered.

"Gotta move out of my dad's place, ya know?" Joe was sucking down his cigarette in record time. "Me and the wife, it was only temporaries, see? Weren't sposed ta be there longer'n a month... but times, they're tough."

"I'm in the same boat," Matt said. "I'm living at h--"

"This job here, I hope I makes a lotta money on it, 'cause I'm goin' crazy dealing with all the stress," Joe said, unfazed by his interruption of Matt. "But I thank I can dew it. I thank I got the knack. It just takes hustle."

"I'm not so sure I have what it takes," Matt said.

"Aw, man, don't say that. I don't wanna hear that, man!" Joe was petulant.

"I'm not trying to be a downer... I mean, I want to do good. I want to make money. But if I'm no good at it, then... I'll just walk away." Matt finished his cigarette as Joe pulled out another and motioned for another flame from Matt's lighter.

"See, I ain't a quitter," Joe said, as he dragged on the butt. "I sticks it out, no matter what. Even if it kills me, I'ma sell somethin'..."

"That's awesome," Matt said, in a tone that belied the statement. "I wish you the best of luck, Joe. You deserve it."

"Thank ya," Joe said. He seemed sheepish and shy now, possibly excited that Matt had wished him well.

"I think Chas is here," Matt said, as he looked inside the office and saw the rest of the men congregating in a circle. "Let's go in."


*/*


Chas, decked out in a fine black Italian suit and loafers, whistled loudly and motioned for everyone to stand in a circle around him, in that charming Irish brogue he loved to exploit.

"Okay, papal, gather ron, gather ron, ah goat ta brief ya befar whey tek tew da streets..."

Mat surveyed the room: a collection of lowlifes, losers, unlovable lugs and louts, all stuffed into tight-fitting monkey suits that projected respectability but couldn't suppress the sleaze beneath...

Chas took the center stage and proved why he was at the top of this particular pyramid:

"Yer oll here for won reason, roight? Won reason and only won reason: ta mek munney, no? Orange ya tired of wekkin' up in da marning, yer back is knockin' from slaypin on a beaten mattress? Ya git up and ya goat no shoes own ya feet? Ya got no car, no automobile, and ya gotta tekk the measly buss? Iddin dat a drag?"

The crowd of men agreed vocally.

"I cand 'ear ya! Ah no it's marnin' boat ya gotta sound off like ya gotta pear!"

The men got louder, more riled up.

"Dat's betta. Ya gotta have big bolls if ya wanna make enny munney oaf dis gig, boys. Ya gotta have big, fat, red-hot elephant nuts!"

The men laughed. Matt chuckled at the spectacle, at Chas' choice of words.

"Look at me, boys. I wes jess like yew once. I was broke as a joke, eaten Top Ramen out da bag wit no water, holes in me shoes from walking, no girlfriend, no house of me own, nothin' but me bolls, gentlemen. Cos like Tony Montana says, 'I only got ma word and mah bolls, an' I brake dem far no one!'"

This got a huge laugh, especially from Matt, who found it surreal that he was up at the crack of dawn, listening to an Irish/Scottish bloke with a heavy accent do his impression of Al Pacino's Cuban accent in Scarface.

"In a few moments we're going to go down tha list, tha things yew need to no when I set ya loose on the streets, peddlin ya wares ta customers and potential buyers. Ahm gonna tell ya wot ta do and wot NOT ta do, ya get me?"

They all nodded in unison. Chas then split the group up into smaller groups, so that the experienced pros could give pointers to the newbloods.

Matt was accosted by a well-dressed, firmly-cologned man named Johnny. He was wearing a gold chain and some nice rings on his fingers.

"Hey, you... show me your pitch!"

Matt was a bit dumbfounded. "My... my pitch?"

"Your pitch, man! Your sales pitch. Let me see what you got!"

Rather than standing there explaining to Johnny that he'd never pitched before, Matt instead played along instinctively. Johnny pretended to be walking down the street, setting himself up to be solicited.

Matt walked up to Johnny and started to speak but before he could get a word in edgewise Johnny blurted out, "Not interested!" and briskly walked away. Then, he stopped, broke character, and walked back to Matt.

"See how easy it was for me to brush you aside?" Johnny said to Matt. "Now let's switch!"

"Okay," Matt said, as he walked back down the hall a bit, turned around, and walked towards Johnny.

"Excuse me, sir--"

Matt tried to do the same thing Johnny did to him. "Not interested".

"--I know you're a busy man and hate to be bothered but if I can have one minute of your time to show you exactly what it is you're missing, I promise it will be worth every second I'm asking. Is that okay, sir? I won't be very long."

Matt, against his own will, acquiesced to the opening line. Johnny went halfway into his pitch and then stopped.

"See how I got my foot in with you? I just kept on talking until you heard me. Maybe you knew I was a salesman when you saw me, but I got you to stop and listen. And that's half of it, kid. If you can do that, then you're on the right track."

Matt said, "I gotta admit-- you made me stop and listen."

"One more time. Try it on me again, kid. " Johnny walked down the hall and looked at Matt, but this time with a gleam in his eye, like he'd just discovered new talent and was giving it some sort of a litmus test. Then, Johnny began to walk.

"Hello, sir, how are you doing today?"

"Whatever it is, buddy, I'm not interested."

"You look like a fair-minded person, I know you're in a hurry to stay on schedule, I'm a busy man myself, but I can tell you'd be interested n this item because it's for serious-minded individuals such as yourself..."

Johny stopped and looked at Matt. "That was pretty good, kid. Where'd you learn words like that?"

"Words like that?"

"Yeah, you know... 'serious-minded' and 'individual'... that shit works. In fact, if you don't mind... I'm gonna use it in my pitch today, see how it goes!"

"Go right ahead, bro," Matt said, unaware that Johnny was nicknamed 'The Fisher', not just because he was good with casting out lines, but because he liked to practice his pitch with others so that he could poach their best lines.

"Is this your first day, kid?"

"Yeah, first day."

"Hold on for a minute."

Johnny walked over to Chas, who was busy giving orders to the office associates. Johnny bent Chas' ear for a bit, motioned over to Matt, and then Johnny walked back over to where he left Matt standing.

"I talked to Chas about you, man. He's putting you on with Ugly Greg."

"Ugly Greg?"

"Greg's the best. You're gonna learn from The King!"

Matt tried to smile but his stomach, upset from sugary donuts and watered-down coffee, wouldn't let him.


*/*


Ugly Greg was not unattractive at all-- in fact, he was quite handsome for a man, with a passing resemblance to James Mason in his younger days. Ugly Greg was tall, well-dressed, and charismatic, but he was far from ugly.

He gained the nickname for two reasons: One, his last name was Feo, which means 'ugly' in Spanish; Two, and most tellingly, he was the resident sales champion of XYZ Inc., and anyone who went up against him in a contest of sheer numbers ended up eating the humblest of pie. Greg was so determined to be the best that it often "got ugly", with rival salesmen getting angry at Greg's seeming invincibility. Add to all that the fact that Greg always rang the bell early, scooping up every bonus that XYZ offered as an employee incentive, and it became clear that Ugly Greg was the Alpha Male, the Big Dog, the Man To Beat.

Greg was the only "wholesale contractor" (the euphemism that the salesmen implemented for themselves) who had his own office upstairs. Johnny personally escorted Matt to Greg's office and knocked on the door.

"Yes?"

"Greg, it's Johnny. Open up."

Ugly Greg opened the door to his office. The decor inside was chaotic and messy, with papers strewn every which way. Greg welcomed them into the office with a hearty smile and a warm demeanor.

"Greg, this is Matt Desmond. He's a newblood. Matt, this is Ugly Greg."

"Nice to meet you, Matt." Greg extended his arm and caught Matt's hand with a firm shake.

"Nice to meet you too," Matt said.

"Greg, you know I don't bother you for no reason, man, but this kid... I think he's got potential."

"Really?" Greg looked Matt over, trying to find his angle. "What makes you say that?"

"He's articulated, bro," Johnny said.

"Articulated?" Greg raised an eyebrow.

"You know, well-spoken... he sounds like a news anchor!"

"How old are you, Matt?"

"Nineteen."

"No shit? Are you in school?"

"No sir."

"Did you graduate from high school?"

"Yes, I did."

"I bet you like to read."

"Yes, I do, as a matter of fact."

Johnny started guffawing. "Hear that, man? 'As a matter of fact'... that's his deal! That's his angle. Kid's got a vocabulary!"

Greg put his arm around Matt. "Well, if Johnny here says you're good to go, then I'll take you under my wing. Normally, I don't do this shit-- God knows how many losers these boys tried to pawn off on me-- but I can tell you're smart, Matt. You could be long-term, for sure."

Greg then looked back at Johnny. "Is Chas cool with it?"

"Oh, yeah," Johnny replied, "I ran it by him before I brought him up here."

"Cool," Ugly Greg said. "Welcome to XYZ, Matt. I'm gonna show you the ropes!"

Chas whistled again, and gathered his private congregation, his fledgling flock, around him once more for the final briefing of the morning. In his hand was a cheap 35mm camera.

"Today, we're gettin' rid of dees cameras. We paid three dullahs far dem, so we recommend ya sell dem far four and a haff. Of carse, the price ya set is oll up ta yew, gentlemen, so go ahead and stop buy the warehouse and grab yer merch and git ta sellin'!"

The warehouse was swarming with fashionably-dressed testosterone, each filling out forms and grabbing boxloads of cameras and other merchandise-- 'merch', as Chas referred to it --to sell throughout the day.

After Matt grabbed his own box, Greg told him to meet him ouside of the building so they could get on their way. Matt was a bit underwhelmed when he saw Greg's car, a Datsun B-210 with severe body damage and an interior that looked like a grizzly bear had eaten a man alive behind the wheel.

"What happened to your car, Greg?"

"It was stolen, then used in a high-speed chase."

"No shit!"

"I was at home watching TV when they interrupted the news. At first I was all like, 'check it out, another car chase' but then I realized it was MY car!"

"That's crazy."

"Yeah, but what can you do, eh?"

Greg took Matt to his favorite spot for selling merch: Santa Monica Blvd and Bundy.

"I always have good luck here," Greg said. "If you ask me, it's not about the pitch, or the words you use, or the way you look-- none of that matters, Matt. Location-- that's what matters."

They parked the car and got out, each holding enough merch to carry comfortably.

"Okay, Matt, how do you wanna do this-- you wanna stick by me and watch me work, or do you wanna go out on your own for a bit and see how you do?"

Matt's answer was obvious, given his independent nature: "I wanna go off on my own for a bit."

Greg smiled. "Johnny was right. You got it. And hey, if you don't do that well, remember that it's just your first day."

Matt and Greg agreed to meet back at the car in an hour. They synchronized their watches and set off on their own separate ways.

After an hour, Matt had done pretty good for himself: he sold three cameras, each for five dollars each. This came out to a personal profit of six dollars, and it didn't take much for Matt to sell them. His pitch, although unrefined and lacking in punch, was enough to convince two old ladies and a college kid waiting for the bus to give him money for the cheap Taiwanese cameras.

He waited for Greg back at the car. Greg showed up five minutes late, with a hot dog in his hands and nothing else.

"How'd you do?" Greg asked in between bites.

"I sold three cameras."

Greg was surprised. "Three cameras? How much did you sell 'em for ?"

"Five each."

Greg smiled. "Way to go! That's awesome! One hour's work and you've already sold three!" He gave Matt a high five with his free hand.

"Where's your stuff?" Matt asked.

"Sold it all," Greg said. "The whole case."

Matt's face screwed up into an incomprehensible grimace. "That quick?"

Greg finished the hot dog and showed Matt the money. "I usually do better."

"Damn," Matt said. "I don't know if I'll ever get that good..."

"Ah, don't worry about it," Ugly Greg said. "Your first day, three cameras in one hour? That was better than my first day."

"Really? How long you been with XYZ, by the way?"

"About three years," Greg said. "I didn't make any real money until a month into it. You're doin' great, Matt! I predict that you'll make at least $50 by the day's end."

This encouraged Matt. The rest of the day, he divided his time between selling his own wares and watching Greg work his magic on the streets. By the end of the day, when the two men had returned to the warehouse at sundown, Matt had made $75 in take-home cash, and Ugly Greg had sold every box he grabbed from the warehouse that morning, for a grand total of $500 in personal sales. Greg had even swept up the incentive bonus by lunch time, a feat that both amazed and fascinated Matt to no end.

Riding home on the bus in the evening, Matt was excited about this new job. If I keep this pace up, he thought to himself, I can have a gang of money by the end of the week...

He saw Joe, the man who'd bummed a cigarette off of him that morning, in a seat near the back of the bus. Figuring he had the right to talk to him as a friend and a co-worker, Matt walked up to him and sat down next to him.

"Hey, Joe!"

"Hey, what's up, man?" Joe looked tired, drained.

"I made $75 today. How'd you do?"

Joe was silent for a spell. Then he said, "Ahm quittin'."

"What?" Matt felt very bad-- maybe Joe had done badly and didn't want to hear from someone else who had done well.

"Ahm quittin'... this ain't fer me. I ain't got what it takes."

"How can you say that? It's only been one day. I thought you were going to give it a shot, no matter what."

"Yeah, I said them thangs, an' takes it back. Ahm gonna go down to EED tomorra and get my unemployment check."

"Oh, well.. sorry to see you go, Joe."

"Don't mention it, buddy. Hey, good for you, right? I ain't tryin' to bring you down, man. Ahm happy that you did well, believe me. I just wish I was a better salesman, you dig?"

"I dig."

Joe rang the bell for the next stop, got up from his seat and exited the bus. Three more stops and Matt would be home as well. Matt sat there, feeling bad for rubbing it in with Joe, but then again he had no idea that Joe was so discouraged.

This didn't affect Matt negatively, however-- if anything, it gave him the impetus to go home, iron his clothes for the next day, and strike out on his own once again, to try and make some money so that he could move into his own place and start running his own life.

late bloomer

My homie Down Low is having female troubles.

A little background on Down Low: In his sophomore year of high school his parents, newly divorced, decided that it would be in his best interest if he was shipped off to a reform school. They tricked him into going, using the old "we're taking a day trip" scenario.

What was boneheaded about this decision was that Low was 17 at the time, and after a year he would be able to leave the reform school on his own. In order for that particular reform program to work, a teenager would have to have been there for at least two to three years.

His parents basically threw money away by sending him off. The program had no effect upon him in terms of rehabilitation: his only vice was smoking marijuana, although Low himself has speculated that his stay at the reform school might have saved him from getting into methamphetamines, a phenomenon that rushed in and took over his former classmates nearly overnight.

But the real effect the program had on Low was that it alienated him from his family and also set back his maturation greatly. He missed out on a lot of things because of this "time out" that he was grudgingly handed.

One of those things was the normal rites and passages of horny high school kids who are beginning to date and have intimate relationships. Low never had a real girlfriend, and reform school only thwarted this goal.

So now, he has female troubles-- specifically, he is dealing with a girl who is just as immature and melodramatic as he is. And because he cares about her, he finds that he cannot simply write her off and go onto the next conquest...


*/*


I frequently talk with Low over breakfast at Andre's, and most of the time I am chewing his ear off about my various love interests. He has always been a good listener and gave me valuable feedback many times. Now it is my turn to return the favor.

This is not as easy as it seems. Low has never pontificated at length on any girls in the past, so it is surprising to hear him express profound emotions for someone. He talks so much about her that we don't talk about anything else. I get annoyed by this, but then I remember all the times I vented about Amy Coates or Eve or Monique or even Mary Jane, and I take a deep breath and open up my ears.

He quit smoking pot and cut down on cigarettes; he has started writing love songs on his 12-string guitar-- Low is a brilliant guitarist but has never been able to write a decent song... until now.

He is a late bloomer, and this is the first true love he has ever found. He met this girl online, and their initial relationship was far from romantic: they collaborated on an X-rated webcam site and made a lot of money getting credit card charges from lonely rich men who paid to masturbate to pretty girls on the Internet.

Somewhere along the line, Low and this girl became friends, then lovers, and now... now they have that love-hate ambivalence that passes for passion in this day and age.


*/*


I don't know how helpful I have been, but suffice it to say that I've had my share of crazy girls wrecking my world, and so I speak to him from experience and not just macho posturing.

He felt like a "pussy" for calling her after he said he wouldn't. I reminded him of my troubles with Eve earlier this year, how she wasn't talking to me for weeks and I still kept leaving messages on her answering machine, letting her know that (whenever she was ready to talk) I was sorry for being an ass and I wanted to make sure she was OK.

Low's girl is taunting him with threats of another guy who will treat her right. All this means is that she found a simp who has a lot of money and will spend it on her. But she knows that this guy doesn't love her the way Low does, and Low knows that she is using this sucker to make him mad.

Meanwhile, Low is still seeing other girls, who are less drama but don't compare to the feelings he has for this one girl. It's like a Smokey Robinson song come to life.

It seems so simple, doesn't it? All they have to do is lay down their respective arms and embrace each other. But it's never that simple, and that's because human emotions cloud our reasoning. It becomes a power trip with both sides refusing to roll over.

I told him he needs some time away from her, that he will know her for a long time and they will never be too far from each other. I think of how Eve spent nine years with a guy that she fell out of love with two years into it; I think of Amy Coates, who is married with a child but who will never forget the impact I had on her; I think of all these women that I have known and loved, and how I never really stopped loving them-- I just moved on to other people when the romance ran out.

Low hasn't had the opportunities to explore a meaningful relationship and its attendant baggage. But if you ask me, he's actually growing up a bit. A year ago, Low wouldn't have shed a tear over any girl. I don't see his soul-searching as a negative thing at all.

Painful, yes, but negative? Hardly.

In fact, it confirms what I've always suspected about him: that underneath all the bluster and braggadoccio, Down Low (like me, like many of my friends) has a heart, and hides it to protect it from the slings and arrows of this heartless era. But ultimately, he is an old-fashioned Romantic, and he is an artist, and he has deeper feelings than just the standard "Findum Fuckem And Flee" mentality that pervades the landscape of the male psyche these days.

They'll be OK, because they are decent people, despite their taste for the lowlife and all that entails. Who says pornographers and drug dealers don't have soft sides? They're human beings too, and their plights are no different than that of a respectable young married couple or the affairs of the upper-class power elite.

We all bleed, we all cry, we all feel joy when the person we love is in our arms... we all wear different uniforms and march to the individual beats of various drummers, but we all share that longing for love, that yearning for something that feels real, something that transcends the present, something that lasts forever and burns eternally...

Today is the first day of Autumn. It is the beginning of The Fall...

clickety-clack

According to this link, the sounds of fingers typing on a keyboard can be transposed and "decoded", for lack of a better term.

The article states that this can be construed as a "security risk"...

This spells trouble for me: I type extremely loud, and have been reprimanded for my noisiness whilst typing.

In my old blog, I had a piece about being at the library and having a neighboring computer user complain about my typing. This is not an isolated incident by any means.

I think I type louder than the average typist because I only use my index fingers. I don't use that high school typing class method... and it's a good thing, because I NEVER get Carpal Tunnel Syndrome, even as I type for hours upon hours...

That's all for now. Maybe more later...

scabs

As a kid I was constantly in the dirt, kicking it up, getting it on the tip of my nose, cutting and bruising myself in the relentless pursuit of good times and high adventure.

I did a lot of stupid things: jumping off of rooftops, climbing trees and falling to the ground, jettisoning from swingsets at the park while in mid-air, riding my bike down trails that were not meant for cyclists, hiking in the park, playing Flag Football (or Touch Football in the streets, with plays interrupted by the passing of traffic) and generally covering my skin with scabs and scrapes.

I never broke any limbs or got seriously hurt. No hospital visits, no trips in the ambulance. My physical feats were actually run-of-the-mill childhood rituals. Taking the falls and tumbles toughened me up.

One thing I used to do, however, was pick my scabs. I had a lot of them on me, and they were always irritating. The way the skin stretched as the black, shapeless mass of coagulated blood held to the surface caused me to scratch my scabs before they were fully formed.

Of course, this did nothing to facillitate the healing process-- it only delayed it further.

There's something in the back of a young boy's mind, where he actually would like to see the scab come apart while picking at it, so as to discover that the wound is fully healed underneath and that there is no need to pick anymore because the scab is gone. My impatience, however, would lead me to pick away when the scab was 90% ready. What would be left after the unsightly spot was cleared away would be a small, infection-prone red spot, a pinpoint in comparison to the original wound but still open to all sorts of discomfort and irritability. That little red spot would end up scabbing over itself, and then I'd have to wait until that tiny little scab fully formed and was able to be stripped away...

Now, let's speak metaphorically for a second...

Suppose that all the past pain and tragedy that I have had in my life is a scab. If this is the case, then it can be argued that (like my younger self) I am still picking away at the scabs before they can do their work.

Only recently have I seen the results of letting them fall off on their own. The healing process, when unfettered by my prying fingers, is much more efficient. The scabs disappear and after a while I forget that I even had a cut or a scrape.

I have been holding myself to this thought: From now on, no more scab-picking.

Let the healing process take as long as it needs to take. I am in no hurry. I would rather have it done and over with than to prolong the painful interim of dealing with newer and fresher scabs born from my obsessions with the old ones.

See what I'm getting at?

btw: I won $90 at a craps table in Primm Valley on Saturday. I quit while I was ahead. I was too tired to press my luck and raise my bets. I was content to have had a decent run, which helped me to understand the game and grasp some concepts I'd been unsure about prior to this weekend.

This week looks like it's going to be pretty interesting. Don't ask me how I know-- I don't have the slightest explanation for this gut feeling.