Social Work

Patti Smith

2010-10-03T00:47:00.009-07:00

Fog streams like the wet smoke of thousands maundering wandering and you want and need and want what you live without. Billionaires blow smoke rings wondering in empty crowds crowding foxholes; the treetips glisten they are listening out east. We've gone this far to the far edge. We'll hold our breath like fog and blow out envious foghorns for the boring youth wanting teaching want and needing. This time tomorrow the whole earth will fold us and hold us meandering with the thousand horses. I'm not eating not drinking this breathing smoke this folding stream of westerns. Let's walk in fog with trees and listen. You and me out here on this edge of earth spinning.

Lottery Ticket

2010-10-01T00:59:00.005-07:00

I thought and thought about this ticket. I couldn't shake it. It was a calm thing, not obsessive, it would come to mind and I would know. I was strangely resolved: OK, this is it, this is the ticket, I gotta check the numbers. But I didn't, I'd forget. And I was calm about it: doesn't matter, it'll still be a winner when I get around to it. I took it to bed one night with a pile of magazines and the laptop to check the numbers. Somehow with the magazines and the laptop and getting under the covers I suddenly couldn't find it. Oh well, it's 11, M's asleep, I'll find it in the morning still a winner, don't want to rush this. But who thinks of the lottery in the morning, the lottery's definitely a mid-day thing, an early afternoon thing, like, should I have another cup of coffee? Maybe I'll win the lottery... The whole process starts over. That afternoon I remember: when I get home I have to find that ticket. I forget of course and another whole day passes. I fill M in and she says, okay, let's find that ticket. So we unmake the bed and remake the bed. We look through the magazines, through laundry in the basket near the bed. I look between the mattress and box spring. Pillow cases. In books. In the pockets of my robe, pajamas, anything I might have worn in the last week. I look at the cat laying over in the corner. I start to become silently angry at M. She throws everything away, my keys, my wallet and passport, just picks shit up and with no discrimination throws it in the garbage, she threw our future in to the garbage, our amazing future of multiple homes and traveling nannies and daily massage. The horoscope guy writes something about the lottery and about goblets overflowing with champagne. Goddamn that horoscope guy. I'll have another look tomorrow. I'm going to look in the girls' rooms. I don't want anything thrown out and everything that leaves the house must be searched. I bought another ticket tonight. It's possible to win twice. Probably more than twice. I'll check the numbers tomorrow.

Big Story

2010-09-29T13:15:00.002-07:00

I'm off today, burning time. I've managed the compost and am now soaking cushion covers in Oxyclean. I've watched SportsCenter 3 times. I like the subtle change in the commentary of Hannah and Van Pelt as each story repeats in the cycle. Big story today? Probably Dez Bryant spending 55 grand on dinner for the team at some steak house. The team's not THAT big, right? Were these thousand dollar steaks?
Did I mention I'm taking the day off? Using up sick time before it disappears. I read some of the paper. Listened to The Pastels and The Velvet Underground. Had a pork chop with my eggs. I need to go put the slip covers through a cycle. I might go to the library.
Either I go back to school or sell a screenplay. Of course I'd have to write one first. I've presented myself with this very choice before and chose neither. What is this, 1993? I have a pretty good job. I guess I'm thinking of retirement. Jesus, this is just one day off.
Does anyone know of a good screenwriting class?

old shopping list ( I wish I could remember this recipe)

2010-06-18T00:50:00.001-07:00

10 oz shitake, 10 oz crimini.
Shallots
Garlic
Sage
Parmesan
Honey
Strawberries
Salad
Carrot
Broc
Green beans
Fruit
Olive oil
Pasta
Pancetta

some sent box, 6/14/09-6/25/09

2010-06-15T18:04:00.006-07:00

Dude, you must. It wouldn't be out of place at Squalor Ranch, so WTF?!
When are you going to get on facebook so I can peep like a Tom on you?
Does J still have that glorious moos-tosh? You, the mustache-less beardo? Are you going hither and thither this summer? I heard via FB that the nephews will be in the Adirondacks. I'll never forgive X for ruining that trip for me. Purple scooter, indeed!

I left a copy of them on E's desk.

Great to have you, T.

Re: your talk with everyone via skype, is there any indication of what our future holds?

OMG! I was telling M that story the other day because we were in Marin and I recalled going with you to first meet Y there. I still CANNOT BELIEVE O did that, and she didn't just do it to me, she did it to all young, sexy, horny people everywhere. That was my last flush, man!
I'm married and committed to something bigger now, something as permanent as death will allow. Yet that Vermont summer day and it's lost chance is placed in my memory like an unknown woman's laughter through a high open window; a small, passing sign of glee, not to be yours but sweet nonetheless. It's minor but not insignificant. There is something all too timeless in the whole story. From Y's sudden arrival and spontaneous plunge into the pond, to O's middle aged snickering regarding my angry pouting later while cooking dinner. She took pleasure in quashing our pleasure. Woman is a sweet and terrible mystery, my friend!

D and I talked this morning and we came up with something like this:
Monday: D drops off (leaves C with me to go to LH); S picks up
Tuesday: D drops off ("); I pick up
Wednesday: I drop off (leave M with D to take to LH); T or S (?) pick up
Thursday: S drops off; "family campfire"
Friday: M drops off (leaves M with D to go to LH); M picks up.
If this doesn't work for anyone let's figure it out here...

watching US Open, or has he gotten to go play? Did you see the FS review in the NY Times last month?

http://www.sfgate.com/cgi-bin/article.cgi?f=/c/a/2009/06/24/BAUH18CIJG.DTL

Hope you're recovering well! Can I ask the painters to paint the nurse's office? They're still here, by the way. Also, when were the floor guys coming? They've still not shown.

Thanks B, had to ask.

tanks!~

I guess it's not at the zoo.

I'm interested in your feedback on this. When it became clear that any ... change would initiate on July 1, I told you that my family had a vacation planned for the middle of July and wondered if that would now be problematic. You said then that you didn't think so. Since then, our plans have changed and we aren't leaving town. However, I didn't secure daycare for the kids during those two weeks. I could make the effort to do so if you felt at this point that my absence ...would be a problem so early into our change of format, etc.. I feel like the true transition ...is one of "mindset" and maybe a little cultural/habitual stuff and therefore is something that will happen mostly organically and over time. However,.. getting used to new day structure,..There's also the question of ...visits and ...meetings (should we go long term), new placement...etc. I know that J is feeling anxious and will probably be pretty stressed those two weeks. It would probably be necessary for you or T to check in with her a few times a week.
I'd accept and understand if you thought I should postpone my time off and look for options to make myself available. But I'm also asking your advice ... just considering ... health ... Am I overestimating the effect of my absence..?

That might be the perfect image of my failure!(below) Hewitt only? Not that Hewitt's not plenty, Hewitt's a damn fine "only".... hugs and kisses to everyone, everyone, you must!

Don't mind at all...

M just called my cell phone and I apologize if I was quick with her but I'm at work and was surprised to hear such a little voice! we have plans immediately following...

We have a land line but no phone, though we pay a bill... and I don't know the number!

Just to let you know, concerning the continuing ...experiment, J was again adamant today that placement... only be granted at the hospital.

Abridged Sent Box May 1-5 2009

2010-06-15T09:01:00.003-07:00

August 15th Dylan plays at a minor league ballpark in Stockton. Pre-sale tickets go on sale at bobdylan.com on May 25th at 10am. It's gen. admission but I want to make sure we get tickets. Kids are free and we'll be taking ours. He's doing this ballpark tour with Willie and John Cougar. I'd be willing to be forced to watch cougar for 48 hours with those scarey fork things stretching my eyes open just to see Dylan and Willie rock a minor league ballpark. They plump when you cook em. It would be great to go in a seething unwieldy crowd, so come on along!

http://www.sfgate.com/cgi-bin/article.cgi?f=/c/a/2009/05/03/RE1F17AJ8C.DTL

check it out

That's hard to hear. I hope the boy is o.k.. absolutely would make a DB-Q on the boat, that would be sweet. I'll get on that boat anytime! What are the chances of surfing Thursday?

I know in the past you've been the "mat lady" for the show. Very late getting to you this year, I know, but we figured we'd farm out the matting to several people, maybe have one big mat-a-thon the night before.

Well Stockton is MUCH closer. And Fresno is smoggy as fuck.

My question to you though is, do you have some kind of connect at Cheap Pete's as far as getting mat board? Can you help us here, or just give your veteran advice?

Dudes! I want to get this machine!

So are you saying it's a done deal? They're divorcing?

Hang in there, man. Call anytime.

Did something happen on your camping trip? M read some weird messages on Facebook...

Abso-fuckin-lute!

Was he served papers?

That's horrible. Sounds like it came out o.k., I mean, as long as the burns aren't in sensitive places. Poor little guy.
I guess that kinda ruined the weekend. Were you guys able to divert all the other kids? That must have been a scene with all those people...

Did she call you?

Oh shit! Labels! There might be a parent with that capability... Did you get names of folks who need hours? We could float it out to both those groups. Otherwise we'll have to hand write them during the set up. Do we have more of that vinyl we stapled up for the auction?

Good to hear. When's GR back?

Do you think Pete donates them?

You can always drop in. Always.

I asked her. She said she thinks so. I'll have to go in. There was art in the box for 9 kids. I'm hoping you picked some up. I'm about to send out an e-mail...
Also, I've got one person signed up for set up and one for clean up. Do I need to corral some more people?

Been too long.

Art Show this Saturday 2pm - 4pm.
Put a favorite work of art by your prodigy of a progeny in the box by Friday.
Stop by the show, have a glass of bubbly (mineral water) and some cheese (cheddar); peruse the work of these geniuses we're raising.

It means the Giants have a real chance of being in 1st place in the NL west by the all star break!

99

2009-07-17T23:04:00.003-07:00

The motel we used was beside the freeway and the window of the room was level with the overpass so that cars travelling 60 plus miles an hour and their drivers and passengers were less than 20 feet from us while we were naked on starched sheets rolling and tumbling in sweat, stopping to smoke cigarettes. My dog lie with his chin on his crossed paws blinking at us ashamed for us, disappointed in me. He was always disappointed in me and when I saw him again years after giving him to a farmer in Salinas he pretended not to know me and I understood that he was better off. This was when I lived near the state hospital and used food stamps to buy beer at a gas station that let me.

A little film I wrote and directed...

2009-04-06T13:30:00.003-07:00

in case you can't read the poster, "If they think they can stop him they're dead wrong."

Peter on Dylan's Malibu Shit Hole

2009-03-21T08:45:00.000-08:00

I'd agree with Idiot Wind being top 10. Except for Mozambique, that whole album is top 10. And yes, David Emminger is a fucking douche vomit. He should be begging Dylan to let him chew the cling-ons from Dylans majestically wrinkled ass's hairs. And to be allowed to give him a tight lip on the bungholio. I hope those guards violate Emminger in the outhouse.

I would love to know about this portable toilet though. Is it the plastic type? Can't he get a incinerator, or composter, or even have the guards dig a shit trench. That's what guards are supposed to do anyway. It takes two guards 4 hours to dig a 3 foot deep, 35 foot long trench with a mattock. You put the shitter on a sled and move it a couple of feet every few days. Shovel some dirt through the keyhole cut in the floor. No stench. In guard school, there is no toilet. The first thing they have to learn is how to dig a shit trench. And they don't start that lesson until some poor fuck asks where the toilet is. The instructor, always a former drill sergeant, is just waiting for that question, and the opportunity to scream, "DO YOU THINK THEY HAD TOILETS IN THE TRENCHES OF NORMANDY!?" And goes on to tell how they dug shit trenches within their own trenches in which they were taking cover from intense and constant enemy bombardment. They were so good at digging trenches deep enough to hide in, the secondary shit trench was almost incidental. Sometimes when an enemy mortar did land in their trench, it would blow shit everywhere - covering the sergeant and his men. Recounting this would send the instructor into a frenzy and the student guard would no longer need to shit. But it would be to late.

Fetish

2009-02-22T11:29:00.007-08:00

Check out this blog. Someone's making a stand. Hipsters beware.
Welcome back sexy.

www.originalbeardo.blogspot.com

What are these kids so fucking Scared of?

2009-02-02T21:35:00.003-08:00

My six year old is always scared these days. "I'm scared, " she says, out of bed at 9:30 pm, the litany of bath, stories, bed, dishes, lunches almost a memory. A movie within reach, or a book, and sleep along with. "What are you scared of?" "I'm scared." Real cool and non-committal, because she knows if she says "monsters" I'll explain them away or give her monster spray or something. Just "scared," like, you know, why the fuck aren't you scared, dad?

M criticizes the blog from her sick bed. "Why did you change that entry about moving to Texas?"
The ex read the blog. I'd forgotten, I guess, that she read the blog and I wrote something, "harsh" as she put it. The funny thing is, I'd just "reconnected" with her through facebook. I'd never have heard anything otherwise. Fucking facebook. It was nothing, and it is nothing and I told her that but then I went back and read it with as much objectivity as I could summon. Somehow on this read I found the line about her to be "harsh." You can't listen to your critics, right? Well, I did. Whatever, it was a throwaway anyway.

Bread lines have started. It's going to get worse before it gets better. Of course it is. I know that if this city doesn't get an infusion of cash there will be a lot fewer housed and a lot less fed, period.

I watched the Grammy's tonight. And that was just pointless. I did enjoy Kanye and Estelle, and M.I.A. with the "Rap pack." The sound on my TV was going during Radiohead, and M was pretty anti Radiohead/Grammy at that moment, so we turned it off. Awards are just fucking nuts, you know? I like top ten lists myself. Like, Top Ten Migrant Workers of All Time, Top Ten Holocausts... you get it.

I have to give a shout out to my kids though and maybe an award because they are just totally cool, even though I started this blog kind of dissing them and the whole bedtime thing, I mean, it is kind of nuts... But anyway, they're hilarious and sweet and have weird and cool styles all their own, and they're good singers both of them, I've got to get them singing harmony cuz they can carry a tune, and they have good taste, like they like Dylan and Tom Waits and they really like my friend Kathy's new disc, they like Stephen Malkmus, they love old country music and 50's pop. Anyway, I'm pretty lucky to get to hang with them all the time. Even if I have to make their lunches when I'm ready to be in bed.

movie pitch

2009-01-23T23:56:00.008-08:00

A semi-hip couple in their 30's, one child,
a Daughter
big dog, in Portland. He's out of work not looking:
Pretending to. She's tired and doesn't Trust him
anymore. She's Angry. She's at the end of her rope.

He's gambling, poker, Losing, of course. She's in
a car accident, she's Saved by a stranger. He
leaves the child with a crack addict to get in a game.
She sleeps with the stranger which is in itself an accident.

The crazy brother, speed freak in a Manic Phase
comes to town.
They've all been through this before but it's as if they've
no memory as they turn the corner of streets just travelled.
Only the girl Sees all the desperate patterns, see?

The beauty they possess in it's fleeting rawness
is Exposed. Their love, needy and halting juts out
like broken bones through a terrible wound.
They all 4 end up in a car or on a raft

On a pale lake, on a gray highway, sun drenched
or magic hour, it doesn't really matter anymore.
They're all of them alone in their own tragic way
but they're laughing, they laugh like this to the end.

wall to wall, old friend asks, what's your story this past 20 years?

2009-01-14T23:47:00.003-08:00

Jesus Jonesy, I dunno. I moved to OB about when we lost contact, 88 I guess. Went to a lot of shows, surfed, drank too much, took a lot of things I shouldn't have. Or let's say, things I'll not take again anytime soon. I got into school, into a couple professors really, and thought I might go that way. But I started driving a cab right after I graduated, then I got a job at Bear Valley ski resort. After that winter, 92 I guess, I bounced around, landed in Oakland/Berkeley. Different apartments there for a couple of years. Worked in a coffee shop, construction, book store. I moved to Austin, TX. in 94. I was "writing a novel" and really just spinning my wheels. I was working for a disabled guy and living in this amazing house, digging Austin, travelling a lot. I was writing songs and would send tapes to a friend in Oakland, he'd do the same. He moved to Austin in 97 and we started a band. Disappearer. We made two CD's/ Recorded one with Frenchy from Sixteen Deluxe at the Bubble in Austin, the other we recorded in our living room. I was substitute teaching, grading essays for a testing company. The band decided to move to Portland in 2000. I went, though I knew it was a bad idea because a) I voted that we move to Brooklyn instead b) I was sleeping with the drummers girlfriend. It all comes out within months of arriving in Portland. Band breaks up. I start and lose a business on another persons money. I drive an ice cream truck, marry the drummers girlfriend, move back to San Francisco after 9/11. We both get social work jobs, she gets pregnant, we bounce around rental flats in the city, squeeze out another little darling in '03, get better social work jobs, get better at parenting, feel better about ourselves and the world, hit the seven year itch, go into counseling, things get better again and now we're just hoping our programs stay open and housing prices drop just a little more so that we can actually buy in SF! You?

back door

2009-01-12T00:04:00.010-08:00

I can see the falling
the sidewalk and sunshine
rehearse the old names
of the bars I would know
The Catalina
Mr. G's
The Hitching Post
Gentleman Jim's

My memory is a magazine trampled into floorboards
of rusted Dodge Darts
my medium is the plywood
of your staged photography

Where'd you go
behind my back the fresh air
the sidewalk here the sunshine
plays the jukebox

Whether I picked myself up ever and walked out of there
Or
someone I knew knew me and made sure I was safe
I can't recall
don't intend to
for now

I've still got a matchbook from the Arizona Club
must have left a few things there, too, in my day
the sun out the back door
or the black night could fall

and

while you played the jukebox I fell
the night fell
while you played
the jukebox

this was 94

2008-12-21T22:53:00.007-08:00

I took the job because of the move away from California to nowheresville where nobody knew me and because all expenses were paid and it was all taken care of and put to together by someone else so that I wouldn't have to do anything but read books and write. That's how I looked at it. I spent the year before trying for the same thing on unemployment, living and writing in a closet, haunting the Berkeley public library. I got real familiar with the OED. I'd bring my list of words from the day before and sometimes I'd spend hours just with the OED. But I wasn't getting too far with the writing, or the writing wasn't going too far, far enough, I wasn't getting enough, I wasn't getting anything. I had the novel outlined, at least as far as the set up and the main characters and their histories - lots of history, shared of course, it being essentially a family novel, a novel about a family, a ghost family, american family - and chapters on the WPA, voodoo, southern food, early rockabilly/honky tonk, moonshine, drive-ins, black mammies, road trips, hillbillies, tour busses, sex cults, film school, LA punk rock, skid row, adoption, paranoia, death ritual. I mean that's what happened to the novel. I had to read about all that shit, you know? I didn't have time to write. It took too many years to find out I didn't want to.

Alot of kids in those days were just waiting around for an opportunity - nothing too strenuous, mind you! - to change their life, like taking some odd job in Lyon, France or with some networking start up, or travelling with strangers; people would just pick up and move to New Orleans or Athens or Lawrence, Kansas, start rock bands out of plain boredom, have adventures in immorality, go to art school.

Before I left I took ecstacy with a fuck buddy. For some reason I asked her to go with me. I suddenly had the exact set up I'd been dreaming of and in one inebriated minute I messed it up. I came to my senses, tried to call it off, but she wouldn't come to hers. She volunteered to escort my employers cats on the airplane. My solitude destroyed. It wouldn't matter, as I said, I could complicate things my own way, and I really didn't want to write that novel. We started fighting the minute we got there. She turned me to poetry. Anyway, it didn't last long. She was out within months. Started waiting tables at a place that did a big happy hour. She married her regular cab driver.
I never did finish the novel and the drive crashed on which it was stored. I could probably rewrite in 2 or 3 weeks what I had done word for word if I'd a mind to. I did fill up a couple of journals with poems that year, and started a band just because I was bored.

Face it

2008-12-17T00:11:00.004-08:00

I'm new to Facebook. I think I feel o.k. about it. Right away I thought, boy, I could waist a lot of time here. I started searching old names. Old, old names. And then I started looking at people's "walls". There's a reason we have walls, and this isn't it. But I checked out an album of some really interesting professional photos of a woman I knew long ago and I re-connected with a couple of great people, if only for a brief exchange of words, that I realize now I've always loved. I IM'd with a guy I've worked with for 7 years and knew I really liked but had never really got to know. We went on for an hour about women and aging and the place the record Straight Outta Compton fit in our respective lives. I know now that my old boss who was laid off has been enjoying a lot of matinees. I considered messaging a former very, very close friend with whom I've not had contact for 8 years and looking in to picking up the pieces. I didn't do it. But I thought about it. I was a click away from it. And all of this in one short evening. I'm sure I'll waste too much time there, I waste time everywhere. But the format is perfect for our collective attention deficit and the subject is our favorite: ourselves!

The night before giving thanks

2008-11-26T22:30:00.004-08:00

I'm making carmelized spiced carrots in the morning. They're very good and this is my contribution to Thanksgiving dinner at my aunt's. M has baked a chocolate pecan pie and tomorrow will stuff some mushrooms with Italian sausage. I just made a subscription to Film Comment. I've fallen asleep four times between 5:30 pm and now, 10:30 pm, every time I was sitting in a comfortable chair, 3 of those times I was reading. I have a very vague inclination to masturbate, as if it were something to cross off my list, but no real desire. I started catching a cold yesterday. I think I'm beating it, but I don't feel good enough to swim tomorrow and I really need to.

My Thanksgiving resolutions: smoke (more) weed, swim 3x wk., sell the Honda, seduce my wife, buy a new record player, study quantum physics, take the kids to the cinema to see films that aren't animated, become a professional poker player.

This October's Top Ten... or, The Last Blog for Another Year

2008-10-28T22:33:00.003-08:00

1. Pulcinella, my daughter

2. The fact that every parent at Mo's school thinks that they have a secret relationship with her wherein she thinks they're super cool and thus greets them ecstatically every time she sees them when in fact that's just some weird genetic glitch and she acts that way with everyone in spite of the fact that her parents are social retards

3. Swimming

4. The big mural of the Army swimmer at the Presidio pool

5. The underground catacomb that is the pool at the Central Y

6. The smell of cholorine

7. Pierre forgetting his troubles with a Scottish girl in Bolinas

8. Bonnie Billy live in Golden Gate Park

9. Joe Maddon, Carlos Pena, and the zen of being the Rays

10. Seven years of marriage and still holding on to my sweet, beautiful wife

She'd Like It If You'd Leave

2008-10-28T21:34:00.014-08:00

A therapist once broke up with me. I wasn't dating the therapist I was dating her patient. The therapist broke up with me for the patient, her patient. Her patient was crying and not able to speak. At the time her patient was my girlfriend. Or we lived together. We never really defined it. We drank a lot. And we did ecstacy a couple of times a week and on the special occasions we'd add a pile of blow to the mix, but as far as naming the relationship, we hadn't gotten around to that. After all, this was my ex-girlfriends ex-best friend and lover - I mean what do you call that? If you don't have a bowl for the ice cream you can't call it a sundae. I moved in to her condo on Sports Arena when I was kicked out for sleeping with her and thus cheating on my girlfriend, her lover. Boundaries were not important to us, we were terrorists of the heart. Never mind that my "girlfriend" had slept with my friends, or that they both had slept with my friends together. It was time for me to move out anyway. Both times. And so this therapist did me a favor, kicking me out the second time, from the second girl's house. I walked out of her office in Fashion Valley - my favorite of all the valleys, with it's excellent malls and chain restaurants and Jack Murphy Stadium - and stood in a parking lot full of sun and possibility and I couldn't find my car. That was because she had driven. There are very few busses in San Diego and you need to have a two week reservation and Discover Miles or an extra 38 hours to get the 5 miles to the beach. I ended up at lunch in La Jolla with an ex-professor of mine and an ex-Christian and I told the story for the first time. We all laughed spitting bits of curried turkey salad on each other. I loaded up the truck and I moved to Berk-a-lee, hills that is, living rooms, couch surfing.

Learning Love

2008-10-11T09:11:00.008-07:00

Click the title above to read an article about my kids school of which I'm very proud. To think I almost sent my kid to Catholic school. Luckily we got into Creative Arts Charter from the waitlist one week before school started. This is contemporary, meaningful, civic minded education. It's just a bonus that it pisses off the angry hypocrites.

grass

2008-10-06T22:44:00.004-07:00

We've got a real nice festival here in SF the first weekend of every October. There were over 72 musical acts this year in Speedway and the meadows around. Some of the worlds best. And it's free. There's a very wealthy sweetheart of a genius who understands nothing can free people and heal people and grow people like music and he loves San Francisco so much that he brings all these amazing musicians together in this beautiful setting and it's magic. I know how that sounds. I can get cynical, too, often am. But this festival is really something else, I tell you. I've been to 7 of the 8. I missed the first one. I've been there in a parka in cold windy rain and baked on the ground in indian summer (this year was perfect weather, perfect, and we had some nice, cool spots in the shade of the trees above Marx Meadow).
You can't just drop in to really experience it. You've got to haul a blanket and a bottle (whatever, water, whiskey) and really kick back. Make a site for yourself, stretch out, spend the day. You find a stage and you stay there. Don't run with everybody to the next big act. Find a lineup you think is promising and chill out. You could stroll about, you'll have to pee. And then you might see a couple of twentysomethings banging on their instruments by the porta potties. When Mo had to go we saw a real good looking long haired kid with a Gretsch and a tiny gorilla amp doing some extra raw blues with his buddy on a snare drum. Mo was digging that shit in her red cowgirl boots! When you stroll you might want to have a cigarette. Nobody smokes at their blanket. You've gotta get some space to smoke. This is Golden Gate Park for christ's sake. I tried to bum a smoke from a girl but she'd left her pack back at her blanket. Anyway, I'm glad I quit smoking because it's too damned hard in this new world.
It's good to walk around with a really cute 3 year old because you'll get a lot of smiles from the young, sexy, hip ladies. This year I drank coffee instead of beer. I just wanted to know what it was like. It was good but I didn't get a nap. The Frenchman is visiting and he gave the show a heavy stamp of approval. He really liked Bonny Prince Billy. I knew that he would. I did smoke weed. I don't often smoke weed anymore, but if you're going to smoke it you might as well be at a large outdoor music festival.
I'm not a big outdoor music festival guy. But this one is right next to my house, it's the best music out there, and it's free. Avoid the beef at the taco tent.

(Images stolen with much admiration from Prawnpie)

Deer Me

2008-09-27T22:32:00.006-07:00

We were driving home a couple of Sundays ago on Hwy 4 just outside Angel's Camp. It was a beautiful fall Sunday on the warm side, middling traffic, the summer truly over now, had been really over so for weeks, between the seasons and the economy imploding. M was asleep in the passenger seat, Mo also, behind me, The Bean was watching a DVD headphones on. The49ers had just scored their second unanswered touchdown early in the 2nd quarter. I had my forearms on the wheel and was drumming with my hands and fingers prompted by the stadium music that had come and gone on the radio, the Chili Peppers I think, and there was sun and umber shadow and scarlet smoke in the fields, light dancing through the trees and the hills, sycamore and dogwood. And up from the other side of the Hwy bounds this magnificent deer, a doe, but really big and powerful, and she leaped at full speed onto the road from out of nowhere like she fell from the sky and we locked eyes for a second, yellow eyes and golden oak, I saw her then try to change her whole trajectory because she was already going forward, there was no stopping - and DAMN if I couldn't get by her and she slammed right into us, right into the door seperating Mo from the hurling universe, the glass shattering out of the van, both windows just fell out, and she flipped up and over, or around, and I swerved a bit but managed to straighten out and we pulled over and the girls had no idea what happened but there were glass bits on Mo and a little blood and there was a chunk of fur stuck in the window frame. A lady and her teen daughter pulled up to tell me the doe had walked up into the field to lay down by a tree. She described it real sweetly but didn't ask how any of us were. I walked down the road and saw the windows side by side shattered but whole on the highway but I couldn't see the doe. S and D were a few minutes behind us and they took M and the girls with them. I drove home listening to football real loud to compete with the blast of the freeway and wind through my open windows.

The next morning as soon as we got in the car (the van's in the shop for a few weeks, but of course Mo was in her same booster) Mo says, I'm a deer. Just out of nowhere. We weren't talking about the incident, the van, any of it. I'm a deer, she said. I felt a chill. I said, do you mean like you're pretending to be a deer? No, she said. And none of us mentioned it again.

We Can Joke About Moving to Canada

2008-09-16T23:36:00.002-07:00

but what was for you once but an idle threat may very soon become your primary coping mechanism. I was just telling my buddy that it might be in our best interests now to sell ourselves as slaves to a small and benign island nation, one far from any continent, where they've never heard of hockey, and to do this now while we're still exotics in such a market, before the refugee boats start really piling up. Once there we would of course ingratiate ourselves, really make them love us, employing a combination of cocktail wizardry and good ol' American can do. Hell, working bar at the King's poolside would be a really sweet set-up, and in a few years they'd probably let us send for our families... wait more than a few years though and our daughter's might be pregnant approaching their teens as they'll be and then it would be too late with everything then decided and set out before them.

On the other hand, if people really are so dumb maybe it's time to start fucking them over ourselves. Let's drag these retarded apes through their own feces by the thumbs and then we'll charge them for it, call it a tax cut, a venture fund bail out, we'll piss on their faces and tell them how much they need us.

drill baby

2008-09-06T10:01:00.010-07:00

It's the beginning of football season and my worst instincts are coming to bear. Gambling, obsessiveness, distraction. The urge to write and be read. My poor wife doesn't want me to write about her. She doesn't understand that it's not her I'm writing about, but rather a caricature of her that shares her first initial and a lot of her same attitudes and sometimes actually says things that she actually said. I'm an artist, I can't be expected to get it right all of the time.
Just so all of my many readers know, M only resembles the flattering bits and I make up all that indifferent, shop 'til you drop, ball busting stuff to satisfy an adolescent fantasy of mine to have my balls busted by an indifferent shopper.
I'm just trying to entertain you. I'm not really a misogynist retard, I hate sex, and I have a small penis.
Now some of the above is absolutely not true and that's o.k. because this is art.
But back to football. I lost miserably today in my fantasy league. The worst score of all 12 teams. I don't think I've ever scored as low in the 5 or 6 years I've played. And I didn't watch a full quarter of any one game. I had to go to a kid's birthday party. There was a clown and the birthday girl was terrified of her. But my kids loved it and little m. volunteered to be the assistant in the magic act. She did disappear briefly but I was confident in this clown's skills and sure enough, moments later little m. reappeared, although she was horribly disfigured. I think there's a lawsuit in this.
Finally, in 2006 Sarah Palin told a reporter that if her then 16 year old were raped she would hope that her daughter would "choose life" and give birth to her rapists' baby. I thought choosey mothers chose Jif, not rape babies. Sarah forced her baby's babydaddy to suffer the Republican National Convention, and she wants to force your teenage daughter to give you a grandchild born of rape, and she wants her to raise the child that is the seed of her rapist, and she wants the rest of us to DRILL, BABY, DRILL!

Let me tell you about last night's dream:

2008-09-05T21:31:00.018-07:00

I was at some kind of party and there was a political discussion going on and suddenly I had to piss. I went outside, mostly naked, wearing only boots, goggles and a WWI aviator helmet, you know those old leather ones?
Or maybe it was one of those old fashioned leather football helmets...
This chick comes up to me and she looks like she's just walked out of a film from the silent era - her clothes, her hair... she's really hot, blonde, voluptuous, and she's laughing. I ask, "What are you laughing at?" She says, "It's just that this is the second time I've seen your cock this week. The first time was when you were fucking your wife at your little picnic." So I say, "Well, what do you think?" And she says, "I like it, I like the looks of it at least." So we start fucking right there, the afternoon sun high and intense and a platoon of soldiers is marching toward us on this dirt road lined with olive trees. I'm standing up fucking her from behind so I start scoot/fucking her toward the side of the road to get out of the way of the soldiers. Suddenly this voice-over begins, "He considered himself an expert at sex. He'd read some of the Kama Sutra but felt he'd known the ideas intrinsically before ever opening the book, as if he were born with the information." And then M woke me up. "Hey!... get up. We have to go get the girls!" The kids were at my parents all weekend. I had a pretty good hard-on and I showed her. I said, "It was my first sex dream in months!" She didn't care.

October Top Ten

2007-10-22T23:32:00.001-07:00

As always, these are in no particular order...

1) M in Big Sur
2) Kickball in Speedway Meadow
3) The 5th song on Devendra Banhart's new record
4) Dinner at Deetjen's
5) The taqueria in Seaside
6) The taqueria on the north side of Half Moon Bay
7) Mo's unwavering insistence to wear skirts only, even to bed
8) Ziggy's pregnant and moving to The Netherlands
9) Mikey's still alive
10) Dirty Sexy Money (see below)

Dirty Sexy Money

2007-10-22T22:57:00.000-07:00

I haven't seen the show but this is the best title television has ever come up with. Actually, this is the best title of all titles of all time, bar none; forget 100 years of solitude/mid-summer night's dream/death on the installment plan/the discreet charm of the bourgeoisie/naked lunch/gravity's rainbow. We like our money, and we like it dirty and sexy, period. It says it all and it says it right out, straight up. I'd like to offer the television capital of the world a few more truth-based titles:

Single Mother, Two Jobs, No Insurance

Bombs, Blood, Kaboom, Kebab: Growing Up Iraqi

Thirsty-Something in Atlanta

My Father was Bludgeoned, My Mother was Raped, and All I Got was this Machine Gun!

Survivor: Katrina

Extreme Make-over: Homeless Edition

I Make More in an Hour than You Make in a Whole Year and I'm a Fucking Idiot!

...re-considering, Death on the Installment Plan might still be the best title.

READ CELINE! (titles aside, Journey to the End of the Night is where you should start...)

Utica, once

2007-09-19T23:50:00.000-07:00

Burro wanted to see this...

I feel like blogging

2007-09-19T23:35:00.000-07:00

and I never feel like blogging; you can guess by the sparse entries. But I've got this French kid in my laundry room. I can't write with a French kid in my laundry room. SO, I'll resort to a top ten.

1) The return of the NFL and Andre Johnson in particular (Get well, my man)
2) Sister Rosetta Tharpe
3) prescription Ray Bans
4) Goyo in Costa Rica
5) Rye whiskey
6) Steele's smoker
7) M's brown boots
8) Big Sur in one week
9) The Bean's return to dance
10) Mo's obstinate refusal of a haircut

Easy Street

2007-09-05T23:00:00.000-07:00

I got home at 9:30 and the girls were still awake. M was knitting in the doorway looking like she was trying to keep from rocketing up through the roof. I put my bag in the laundry room and went into the bathroom. In minutes, M. said, “Papa, I can’t do this anymore. (pause) Papa, you’re going to have to take over.” “O.k.! I’m in the bathroom, just a minute…”
The kids were laughing and jumping in and out of bed. I said to them, “You guys need to be in bed. I know your mama has told you and now you’re disrespecting by laughing and playing when you know you’re supposed to be quiet in bed.” They don’t give a shit, of course. And this went on for 20 or 30 minutes, me reading in the doorway after awhile until they were finally out.
There’s an old life of mine that is out there being lived by others younger and stupider than myself though they might live it better, or not, but they could easily be smarter than I was then, or hungrier, or more “in touch” with it all, whatever it is, freedom maybe, or insanity. I don’t really give a shit.
I race home listening to the BBC and try to talk to my exhausted wife, go online, look at football, poker, the bank account, homes I’ll never buy, music blogs, youtube, porn. I masturbate and I go to sleep.
It sounds fucking horrible, I know, but really it’s only an evening in a life that is by and large comfortable and reasonably spontaneous. There is worse.
And I feel like whatever it is I thought I might attain when I was young and stupid and full of piss and life is as close as it ever was. It’s just that I realize now that it won’t come to me and it’s nowhere to be seen even if it’s right in front of me and it could hover there until I drop yet still elude me if that’s how it’s supposed to be.
So I got that going for me.

I'm getting over my cold with a Maker's on a rock.
I don't really feel like listening to music right now, but if I did it'd probably be Thelonious Monk.
Then again, a little Monk goes a long way...
Dizzy, he was screaming, next to O.P. who was beaming, Monk was thumping, suddenly, in walked Bud and they really got into something....

After sinning all morning

2007-08-08T22:38:00.000-07:00

A young woman at my work is currently cheating on her boyfriend. She is sleeping with her ex who happens to have formerly been a woman but is now a man and I don't know if that will matter to the present boyfriend at all.
I've cheated. It's a great high and makes for a deep well of passion in which to drown. I've also been cheated on and that is certainly no high and turns one murderous and fearful. Fortunately, neither is a fact of my life right now; I believe.
The young woman has confided this sensitive information in the entire staff, telling her intimate story around the office, in one to one supervision with myself, as I'm her supervisor, and even in staff meetings. Her thrill is palpable and we all await the next installment no matter how inappropriate and I secretly take pleasure in not being involved in any way. She claims to feel such guilt that she's often nauseous. She loves her boyfriend dearly and he is "incredibly good to (her)," yet she's making plans with her lover at the same time and can't wait for her boyfriend to leave town this weekend (to go "canyoneering") so to have the lover morning, noon, and night.
I say to her, "Ah, to be young again. Make love not war. Two birds in the bush..."
I walked to my car tonight thinking about how wonderful it is to have a woman who needs me and whom I need for reasons far beyond passion and great heights. And when passion is needed we find a way but her mere presence is enough to thrill me in ways I never expected to need. In the mornings we barely cross paths, but on weekends we read the paper and have coffee, pancakes or bacon. We have two obnoxious brats who are so beautiful that they take after her and so brilliant that they get their father's jokes.
Ah, to be young again... and so clearly stupid. I'll take the receding hairline and the gray beard and the impossible gut; the birds, the war, the brats, but mostly my wife. I'll take her in the mornings while the young are canyoneering.

Bergman Dies

2007-07-30T10:01:00.000-07:00

... and before he could direct one of the Harry Potters!

Honestly, I thought he was already dead.

Just Better

2007-07-17T23:42:00.000-07:00

It's 11:30 pm and I just got paged.
The 47 y.o. African American female
Went to the corner market
And never came back.
She got a $94.56 rebate from her GA check
And I guess it was just
Too much money for her
To hold on to.
I just finished We Jam Econo
And I'm thinking about The Minutemen
And especially about D. Boon
And how the history of music would be
Just a little bit different
If he hadn't been in that car wreck
Because fIREHOSE was never what
The Minutemen were and they were
Just getting out there and making more sense
To themselves and everyone else
Than ever before.
But that's how things go when it's
Just getting good for some people
Though it might never have been
Any better for D. Boon or Mike Watt
Than when they first started playing together
And they had no idea that anyone cared.
I finish my cigarette on the back stairs
And hear the raccoons on their rounds
Creeping through the ivy
And the woodpiles
And it's really quiet except for a couple of cars
On California and I wonder
If it will ever get any better
For our female out there with her rebate
And I tell the staff to call missing persons
And to leave voice mail for liscensing
And to write an incident report to be filed
In the morning.

The Bean's new friend

2007-07-05T10:54:00.000-07:00

I have a friend named Jamaica
And she's invisible but I can feel her
And she's a kitty
Where's that little kitty named Jamaica?
C'mon Jamaica,
You know you always follow the rules!
You can't see her
You can only smell her
Where's Jamaica?
C'mon Jamaica
Jamaica, you old flowery girl
I don't wanna do this one more time, Jamaica!
We're going on an airplane
You want to sit with the babies?
OK, Jamaica, my baby needs the milky
Jamaica never never likes monsters.

And Mo doesn't see her.

The Question of Fate

2007-06-23T00:04:00.000-07:00

How did you meet your wife?
I met her once and future boyfriend
standing in line for coffee.
I met her in the lobby
of a movie theater
coming up the stairs.
We met in the dark of a motel room.
We met over babies.

I've still got the legs of a teenager.
What would you do differently?
Steal from my parents;
have sex with the neighbors;
break every curfew.
And dance like a mother-fucker!

It'll be too late when God appears,
for everything you believe...
Which is?
You're trying to seduce me, Mrs. Robinson;
you can't save anyone;
boredom is a privilege.

It's easy to forget where you are in a city.
The sea reminds you, the mountains beckon.
To sleep, to wake, to moneymake.
What is really going on here, really?
If I told you, I'd have to kill you.
And a one and a two and a...

We'll build a little home just meant for two.
From which I'll never roam; who would? would you?

It's true

2007-05-21T23:30:00.000-07:00

I've been neglectful.
But see, here I am, 11:30 pm, just checked e-mail for first time today, caught a taunting comment regarding my abandoned blog, and I have to go to bed... The little one just started crying, this is no shit, this is how it is... because I have to be up at 6:30 to get them to school and me to work...
Yes, work, yes.
And I have no good stories and no new interests...
but plenty of excuses.

Greetings

2007-04-13T00:47:00.001-07:00

ooooh.... the NEW blogger haiku

2007-03-21T22:46:00.000-08:00

in the laundry room.
You remember, don't ya Doc?
It's the sweet 16.

Mike Fortner: back in the day

2007-01-29T00:11:00.000-08:00

The Outlaw

2006-12-30T23:52:00.000-08:00

lived in a duplex on a dirt gravel alley
next to an empty lot near the freeway,
the river, the edge of town,
the old hospital's dusty long lawns
of browning disrepair,
the gas station's creaking, rusted icebox
drooling fistfuls of bright beer,
hot dogs, tuna fish, refried, lone star.

a black stone floor
and bars on the windows full of smoke
cracked paint lumps prison sunlight
upright piano garden garage
of mic stand stems and snakes
of amplifier cords recording
the digital infidelity
the bedding blues
the bubble.

Beyond the yellowing carport where died
a mauvish Dodge Dart flat on it's wheels,
seats tore out, bench back up,
jacked on the ass end, trunk full
of newspapers from 1997
lived a family of Mexican farm workers
who once ordered on pay-per-view
the fight of the millenium:
Oscar de la Hoya vs. Felix Trinidad.
They brought out the set and propped it behind the Dart
and strung a cord with some light bulbs
above the tv along the gutter of the carport.
With much excitement the ladies looked on, the kids running
in and out of the men drinking
and watching as de la Hoya, the golden boy,
in a lifeless fight most certainly won
on that first hot night with the bugs
of spring and scent of corkscrew vine
but they gave it to Trinidad
in a technical decision.

How I do miss the lights
the lightning on the plains
some coiled repression and violence.
McQueen, Coburn, Brynner, Bronson,
magnificence even without a Saturday war,
the dying farmers, their snot nosed sons
and dollars.
a dios Chico, the old man was right.
We lost.
We always lose.

Thank You Mr. Altman

2006-11-22T00:34:00.000-08:00

Radical

2006-11-16T08:58:00.000-08:00

http://www.nytimes.com/2006/11/12/weekinreview/12kinzer.html?_r=1&oref=slogin

Better Than Even

2006-10-28T23:35:00.000-07:00

Every year I bet football with a couple of friends. We go 20 or so, maybe 40, 50, on each game. We make picks, the others choose from those; college and pro. It's a friendly thing. It mostly comes out even.
We pay up at the end of the season.
It's about the only gambling I'm doing. I played cards last week. Not doing that much. And when, it's at a friends. Haven't been to Oaks in some time. That's a different thing.
Losing is no fun. Losing to friends is no fun. But losing to strangers, or even near strangers, acquaintances whom would be otherwise unknown if not for the card table between you... it's lonely. Downright. It's like getting quietly mugged by old blind men wearing big, fluffy mittens.
Once, I could lose everything and it meant nothing.
Nothing more than finally eating the can of navy beans from the bottom shelf, way in the back of the cupboard. With the quarter package of egg noodles. And a little catsup with cayenne and honey.
There's no losing like that now.
That would be no fun.
And lonely.

All About a Blog

2006-10-25T23:17:00.000-07:00

That last post was my 100th. To celebrate I took my blog out for drinks. Blog got very fucked up and made out with a TG streetwalker in the bathroom of Route 101.

We left for quieter surrounds and Blog became pensive. Then he really opened up and we spoke about his "path" and his "journey" and his "shoes." It turns out, Blog is pretty lonely. He's not sure about the choices he's made and now he's 100 entries old. I reassured Blog, emphasizing his strong points, and I encouraged him to reach further and work harder if he feels he's not all that he could be.
We walked all night through the city streets. We stopped for Omelettes at The Grubstake. As the sun came up Blog was whistling a happy tune. He apologized for sleeping with my wife and for taking all the acid at that Skygreen Leopards show and then saying he'd lost it somewhere.

That's Blog, the blurry guy.

Happy 100th, Blog!

When I See the Night I Just Yawn

2006-10-23T04:33:00.000-07:00

The Bean had a Halloween party to attend last night. She was a fairie princess. She'd shortened it. First it was a fairie princess ballerina. Not sure why she left off the ballerina part, she was wearing tights and her dance slippers, but maybe it was in the interest of brevity.
I took her because M and l'il M were sick. I wasn't feeling so good either and I'd done duty at the last birthday party -- to which we arrived late, due only to the fact of multiple obligations, with store bought (though be it boutique grocery) potato salad as the pot luck offering while the German hostess had made real honest to god German potato salad and everyone had pretty much eaten already anyway, so that our salad sat untouched with lid on like a beacon of faux pas in the middle of the picnic table next to the giant sheet cake with a working Thomas the Train railroad on it -- but M was more sick or at least more volubly sick so I doubled up with the agreement that the next two birthday/any parties are her gigs.
At the Halloween party there was one other princess and one other fairie and two hula girls and a Superboy. Superboy was little brother to one of the hula girls so I suppose that he didn't really count but I appreciated his effort, albeit he was just past a year old and certainly didn't put the suit on by himself let alone choose it. I thought the hula girl thing was kind of weak just because they were the double hostesses and of course they were able to easily coordinate and so give what would otherwise be a pretty basic costume more power and elan. On the other hand the double hostess thing is somewhat unique to toddlers and thus a bold move in itself.
We were met at the door and I was immediately offered a beer which released a big inner sigh of relief as it's about 40/60 that one of these things will be beer and wine. Purely from entrance anxiety I blurted out immediately, "you got the game on?," which coming on the heels of hello and accompanying my scurry towards the beer sounded more like an order than a query. But it was the second game of the World Series and this was America so I had a decent right to figure it would be playing somewhere. But it wasn't, as the hosting parents were Australian and didn't even know a game was on (the other dad's must have been considerate enough not to ask/demand, particularly the one who it turns out grew up with the Cardinal third baseman Scott Spiezio and thus had a better reason to do so) though they quickly hustled to provide the viewing as of course there's a game, there's always a game, and they now felt foolish for not considering that. So when the hosting dad asked what game was on and I said the World Series and he asked innocently, "that's over, isn't it?" I had the opportunity to come off less boorish and make lighter of it all but instead laughed and thus sent him stammering to cover up his ignorance in the land of baseball and sundays and dads that isolate in other rooms with games on at childrens parties. Of course a couple beers in to it and that's all done and gone anyway.
The girls decorated cookies and had caramel apples and broke a pinata and seemed to be having a great time. I spilled one beer and managed to be caught peering down the host mom's blouse by host dad while she mopped up with towels. The hostess's mom was their, visiting from Perth, and I asked her how often she visited to which she replied the visits would be less and less as she's on a fixed income and the expense was enormous, etc. I asked if she had a computer and then suggested I.M. with a camera. She glared over at host dad and said, "we've tried that." Host dad stammered and said, "well, you have dial up, she has dial up..." "I've had broadband for 18 months now," she said and there was a long pause and then host dad said, "well does it work now have you tried it we should try it we'll try it when you get home... "
The host dad started to get testy, though not with me. His kids were eating too much candy, particularly Superboy. He picked up the kid who was double fisting tootsie rolls and marched him in to mom in the kitchen and said, "This is not a good environment for him," which I thought was a weird thing to say as it was their house and a kids party. Mom took it in stride and plopped Superboy in his high chair and said, "you come out here and watch the game with the boys." So now I felt much more comfortable about the whole game thing as it was providing a diversion for Superboy and dad was making an ass of himself and erasing all memory of my blundering blundersomeness.
Suddenly I was aware of the parent party that was happening as a sort of footnote to the kids party. Well, there was beer and wine and the formal activities were over so that the kids were now eating their candy quickly and quietly in another room. Moms were sneaking out the back kitchen door for cigarettes. The guys were sitting around talking about bicycles (this was San Francisco) and of course the game. I thought I'd have another beer. And maybe one of those cigarettes...
On my way through the kitchen I ran into host mom. Hostess. The Hostess. I had seen her breasts just moments before. She asked about the size of our apartment. I said they were comparable, our apartments. She told me about their rent control. I asked where she grew up. She told me about being a teenager in Perth and the parties on the beach and taking a lot of ecstacy with bonfires and dancing. "That sounds great," I said, "Does that sort of thing still go on?" "Well, " she replied, "I live here now." Pause. Host dad came in, her husband. "Are we gonna feed these kids anything other than candy? Have you thought of dinner? Do we even have anything in this house? Shouldn't the kids be in bed?"
I quickly gathered up The Bean and her wings and tiara and ballet slippers. Thank you, thank you, sorry about the beer, enjoy your visit with the grandchildren m'am. The Hostess walked us to the door. Her co-hostess, the other hula girls mom, followed behind, peeking over her shoulder. The Hostess took my hand. "Thanks for coming," she said, "we should get the girls together more often, a play date..."
On the way to the car I asked The Bean if she had a good time and I mentioned how late it was and asked if she were tired. She replied, "When I see the night I just yawn."

Potsie on crack

2006-10-19T13:41:00.000-07:00

Stuff I like... lately

2006-10-16T23:54:00.000-07:00

The Swan Silvertones (see below)
The Blues Power Hour
Swinging Doors on KEXP
KPIG radio
Week 6
The Chicago Manual of Style
Re-reading the first 5 pages of my favorite novels
Certain birds though certainly not pigeons
The Hold Steady
prayer and forgiveness
The Pony Express
Thinking about moving somewhere really random
Torry Holt
The Saints
The Dukes
The Bean's song and dance
li'l m's personality disorder
M's bad assness as Executive Director of Everything

The Swan Silvertones

2006-10-16T23:23:00.000-07:00

Formed by a West Virginia coal miner named Claude Jeter in 1938, originally as The Four Harmony Kings, the Kings moved to Knoxville, Tennessee to be on the radio; so as not to be confused with The Four Kings of Harmony, they changed their name to The Silvertone Singers. They were soon given their own radio show sponsored by The Swan Bakery Company and so changed their name to The Swan Silvertones. Basically a vocal gospel group, their lasting influence stems from their later years with Vee Jay records, when they began to add instrumentation, albeit in the raw and simple form of Linwood Hargrove's solo electric guitar and Walter Perkins with brushes and a snare drum. Listening to the Vee Jay recordings you will soon sing His praises... or you have no soul to sing from.

Another Spooky Old Lady In Our Lives

2006-10-15T00:13:00.000-07:00

Last year I blogged about the old Russian woman with the head wound. I don't know if I ever mentioned the visitor we had last Halloween.
I wasn't home. M was putting li'l m down and the bean says, Mom, who's that lady? M replies, what lady? Bean says, the lady right there, in our house. M has the hair raising, shit your sweater kind of moment and then, yes, there really is a real lady, a real old lady, but not a ghost lady, standing at the top of the stairs. Well, she's lost, confused, etc.. But it was Halloween. Creepy.
Today I'm working the pre-school yard sale. A fundraising activity. Fun fun. I was there for 3 hours and the whole time this old lady is sitting there in a rocking chair (merchandise) whilst knitting. And I'm catching her every now and then staring straight at me when I look over there. She occassionally calls out from her (our) rocker, 2o or 30 feet away, how much is that mixer? At one point she has me gather up some roller blades and a couple of helmets and put them in a box so that her daughter-in-law can "swing by" on Monday to see if they'll fit the grandson. "Write on the box: hold for Mrs. Christiansen," she says, "and write Unpaid." I told this to the cashier, thinking that she must know Mrs. Christiansen, who has now haunted our yard sale all day long. The cashier wondered who on Monday could take the money for the skates. Mrs. Christiansen ended up buying (completely by direction from the comfort of our rocker, whilst knitting) 3 big boxes of crap (but not the roller blades, which she still wanted held for sizing). Someone piled her stuff onto a stroller and wheeled it to her place which she said was a block away. Exit Mrs. Christiansen.
I was done for the day so I went over to the playground to meet M and the girls. Coming down the hill I saw Bean playing with some kids and li'l m doing something in the sand and M sitting on a bench talking to Mrs. Christiansen, who was knitting. I lost control of my jaw. I think my head spun 3 hundred sixty degrees around. It was awfully fast... I mean, was it even possible? But there she was. And I gathered them up, the ladies, and I think I just blocked it out immediately because I didn't think about it any longer and I didn't mention it to M.
At dinner M asks, "did you see that old lady sitting next to me at the playground?"
"Mrs. Christianson?" I replied in question. M didn't seem to think it strange that I knew her name. She said, "we were talking, having this conversation, but it was like she thought I was someone else... She was saying things like, 'soon we'll have a new leader' and 'we're going to be fine.' One time she said, 'this is just darling and so well made.' I had no idea what she was talking about."
"Did she say anything about picking up those roller blades on Monday?" I asked.

Big Assed White Women Dancing Barefoot to Flute Rock

2006-10-05T23:25:00.000-07:00

It's been a month since I last posted. What have I been doing? Not posting, that's sure. I had this dream last night and I think it was because I was cold because M had the blankets and I had a half of a sheet. I was in a meadow just after sunrise but the sun must have been behind the trees or something and the tall grass was covered with dew. I was in the middle of the meadow and I was thinking that I could fly. I was waiting to fly: I was standing very straight with my hands at my sides and I think I thought I would just shoot up, like a rocket. I seemed to be expecting this to happen and I thought then that thunderbolts would shoot through my feet and out of my head. So this is a tremendous energy I'm feeling. And then across the meadow I see an aging doctor in his lab coat bending over and it looks like he's feeding something, maybe a deer. But you know how it is in dreams, as soon as you try to check something out the whole scene changes or you just wake up. And the whole scene changed. Now I was at a pizza place, one I've never been to though it reminds me of a few I've been to all rolled in to one and there's a gigantic juke box and Ventura Highway is playing. You know, the America song. Ventura highway in the sunshine, where the days are longer the nights are stronger than moonshine. Alligator lizards in the air, in the air. And then I see my friend's mom and she's drunk. This is a childhood friend, we played soccer together. His mom is weaving toward me through the pizza place, her head rolling, chewing on her tongue, and it's very smokey, like of course it used to be in a pizza place because everybody smoked. And she's in a bikini. I don't want to be turned on, but I am; you know, she shouldn't have a bikini on: not because it's a dream or a pizza place or my friend's mom, but because it doesn't fit; literally, the bikini is way too small, and in this case that's not a good thing. Then I woke up.
It was the first good rain of October today and every girl at USF who wore flip flops two weeks ago, two months ago, two years ago, was wearing them again today, as they will tomorrow and presumably in February as they wait at Kirkwood for the chairlift. I would imagine that their feet were cold and wet. Certainly they were at least wet. Do they have a special towel to dry their feet off when they get home, hanging by the door as they walk in? Or do they walk around the house with gritty wet street feet? Do they bathe their feet before they get in bed? Do they ever think, boy, I shouldn't have worn my flip flops today, I just stepped in gutter water rushing with cigarette butts, car oil, and human waste?

The Walk

2006-09-06T23:12:00.000-07:00

I underslept

2006-08-31T22:51:00.000-07:00

I found out today that I have Sleep Apnea. Thank God! I thought that the only remedy to this dog tired, played out, drag ass existence was the advancement of days upon months upon years until these kids would need no more from me than pancakes on sunday and a small allowance. BUT I HAVE BEEN OPERATING ON THE BALANCE OF 4 HOURS A NIGHT... and at least an hour of that says Chris, my sleep lab technician, spent with a heart rate around 125 a minute: like walking up and down a flight of stairs for an hour WHILE I'M SUPPOSED TO BE DEEP IN THE CRADLE OF LIFE SUSTAINING SLEEP! And I've probably suffered from this condition for 3 or 4 years. The correction will certainly change my life.
Yeah, yeah, from now on I'll have to sleep in an enclosed chamber or something, oxygen pumped in and out by whirring machines, a kind of bubble boy of the night;
but I do believe that my brain will grow back quickly, my testosterone level will shoot up returning to the normal brimming level, and my breathing will be full, clear, uninterrupted... and quiet.
Good Night!

Mr A+

2006-08-26T00:08:00.000-07:00

said something about porridge. That's all I'll say for now.

Otherwise I'm taking a break. From what I'm not ready to disclose.

Commas maybe. I'm through with commas.

Breathe breathe breathe.

On The Shrouds

2006-08-24T09:57:00.000-07:00

Some days made of many textures, layers, levels, episodes, scenes, acts, finales...
I question myself about as much as I adjust my pants; and then the child cries, something so fine, rare, new, not spoiled and made to scream by her own delusions of seperateness, no, but the exact other, for reconnection, union, completion.

I'd never fallen in love. I'd had the schoolboy crush: The Neigbor's Summertime Visiting Daughter, The Distant Cousin at The Reunion Picnic, The 7th Grade Crush, The 8th Grade Crush, The Cheerleader, The Mod Girl, The Stoner Chick. These were about the first recognition of the self and the other; the separateness that begets longing for the various pieces of what might have been the Supreme Mother: the ocean, the mountains, the soil, the universe.
This time I'd fallen in love. I was 19 and so fully aware of that separateness and aloneness that is our derivation and destiny. It was sudden: a hit from out of the muck and soup, our awkward stammering grope toward some kind of identity. I followed transfixed, bound, blinded into a garden of quiet and brindled sunlight. I learned how to make love. And then, over time, came midnight drear: I learned how to hate, need, covet, blow up, go limp. I lost my love. And then understood. Love, this kind anyway -- the kind we first conjure when the word is spoken, the hopeful love, needful love; of swelling inspiration, of elation and tenderness, of bold assurance and full ego; the horrific, tragic, desperate love -- is a dying crack of springtime thunder, the melody and cadence but brief and preliminary and lost on anyone but the chosen visionaries, or the deluded victims, ultimately both. I understood. And I learned nothing.

Roomful of ghosts

2006-08-16T19:27:00.000-07:00

I just haven't felt it lately. No words. Cal said, you haven't been out drinking lately, and he's not wrong. I could stay in and drink, of course. I've been too fucking busy. I've got headaches on my headaches.

I caught this PBS doc. the other night, can't remember the title, it's about the endangered California coastline. Oh God. It really makes me sick. And then I cry. I won't go in to it, you can imagine; by way of illustration I'll tell you this: I looked up "sea front" in the Webster II New College and it said this: "land desirable for development as a resort."

NEW FEATURE

Stuff I Like, Love, Ponder, Download, Experience Deeply, and/or Recommend Lately

The Ponys
Peaches and Eagles of Death Metal at The Fillmore
urban history, urban development, urban decay
organizational psychology
the emptiness of a lie
the Potrero estuary and mission creek
underground rivers
tickets for 2 for 2 nights of the Bonnie Prince in Big Sur
"everything as text"
my eerie symbolic relationship with raccoons
entropy = migration = rebirth
You Tube
cherries... Rainier, no, Bing... no, Rainier... no...
super ripe White Peaches!
drinking a beer like a drowning man would take the air
Sabine World
Mo and purses
my incredible wife

incomplete

2006-07-26T10:50:00.000-07:00

I've been quitting smoking
for 4 years.
What happened was my wife got pregnant.
You understand.

I told her I'd quit
when the baby came
But it made her
a former smoker herself
nauseous just to smell it on me.
So I quit
tripping up now and then
chipping as they say
but quit
for the most part.

I had my first cigarette the day the baby was born
from a friend who'd come to the hospital.
But I quit again for 3 months.
And this is how it's gone
the baby now 3 and a half years
and I start and stop
all the time.
I haven't had 3 months
smokeless
in quite some time.
A month here
and there
a week or two more
often
And when I do
I smoke
one or two
a day
a handful
if I go for drinks or play
cards or have company
or if the girls are
away.

Not too bad if you consider
I began
in my late teens and
at 34
when the baby came
I was on a pack and a half
of Camel straights
a day
from just awakening
to before retiring.
I'm lucky my wife doesn't nag
me about this.
I think she might be proud
of me in my
non-committal
recovery.

There are some things
different for each of us
that we just can't quit
whether we should or want to
or better yet
understand
their meaning and
their value
in moderation.
I don't consider myself a moderate
in anything
but I know you can
throw out the good
with the bad if
you're not careful.
And I believe Lao Tzu
when he said
The partial becomes complete;
the crooked, straight;
the empty, full.
And when he said
He whose desires are few
gets them.
And I recognize
myself
when he writes
I seem to be carried about as on the sea, drifting
as if I had nowhere to rest.
My mind is that of a stupid man; I am in a state of chaos.

I finished my cigarette
back around the 24th line
but won't complete this
writing
anytime soon.

The Old Days

2006-07-24T01:47:00.000-07:00

I had 2 more days. But in those 2 days I spent about 20 hours painting the bedroom ceilings. I had to get new tires. Well, you know.
Interesting article in the Times today about the middle class disappearing from the cities. Any good ideas of where to disappear to?
We'll stick it out for a while longer. Wait for a ship. Gain more time in this vocational university that is SF public health.
Earthquake, terror, depression, burst bubbles. Lottery. Things change. Things can change.

Recent highs:

Mo walking
M love
Bean the vegetarian
Deadwood
Entourage
The Duke Spirit
Night fog over downtown viewed from a warm and clear 20th and Church - like smoke of a city ablaze.
Sufjan Stevens
The Buddokan
The Early Maya
Bad interviews
Failed coups
Successful coups
The Coup
Band of Horses
M's crush on Jim James

Tomorrow night: Os Mutantes and Brightblack Morninglight

DAY 4

2006-07-16T01:06:00.000-07:00

I slept until noon. I got up and went to Costco. The Honda needs tires. 300 bucks. OK. I went to Discount Builder Supply for paint. I selected Little Princess and wintergreen. When the paint was ready the guy yelled out, "Little Princess," even though he could see me standing 10 feet away.
For lunch I had Super Nachos. I parked in the Safeway parking lot and the security guy eyed me the whole way as I crossed Church and went in to Castillito. On my way home I picked up something for my mom at Amoeba. I had a beer with lunch and played a dollar tourney. I had my first cigarette on the deck in the sun and chilled breeze of imminent fog at 3pm enjoyed shirtless and with another beer.
I prepped the rooms. The wintergreen doesn't looks so good. I did a corner and we'll see how it dries. I recommend the drone metal band Earth as a soundtrack to painting.
I cranked Kinks as I showered and got it together for work. The night shift. I ate a chopped steak sandwich for dinner with a side of potato salad.
After shift change I intervened in the hypersex play of two over the hill pot bellied ex boy ho street queens.
2 cups of green tea then it's coffee time.

DAY 3: Days of Bachelorhood (subtitle for Travelburro)

2006-07-15T00:45:00.000-07:00

7:45a up for work: shower, go. Peet's on the way; I'm 5 minutes late for shift change.

11:30a: first cigarette with microwaved Peet's.

lunch: ham and turkey.

2p - 6p: interview amd intake 41 year old male to female TG heroin/methamphetamine addict who had barricaded herself in a hotel room for 5 days because voices were telling her to blow up the building and she was afraid she might do it.

Dinner: carnitas taco.

9p: work over, debate Sonic Youth, Nacho Libre, or online poker. I choose online poker.

Dessert: chocolate cake, bourbon, bongloads.

12:59a: Cal Santos calls and he's with Ricardo. I beg them to just leave me alone.

1:42a: In a field of 189 entrants, I finish in 16th place in the Turbo $200 $1+.10 Buy-in 12:20 AM no limit hold em tournament and win $2.

DAY 2

2006-07-14T01:47:00.000-07:00

Breakfast: cold pizza, chocolate cake, pelligrino; enjoyed while watching The View.

postBreakfast: KEXP podcasts.

postpost: porn, measure wall to wall in bedrooms.

lunch: still full from Grubsteak at 3am and big breakfast; meet Mike Fortner at Dolores Park to take in The View, smoke weed while he eats burrito. Talk Fortner in to going to movies instead of Oaks.

Dinner: hot open face turkey sandwich w/ mashed potatoes, gravy, and large coke. Cigarettes.

postDinner: BART, Card Player magazine, flat tire.

Dessert: chocolate cake and large glass of milk while watching old telecasts of Dr. Gene Scott.

DAY 1

2006-07-13T12:17:00.000-07:00

airport poker briskit bar101 ricardo karaoke streetwalkers grubsteak

Mo is One

2006-07-11T00:20:00.000-07:00

I'll write an entry again soon. I'm sorry to bore you with my kids, but I totally dig 'em. Or maybe I bore you with words. In that case, this must be what you're looking for.
Mo started walking on her birthday which was Friday. She was also totally sick, as were the rest of us. Party cancelled, we finally had cake tonight. Here's to being one.

Listen up Mike Spears

2006-06-27T00:32:00.000-07:00

It's not accurate to refer to the Netherlands as Holland. North and South Holland are only two of twelve provinces that make up the Netherlands, including Gelderland, Overijssel, and the always popular, Flevoland. The Dutch have given the world many truly great artists, from Rembrandt to Mondriaan, Van Gogh to de Kooning. As well, they have produced thinkers of the caliber of Erasmus, Descartes, and Spinoza. They are a very tolerant people known for their liberal social policies.

But none of this really matters one shit, as the Dutch have lost to Portugal and they are officially out of the World Cup.
Oh, you crying? Go home Dutch boy and put your finger in a dyke!

The Worlds Most Beautiful Freeway

2006-06-21T23:18:00.000-07:00

There are so many little things to do, small things, insignificant things without meaning; one needn't try hard to avoid that which is essential and most of life is just that, avoidance, while the essential is most often that little business that remains undone.
No, you don't forget how to ride a bike. But think of all the rides you've missed and with better legs and younger lungs.

We made a big mistake today and went to Target. We needed multiple things. And to get all of these things in the city meant going to at least 3 stores and we figured we'd save money buying all of the things at Target.
The traffic getting out there - it's at the Serramonte exit off the 280, "the most beautiful freeway in the world" - was thick enough so that I considered turning back, a few times. I was thinking that way while still on 19th Ave. But then I knew that gas was cheaper out there.
There was a line to get into the parking lot.
I whipped out of it and went around everyone, causing M to scold, "You can't do that! You went over the solid white line!" I'm not familiar with that line, I don't remember being tested on it at the DMV.
In the parking lot I was swearing and very tense as we waited for the multitudes with their carts to cross blindly before us. They were in a trance, all of them: the fat and skinny, asians, whites, latins... dazed... stoned on their purchases, carts overflowing. I found a spot way in the back, took two actually, to create a kind of buffer zone, because I figured I might be back out there soon and possibly in some kind of consumer stand off.
Once in the racks you don't have much room to move those extra large carts. Women stand surrounded by jabbering children, comparing the socks and underwear. I noticed as I passed through this endless sea of poorly made clothing that most of the shoppers were wearing exactly what was all around them.
We amassed our necessities as quickly as we could. Both of the girls need shoes but we just couldn't bring ourselves to buy them there. They were knockoffs of fine brands but they looked uncomfortable in comparison, and sad.
The whole thing was making me a little anxious, and M was getting mean.
That's when S saw it: the golden arches. We don't buy her fast food. We don't eat it. But my mother takes her. She always talks about it, how Mimi lets her eat that shit. I suggested In and Out and she agreed, but then I thought about the line in the drive-thru and opted for the quick. So, Mo and I went out to the car while M got S a happy meal.
M had the keys. I was holding a crying Mo in the heat of the parking lot and I realized as my soul shrivelled that all the pain was a direct consequence of our poor decision to go there in the first place. Our decision in favor of convenience and thrift. Let it be a lesson. I text messaged M, "never again." On the way home we consoled each other, swearing we would never, ever leave the city.
S. fell asleep before we were out of the parking lot and I ate the rest of her happy meal. At the bottom was a little prize: A VW bus with hippie slogans in grafitti style: "Peace," of course, and something about love. Part of a set, collect all 4! There's a Mercedes with Nazi iconography, A Hummer with machine gun turrets, and an aircraft carrier with a tiny banner.
Mission Accomplished.

The Setting Sun

2006-06-19T19:08:00.000-07:00

The Sand

2006-06-19T19:07:00.000-07:00

The Sea

2006-06-19T19:03:00.000-07:00

Big Sur

2006-06-19T10:33:00.000-07:00

Give Up The Ghost

2006-06-11T00:36:00.000-07:00

Given the quick fix, I'll always take it.
I'd rather not do something I'd rather not do
If there's a snowman's chance in Bali
It might magically get done;
Or disappear;
Or rearrange itself into a more acceptable
Arrangement.

Just now, I should be sleeping.
I should be getting car insurance;
I should be writing someone's biography.

We have so many things to get ready...
But I have other priorities:
More music, more batteries, and another bottle of bourbon;
The next hand; whatever this is...
And I really must sleep.

Shazoom Shazam

2006-06-07T17:40:00.000-07:00

Harold G. enters the case management office of the Paradise Hotel and states that he will no longer remain a resident without a lease. He's lived in the building for 9 years, was a tenant before it became Care Not Cash. Harold states that his neighbors "do all kinds of things in their apartments. Me, they let me stay up all night. I own me, I own my apartment, I own society where I have been a part of it,Shazoom Shazam." Harold is wearing a paisley shirt beneath a plaid flannel with the arms cut off and pinstripe slacks. He's wearing Teva's. Harold's holding his cigarette and posturing as if to leave, ready to go smoke, but can't quite stop talking and so looks as if he's tethered to an invisible anchor on the floor. He keeps this pivot going. Harold is about 55 years old.
"What is the retirement age in this country?" Harold asks. I mention Social Security but Harold says he already knows about that, "when is it illegal for a man to go to work?"
"There isn't such a law," I reply.
"You see? You see why I don't trust lawyers? A dichotomy is all poor people have. How does a lease effect my ability to stay up all night in my room?"
"If you're reasonably quiet and are not harming yourself or others or vandalizing the room, then you can do whatever you want in there."
Harold looks at me like I'm trying to confuse him. He cocks his head and backs off a little, right foot still glued to that spot so it looks as if he's fading back to throw long.
"I don't ever have any reason to know this dichotomy," he says. He finally moves his foot back with his body and he gives a little jump, bounces up and down on his heels. "I could talk to rich people. I might even let one in my apartment. But as far as a lease goes, I'll just have to make do with what I have, which is quite a lot actually because I do own my life, I really do, shazoom shazam" And then Harold turns and leaves, saunters actually, poking his cigarette on his wrist, pushing it up and down through his fingers, and shaking his head.

You Are An Ocean

2006-06-03T00:15:00.000-07:00

I wrote recently an entry that is best summed as a puerile jaunt about the efficacy of rock'n'roll. It occurs to me that, though women are not immune to it's qualities, the attributes which I ascribed to this fetish of mine are most potent for men (duh). This is the demographic of 14 to 35 (or some such odd equation) that action films and video games and sex are best peddled to. As to the latter ends of this spectrum (and I think it extends now, past 35 to some nebulous development defined by unwelcome realities of physical and mental deterioration) I wonder how these entertainments hold more and more sway, over men with families and responsibilties and debt and sometime serious minds. It's here, I'm coming to feel, in these fantasies of cocksmanship and swordplay, that men live the mythic lives no longer allowed them on this earth too much plowed under.
There's not a sufficient number of places anymore for us to be men in this turncoat, sanctimonious civilization that's been wrought upon us. Our jobs are to sell or serve, most often both, by which we consume and are consumed. As a last gasp we make beasts of ourselves as we slowly and reluctantly gentrify. I'm allowed to be a father but even in that I'm constrained. For I have only narrow (if abundant) opportunites to present to my children. The same opportunites against which I rebelled, ridiculed, then to which I finally succumbed in order to preserve said right of passage for my offspring.
Nothing is (re)solved by running away. Head for the hills! Off the grid! Drop out... These cliches, bohemian ideals as badly beaten as their alternative, lead to much narrower outcomes. The child survives, triumphs, fails within or in spite of the society to which it's born. Change for one man comes at the cost or benefit of his people. One more tree falls in indifferent woods. Pass on, like hints and whispers, the plots and lyrics that tempt freedom, if only for the brief duration of a song.
A ridiculously long adolescence... now conform, retreat, expose yourself: A house full of digital technology; car, portfolio, resort travel, no mention of death... Some--to cull, extract, demand some meaning (thumb their nose at death rather than deny)--reject the house OR the car OR the other; opt for "Eco," "low impact travel," on "principle," "values," "taste": to defeat death by "lifestyle choice."
Or you're poor.
Or you twirl and fall endlessly dangling between "viewpoints" that reinforce one another in the affectation of opposition.

I live about one half mile uphill from the shore of the San Francisco Bay. A waterfront not long free of the practices of shanghai and piracy, arts that the world of man will not soon be rid... an impossible natural harbor that is the wonder and prize of westward governance and commercial destiny. On foggy nights (and days) such as these, of which there are many in this sea addled town, you hear the foghorns of ships that bear containers and containers of sundry goods; of the tankers full of the era's most prized and bloody lucre headed for the refineries of Richmond, Martinez, Rodeo, Benicia; then the tugs and coast guard that ferry them in and out of the Golden Gate... a spectral chorus of horns wheezing hypnotic, lumbering symphonies of drone, wail, and lament. Containers and containers, identical in shape, form, dimension, material, filled with product of the slave states of Asia brought to fill the warehouses and shelves and carts and dwellings and lives of the insatiable empire. I do often sit and listen on nights such as these and I consider myself fortunate to hear such a telling and powerful song.
I ask Sabine, "Do you hear the foghorn? that's a big ship coming in from the ocean." She listens. She cocks her head, pondering. "Why do they come from the ocean?" she asks.

Never Write When You're Drunk

2006-06-01T01:57:00.000-07:00

and if you do, don't show it to anyone.

We Are There

2006-05-30T22:54:00.000-07:00

My mother was a child, 17 at my birth, 17 in a hospital for unwed mothers. My father was only an acquaintance. He, too, was 17. I've heard that he may have died in his 20's. I've learned that much, if that's true. I don't know what I want to know.
My grandfather was a postman and a writer. My grandmother was a 5'1" Portuguese woman. These were my mother's parents, both born in California, grandfather in Sacramento and grandmother in Niles. I'm not looking at the paperwork, haven't in some time... I believe there were 2 sisters. 2 aunts. My mother was the middle one. She was an average student. She wanted to go to college. When she was 20 or 21, in 1971, she went to San Mateo County to see if I'd been adopted. I was adopted when I was 3 months old. She'd recently had a daughter, my sister, was married, a homemaker, and apparantly felt she could then provide a home for me. I don't know if she's ever felt that way since. I don't know anything about her since then.
My father was one of 4 boys. His father was a VP at an "electronics firm." His father had suggested that they raise me, he and his wife, my grandmother. She was opposed to the idea. I imagine her as tall, thin, white and cold; in contrast to my diminutive, dark and earthy grandmother. Of course, she didn't adopt me either.
I'm not sure what I would want from any of them now. For a long time I had no faces in which to see my own. No mouths like mine, no eyes. I've always been fond of my hands, and I think my nose is stately. But where do they come from? Now, though, I have children, and in them I can see my qualities and finally feel the tug of earth in our common blood and history. I no longer need these people, some of whom, regardless, I will never know. And then, I still might meet one, perhaps my sister, or even my mother who would now be only 55. Maybe I've already met them.
I like to consider that. That we have spent our lives dodging and weaving about each other in fateful near misses. At the grocery store, in traffic, on sidewalks and in airports. Going places, seperately. Feeling for a moment a sudden levity, vertigo, a shift in light, a studder in time as we pass. Knowing we are there. But never knowing where.

Silversun Pickups

2006-05-27T00:51:00.000-07:00

Once, I wandered. I had nothing, needed nothing, expected nothing. And it was glorious. I access 3 things primarily when I go inside and drift back dreamily to those golden stoned days. I think about young ladies breasts (I must digress here, because I realize that my wife will read this and will take that fact personally, the fact that I once enjoyed young ladies breasts - hers, too, of course -
and still do, hers and young ladies both, but hers more, of course... and when she was a young lady, yes, but even more so now, because truth be told, I was always a MILF guy, always, and still am. But I digress too much, because, dear wife, it is not a memory of hands full of virginal, tender breasts that I consider, nor nipples on my lips, nor a mammary memory connected to any one young lady with any particular said mammary. Truth be told, I am not a breast man, never have been, I am decidedly a middle man. What I mean by that is the soft, sweet middle parts: the waist, the hips, the Y, the V, the wha, the dips, cracks, crevices, the lips, the labia, the hood, the clit, the thighs, the dimples and moles and all the fuzz. BUT: this memory, these breasts, what it is there is THIS IMAGE that keeps repeating of golden days with sunlight streaming and bare breasted young ladies, beautiful, naked, I think it's even stolen, this frolicsome montage, but beautiful and golden nonetheless, and indicative for me of a time and places... so many places), inebriation, and sweet music. Yes, there were 2 more, you'd forgotten. 3 notions let's say, that I access, 3 triggers, 3 reactions, 3 molehills collected from a mountain of memory.
I say sweet music because there's Miles and Sinatra, Leonard Cohen, Edith Piaf and Erik Satie... there is so much heart and soul music... But what I truly mean when I write of this flight of return and it's soundtrack, what I really mean is rock'n'roll. Because what I like about rock'n'roll is EVERYTHING. I like that it's loud and can get soft; that it's supposed to be cool when it's corny and cheesy; that it's beautiful when it's angry; that it falls apart when it's at it's best and comes together when you least expect it; that it repeats and repeats and repeats; that it's made mostly of guitars, amplified, distorted, tweaked and reverby; that bass and drums beat the living hell out of it; that it's all about decline while it builds and builds and builds; that chicks sing it really, really good and that guys live their lives to it; and I really like that it makes people sweat and feel and fuck and cry and explode with it, or disintegrate into it, depending on IT and them and what they need when they need it. I do like that. And I see all that and feel it when I make that journey to my carefree days, to my lost, aimless, wandering days.
I should say something about inebriation, but I've had a few Makers and I'm tired, having worked all day. And tomorrow I must get up and make pancakes for the children, one in the shape of Amelia Bedelia, by request, and that will not be an easy, carefree feat. But I'll crank up Wolfmother and I'll get down to it. Down to business. Because that's what I'm about now, these days, about the business of pancakes and infant/toddler bowel movements. Constipation. Diarrhea. And it's a profitable business, believe you me. But I'll dream tonight of a beach in Costa Rica, of the patio at Club DeVille, and of small stages and black rooms and late night turntables and my 72 Fender Twin Reverb and Lester Bangs and The Stooges.

create new post

2006-05-25T22:57:00.000-07:00

It was Bob D.'s birthday the other day. He's 143 years old. Stuck inside of Mobile.
I was just worrying about the government. C'mon! Let's get out there and vote for the babykillers who take less money from us! I think they're called democrats. I just want the politicians to steal less money from me. That is my stand. I don't care who sponsors them. Jesus Christ, Microsoft, Hellafartin. I'll give them my change. I give it to the street folk. Usually. About half the time. I'll give it to the politicians instead. Instead of half my paycheck. I mean how much the fuck is the oil costing them, really? I don't need their oily oil. I'm going to fix my car so that it runs on pussy juice. Then I'm going to open up a station. I'll be doing way better than the oil men. And I'm going to call my station Clam. Get it? Like Shell, but Clam instead.
Oh Jesus, where for art goeth my yonder?
I was wondering... How much TV is too much for an 11 month old? I'm very strict with it, but of course, she has her "shows"... and I want her to have a normal life, I don't want to limit her freedom of choice. I'm o.k. with FOX, but I will not turn her into a dyke warrior with that K.Queer.E.D. I did let her stay up late to watch the final episode of Alias. She just loves that show, she simply had to tune in for the big finale, even though it was the first time she'd ever seen it.
Hey, I have no problems with dyke warriors, they're "A" o.k. for me. I just think, for my daughters, it would be safer for them if they pledged their virginity to the United States of Christ and married a fascist son with a fuckload of cash and oil and his own militia and water, I guess. I hear water is going to be the next big thing. Right after Brittany's comeback.
Well, maybe they'll be o.k.. I just worry about their adult years, and what they and their families will have to face. But y'know, by then our country should be fully enclosed in some kind of super super dome, safe from illegal bird flus and dirty brown bombers.
Happy Birthday Bob. Can I please crawl out your window?

Then, Suddenly, A Clue Turned Up in Scotland

2006-05-18T01:08:00.000-07:00

The worst tennis playing nation in the world, Andromeda, sent a blancmange to the finals at Wimbledon, only to be eaten by the Brainsamples, a charmingly pleasant married couple from Swatney. The pleasantly charming Guthrie Thumbnail, gallery owner/fashion sparrow, set the price on a pile of discarded linoleum at 500 thousand Afghani banknotes, or 50 cents.
As ever, the old judge forces the young competitor to audition, expose himself, and perform. Alert, active, show-offy, the monkey violinist gets the job done to a smattering of applause. "If I don't move on I'll just wait," she stated to the recently smattered audience.
It's not always about the subject, said the wounded painter to his plump and flourishing model, explaining away his devastating impotence.
Is it about the retardation in your brain? the quick and jovial lass shot back without circumstance.

Mr. A+ says, "You better watch out for my mouth."

2006-05-10T10:50:00.000-07:00

GR was an hour late getting me my car. I was just glad he was here and couldn't get mad at him; "We're going to Sarah Wheeler's," he said, and then he gave me 10 dollars for gas which I promptly returned to him when he said he had no money for cigarettes.
Sarah brought out her guns: A little 25 mm with pink pearl handle and a wood grip 357 Mag. GR told her he had a big cock. He said, "you touched it, remember?" She denied this. But insisting, he made her begin to doubt it, and he leaned over her to whisper something in her ear.
GR was going yard every night. He has come to believe in the fecundity of what he calls the Argentine Way. It is a manner of approach not far from the belligerent denial of any will other than one's own... Almost, but not quite, no means yes.
We had caught up to Spears earlier, at Masonic and Fell, sitting in a cab... he wouldn't get out. He was looking for Ricardo. I'm not sure if he knew who we were. But later he called and then came by... in another cab... which I paid for at GR's insistance. He stumbled in and he was singing to no discernable melody, something he does at a certain point of certain nights... entire songs... He doesn't miss a word, but it's very hard to tell what he's singing... and he stops like he wants you to guess, and then begins again as if to say, do you get it now?.. but how could you?.. there's no melody... He said, "I'm mister A plus." He insisted it. He repeated it with certainty and rectitude. Then he leaned over to Sarah Wheeler and he said, "You better watch out for my mouth."
And the great rivalry endures. Two majestic warriors of delinquent disingenuousness. Not to imply that either is artless. They're united in a kind of anti-futurist performance of perversion, these two... and I profoundly admire them both.
The Social Worker is getting old. I'm confused by my own desire. Being new to the fatherhood of two girls, I'm not yet sure how to be a man in this turgid pornography of a world. It takes most of my concentration and all of my stamina, but I'm coming to,like an audience member stirring from a spell of hypnotism, on stage with this pair of showmen, relntlessly snapping their fingers... And then, these daughters of mine, they're women, or will be... I can't help but imagine them some day in a bar with the likes of these two. They're barbarians! They don't eat where they shit, but they drink there...
Still, there's something magical to me, brilliant, and almost saintly, in the lowbrow shenanigans of these two multifarious pirates. It is a performance. The clothes are not the man... On some nights they do go yard.

To be as one with all those crimes, to be part and parcel
Of all those raids on ships, the massacres, the rapes!
To be all that happened where the plunder was!
To be all that lived or died where the bloody tragedies took place!
To be the grand-sum-total-pirate of piracy at it's height,
And the grand-sum-total-victim, but in flesh and bone, of all the pirates
in the world!

Fernando Pessoa, from Maritime Ode

a few moments

2006-05-03T00:43:00.000-07:00

I don't know anything.
But I do know that GR and Mike Spears got us kicked out of The Page.
That doesn't need that much explaining. Jet lag.
I hadn't even ordered a drink yet. In fact, the bartender I was trying to engage with was busy cutting off Spears. So then Spears walked out with his beer. And GR told the owner to fuck off because his friend did not walk out with a beer. And then GR said, Fuck you! and, You got a problem?! The owner didn't like him. Unfortunately for the rest of us, considering that our guest of honor was verbally abusing the owner of the bar we were sitting in, we had to find somewhere else to go.
At Marina's, I know that Fletcher put Spears in a sleeper hold. He fell asleep. So did MT. And GR was trying to wrastle with folks. Primarily Fletcher. I was hoping there would be another sleeper hold.
Instead, GR went for the door and missed it. He took out the light switch though.
he was just standing there, in the middle of the room, swaying, and he went for it and he cut his hand and he left a big swath of blood on the door jam.
Fletcher taught me to project my energy toward the Golden Gate. It worked. Then Spears tried to go to sleep on the coffee table, a little too quickly. There were glasses underneath him, but the lucky fucker, none of them broke. The bong did though. Poor Angie and Marina. Very good sports. Then I had to take the boys home, which took quite a while, but was relatively uneventful.
In my car, out in front of Spears' house listening to Television, i see two body builders get out of a couple-year-old black Mercedes sedan. They walk up to his gate. Spears is rocking out, getting it right every few words, and a lot of head rolling. I say, Mike, look at those guys going in to your house. He looked and said, what the fuck? They open the gate and walk up the stairs to Mike's door. The door opens, the dog's there.
Magna let them in, I said, and Spears says, what the fuck?
They're visiting Magna, I say. Spears says, holyfuckingshit, thos'guys just went intomy house!
Yeah, I repeat, they're their to see Magna, she let them in.
He looks at me and then back at the house... He looks at me, and then back at the house again for a real long time.
They wentintomy fucking house...
Come up with me, he says. No. No Mike, I have to go home. I'm going to bed. And you are, too. Oh, are you serious?, he says, you're gonna let me walk into that?
I look at spears and I look back at the road. I'm remembering that my energy is projected toward home. I say, You want me to run interference up there? Is that what you want? 'cause if that's what you want, I'll do it. Is that what you want? He says yes.
Here's the plan, I say, walking up to the house. We're going in there. You poke your head in and say hi and then we're going straight back to your room.
He loses his footing once. he staggers and stops. Then he starts going the other direction, backwards, then sideways, but he's catching himself, and he does, then comes back and says, you gotta come up. I say, yes, that's what I'm doing, and we're going straight to your room and then I'm gonna leave. You're not gonna listen to some vinyl? he asks.
We get up there, and in the living room, each on their own couch, are these musclemen. They are bronzed and wearing muscleman T's and they're both totally bald.
They're each on their own couch.
I'm not sure if these guys have eyebrows. And Magna's in a chair in the corner.
Spears lurches in. I don't think he gets any words out but he says something. I said, Oh, I'm bringing home your roommate... ha ha... tucking him in...
Magna's mildly amused but going for casually bright and hospitable. She introduces us. These guys really aren't very interested. But Mike goes for it anyway, with the handshakes. Will he fall on them?, I wonder. The handshakes take too long.
I say, to add some much needed context, our friend's in town, from Buenos Aires... been away a long time. we had a little fun tonight, a little welcome home evening... afternoon... like the old days...
Pleasantries aside. Mike stands there. There's some silence for a minute.
He sways.
Ok Mike, let's go listen to some records. He stands there.
They're mildly uncomfortable.
A little arm on the shoulder works, but I don't think he was convinced that those guys were with Magna.
The boxes from his move are still stacked along his walls. He says something about Steele not having time to work on it.
He puts on controversy. I put on Curtis Mayfield. He puts on Lyres. Lyres... 1986... wow.
He has these great framed prints on his wall which Claire gave him when he left Glasgow. In one, he's all in denim, he's in a denim heap, passed out on a lawn. Behind him is a color field graphic that looks like a sunset on a Mexican blanket, and it says, "so long... Cal Santos" In the other one, with the same scheme in back, he's got that fucked up prospector's hat on and he's expounding about something. Regaling. He might be singing.
They're eggin' me on, he says.
and he says: You know when you have a perfect moment and it's on a photograph like that? that just perfectly captures a time and feeling in your life? one wonderful, beautiful moment? One of your best moments?

I've just masturbated

2006-04-24T10:36:00.000-07:00

First time in a long time, but apparently something I really needed to do. I then contacted the city regarding these outrageous parking fines. They keep charging me over and over for the same tickets, the fines doubling and tripling, and now in collections, though I've actually overpaid. I always get a very nice clerk on the phone, and they can see in the records, "oh yes, Mr. Heier, you've paid, I can see that. We'll just have to wait for the DMV yadda yadda, and then we'll send you blah blah blah. Thank you so much for your patience Mr. Heier..." But the next thing I'll receive in the mail will be another frightening letter from Collections with astronomical figures and threatening pronouncements.
As I write, I'm warming the breast milk under the faucet. The baby is still asleep. The milk will be ready when she wakes up. That's the kind of father I am.
I realize now that I'm not a prophet, nor am I a genius. It took me thirty some years. It then took a few years to admit it to myself. The difference is, these days I don't get as angry about the parking tickets and the general incompetence. I allow for my general incompetence.
The thing is, a prophet can't be lazy. They have to work extra hard to get the word out. And then there is usually some suffering and a lot of internal exploration. It's kind of a full time gig.
However, I believe that there have been some lazy saints.
This is in no way connected, but Mel Gibson sports a long beard now and is living down in Mexico. I like this about Mel and am not at all concerned about his politics.
It's about getting in touch with yourself. Letting your beard grow. Finding your inner Mexico.
Warming the milk. Engaging with collections every now and then.
Tonight: Pancakes for dinner!

2006-04-09T00:08:00.000-07:00

The Village

2006-04-03T21:54:00.000-07:00

I make the coffee and take my pills, wandering
from room to room, turning lights off and on.
I check e-mail, glance at the war, try not to think;
it's still dark outside and everyone's asleep.

I got the feeling she was
talking to me, the way she was
standing, that far away.
I was waiting to hear something.

The village is down there,
quiet, shuttered,
lightening.

The girls wake, then their mother.
We get the cereal, fruit, milk, more coffee.
Clothes, teeth, hair, shoes.
They've never known anything else, she tells me.

Yes!

2006-03-29T01:03:00.000-08:00

I'm writing this from my own room! Well, it's the laundry room, too, but it's also my room and I can stay up as late as I want, doing anything (!!!) and I can put up any posters I feel like putting up (black light included).

You know how change happens. One day some small choice is made, like, maybe I'll just go sleep in the laundry room since I'm drunk and I don't want to roll over on the baby. Then suddenly you're not only sleeping in the laundry room but you're getting drunk in there, too.

This is a very good thing, this room switch thing. First of all, we're all sleeping better, even the cats. Then also, it's transformed our sex life. I might even get laid soon.

There are no windows in my new room, so that if I didn't have children with sleep schedules like barnyard fowl, and a wife who thinks that two of us need to be awake "caring" for these "early birds," I could sleep long past sun up, perhaps even until 8:30 am.

More nice things about having my own room:

When undressing, I don't have to put my clothes right into the hamper, primarily because the washing machine is right next to my bed.
When I fall asleep at night watching television I don't wake up at 3 in the morning on the couch with a stiff neck; now, I wake up at 3 in the morning on my very own bed, the former "guest" trundle bed, with a stiff neck.
In our house, computer room = guest room = laundry room = my room = short walk from late night porn to my sweet pillow.

I'm all out of love

2006-03-16T00:16:00.000-08:00

It's time for my 20 year reunion. My fellow classmates want to get together at homecoming. There are two people running the show. The one male member of our cheerleading squad... yes, he closes his messages with "peace." Then the woman, I think she was a cheerleader, too. I lost track of her in high school. But in junior high we went steady. Jesus, puberty. "Will you go with me?" We made out a number of times. One time to Air Supply and one time to Journey. There were other times, just not with such memorable soundtracks. I got my hand up her top. That's the kind of thing we would say to each other, to our little buddies. Hey, I got my hand up her top! I got in her pants! She creamed her jeans! I squeezed her titties! Now, why would you want to squeeze a breast? And that's literal, I mean at least with my gang. It was considered hot to give the tit a good squeeze, like it was an avocado. The teen age is not a particularly sensual age.
I remember the first make out party I went to. Must have been 7th grade, right at the beginning, because junior high was all about those parties, awkward kids in dark living rooms, tongues tangling wildly, hands roaming manically, slow dancing to crappy power ballads. Emo's got nothing on those days, that was hi-mo, highly emotional balladry. The lead singers had to be elfin with bad hair and really high voices to make it work. But let me tell you, it really did work. That stuff got chicks hot! Especially thirteen year old chicks.
That's 25 years ago. All downhill since then.

Raining, Bourbon, Something

2006-03-13T23:32:00.000-08:00

I'm supposed to be writing a bio for a painter friend's website. Just a favor. I've got something else like that to do for another friend... but what I need is money. I really do. I need a fat, greasy wad of it. Greenbacks. Stacks and suitcases full. Because I have these two beautiful little girls who need food and clothes and heat ... and they get it. They eat better than I ever did. Everything organic, local, fresh, minimum processing, no additives. We haven't been buying meat. We buy a little bacon. But I'm getting really fat, so that's probably not so bad. M makes a hell of a vegetable whatever. Stir fry, pasta, curry, soup. Life is not so bad. But rent was late. Had to get a little from my father. That's not easy. He's pretty easy. But going there... Ah, well. Most expensive city blah blah. Social workers. Working. Families. Desesperados.
I can't read lately. I can read the paper. Or an article. I can read an article. I can read poems. I'm going back to poems. Just two or three at a time, nothing too heavy; I might try a short story at some point.
I am listening to a lot of great music at the moment. Tennessee Ernie Ford right now. At this moment. Heroes of Country. The Anthology of American Folk Music. Moonshiner's Dance Part One. Lovesick Blues. Conjunto, zydeco, gospel. Burning hell. Trust in Jesus. The Great Day.
Eternity? SweetJesusDearJesusSweetJesus.
In high school I had a thing for a cheerleader. She wasn't very attractive. She had smallish features. Freckles. She was childlike. Not in a weird way. She looked like a commedienne who was around at the time, even laughed like her. She wasn't really very funny though. She laughed a lot. She had it hard for my best friend and she wasn't good enough for him. He must have had better taste than I. Looking back, I'm really mystified that I suffered at all over that girl.
But we're like that. Unknown and curious even to ourselves.
War on war. You've got to lose. You gotta die.
You have to learn how to die.
How much sex do you think is going on over in Iraq? On our side? Because I think the soldiers are just fucking like crazy. You know, there are bombs in everything over there. They're everywhere. They can't take a piss without setting one off. Other than looking for bombs, there's not a lot for them to do. Thousands of men and women, in fighting shape, without a significant other for thousands and thousands of miles. Many thousands. There are some Shock and Awe babies to come, you tell me if I'm right.

mike spears

2006-03-03T00:50:00.000-08:00

he told me he loved me last night. He didn't believe me when I returned the sentiment. He forced me to go to yeah yeah yeahs at Bimbo's. He got mad that no one was dancing. he turned me on to whiskey thieve's. He turned me on to the Concretes. The black eye may be perpetual. He gave Sabine a Celtic jersey. He gave Marlowe chuck taylors. He wants more family friendly events. He's a professional bachelor.
Mike Spears = great american, helluva nice guy

We have kids

2006-03-03T00:44:00.000-08:00

pre-schoooool
dance class
pediatrics department
costco
rain boots
pirates booty
the bath
curious george
bedtime
apple cheeks

february

2006-02-28T00:17:00.000-08:00

Cold Blooded Old Times

2006-01-23T00:06:00.000-08:00

The wife and I got along well tonight, today. Not a fight. And I watched football for a good part of it. But we played with the kids. She cooked, I did the dishes. She put the baby down, I read to the kid. Then I talked about my upbringing, while she sewed and stuffed pillows. Not too bad. I kissed her goodnight. She said, "I love you."
Then I went back and looked at some of the things she wrote when we were young, as a couple-young, before kids and debt. There was a bit about the first cafe we'd meet at regularly. There was a really nice piece about me picking her up at the airport. In her words there was admiration and desire and hope. And I know she made me feel that way, too, back then.
So where are we, now that it's so hard to remember?
She is that woman. But so much more afraid. And so am I.
There's a lot to lose.
I read something I wrote, about the first time we met. I wrote that she was young and awkward and sexy. We argued about gender politics. I was drunk and being an asshole and egging her on. She didn't know me, and couldn't know that I didn't feel that way or think that way. I stood on my balcony that night and watched her walk away in the street with her friends. They were yelling back at me, goofing off, "Fuck off!" I think she might have even pulled her pants down. She's been known to do that.

the greatest

2006-01-16T23:13:00.000-08:00

Went to the zoo today. We parked in handicap parking.
There was all kinds of commotion of course. The humans acting more bizarre and bestial than the captives, I mean animals. Actually, they all looked very relaxed there, and I imagine that it could be worse. Like having to hunt all day, and defend yourself, your "pride." It looked like all the young males were routinely "introduced" to a female of their species by the zoo keepers. That's not bad. Very little work involved there. Lay around in the shade, saunter into the "cave" when you want some privacy...

For lunch we had some chicken strips, fries, a hamburger, a couple of beers and a chocolate milk: 40 bucks.

I really had a nice time watching the hippos. They just floated there, in their little lagoon. They're huge. Like whales with ears. They're like some giant pig whale. I think one of them liked me, like a friend. He was eyeing me, and then he started to move about, as if for my enjoyment. They're very peaceful. I have reconsidered the hippo.

But the gorilla impressed me most of all. He sat there, kind of casually leaning back, one knee
propped up, chewing on something, I don't know what. But very cool, slowly chewing, with this look like, "why don't one of you come over here? Just step over that fence..." He reminded me of Charles Bronson. The mid-70's Bronson - Death Wish, Mr. Majestyk, Hard Times. His "ladies" were kind of fooling around behind him, picking bugs of each other, etc. He did not give a shit. I wouldn't have been surprised if he busted out a smoke. He watched us. Sat up there real close. He knew no one was gonna mess with his bitches. Those eyes... exacting... genuine... bottomless. Forget about King Kong. This guy was real. He' probably sleeping pretty easy tonight...

what is this?

2006-01-15T20:45:00.000-08:00

I used to be very angry. I'm not angry anymore. I've got alot of hostility, that's certain. Now, I feel more impotent than angry. I feel like everything is falling down around me, and not by chance, and I feel like it doesn't matter at the same time which makes any action by me superfluous, even pointless. I'm starting to believe in a god that is malevolent and sadistic, and my belief is growing stronger every day.
When I'm with my daughters I don't think about it, I don't care. But when they go to sleep or I go somewhere alone, even a short trip to the market, I start to feel it all around me. Self-hatred? Maybe. I don't know. I feel this hostility towards anyone, the slightest perceived slight will set me off... but when I step back and see this god, behind it all, laughing and puking out this evil... I feel empathy for everyone.
I guess I'd rather believe there was an evil god than to believe that the universe is empty as are we, and only chance - buoyed by gravity, decay and disaster - dictates our fates and failures.
Christ, I sound like a teenager. I could be a pimply kid with oily hair, a few pubes and a Green Day t-shirt, smelling like dirty underwear amongst my posters and playstation, down the hall from daddy's gun collection.
The truth is, I'm tired of being an asshole, and I'm looking for a scapegoat, and at the same time there are a few people whom I want to kill, but because I'm a thinker I won't, and this makes me feel impotent.
I used to feel before I thought.
I want to feel again and I want to give up thinking.
If you're a fed, please ignore my comment about murder and believe me, I don't think the Bush administration is behind this evil god thing, oh no.

happy new year

2006-01-02T23:57:00.000-08:00

An Ocean of Bourbon

2005-12-30T23:47:00.000-08:00

It's pissing rain.
"A steady stream of Pacific storms..."
The ocean is pitching a fucking fit.
I took the girls down
to watch, the last couple of days... Wild!
Nature at it's finest, most virulent and brutal...
pitiless, primal...
pure.
To stand above and know full well what would be there
if you met it;
watching the boys run down, eagerly getting on with it,
paddling right into the maw;
cars and busses filled with holiday cousins,
fools on the edge of the parking lot,
huddled in North Face, cameras and scarves and runny noses;
my two babies, sufficiently serious, in awe of all majesty,
inheriting the temperament of the true believer...
Oh good lord, to be a part of this...
The Abundance!
The Ocean of Abundance.
I've had a few, yes...
God Bless Bourbon and the men who make it.
But will you know the bounty
when the dollar wants your limit?
Do not be apprehensive.
Give up and rely on God.
To tell him your plans
is the best way
to make him bust his gut.

toys are us

2005-12-20T20:04:00.000-08:00

I went to the Toys R Us this morning to find an airplane. We asked the kid a dozen times what she wanted from Santa and she never changed her mind - an "o-plane... not a rocketship, I don't like rocketships cause they're too heavy."
O.K. First thing, I run into this woman in a stupor, eyes squinted, oblivious, just kind of staggering over to a rack of dolls that look like slutty pop stars.
Next aisle. Dad, 40 something, never been in a toy store before, so he's probably just divorced, has to do his own shopping this year. He's on the cell phone and scanning the racks like he's surveying a disaster scene, mouth open, can't focus because there's so much there to see. He says vehemently to the phone, "Where do they get off calling Hot Wheels eight plus?"
Next aisle. Suddenly everything's lavender and pink and there are feathers and unicorns and dwarfishly obese fairies.
Next aisle. Yuppie mom to 18 year old stock boy with nice 'fro and sagging pants: "Do you know where I can find the Aquadoodles?" Stock boy, who probably got stoned before work and will do so again at break, replies, "Aquadoodles? Oh, yes m'aam, the Aquadoodles are right here."
Next aisle. Tall man, VP of something, not entirely comfortable out of the suit, but not so much that he hasn't foregone the shower this morning. He's got a cart full of shit: all plastic, diecast, polymer, rubber, nylon. The family is already back in whereverthefuck with grandparents, him flying out tonight loaded. To the phone he says, "I'll get you the account number later today. Uh huh. Not a problem. I hope you start having a better christmas."
I turn the next corner and there they are: lines of them, at 6 different registers, carts full of worthless bullshit. Not an o-plane in sight, I walk past them and right out the door.

Supported Living Christmas

2005-12-20T00:17:00.000-08:00

The Christmas party was today. There was a guy talking to himself at the top of the stairs. There were no lights on. I walked down the hall to the living room. There were at least a dozen people in there, sitting on couches, totally silent, just looking at me. I nodded. A couple of people - well, one guy - nodded back. I took my spinach pie into the kitchen. The table was covered with food which, like my spinach pie, had nothing to do with Christmas. Mona was there. She seemed relieved to see someone who was not medicated.
It turns out they'd blown a fuse. Soon, The Christmas Story was back on. I talked to some clients. One wanted me to try her pasta. I started to but was saved by the mention of pie, I said, "oh, that's what I need, I've been waiting for the pie." And I did have a piece of Pecan Pie from Safeway and a Styrofoam cup of coke. Then I went in and sat down on a couch and watched The Christmas Story. A really big guy in an old Forestry t-shirt and eyeglasses that were bent and crooked said, "This is a James Thurber story." His wife, a short schizophrenic woman who believes that a prominent San Francisco publishing family want to control her via a liver transplant, said, "which one? For Whom The Bell Tolls?"
I went into the kitchen and listened to a conversation about the "amazing" food and then I announced I needed to return to the office to get some work done.
On my way out, the guy at the top of the stairs was keeping up his monologue, a sort of constant mumbled chant. But as I passed he slipped in, "nice to meet yah."

Jesus Joseph and Merry Christmas

2005-11-29T23:14:00.000-08:00

We're going to Dallas for J.C.'s birthday. I'd like to know what J.C. would think about Dallas. I'm sure he'd forgive them.
I don't need this christmas shit this year. I have to give a speed freak a hundred bucks for a dead tree? The kid wants a helicopter, an airplane and a boat. Get in line, baby.
Poor J.C. If everyone decides to celebrate my birthday some day, I hope they'll at least try to approximate a just reading of my modus operandi.

it ain't easy

2005-11-09T19:46:00.000-08:00

I mean excuse me i'm drunk

2005-10-23T02:46:00.000-07:00

the roof's on fire
Inside they might be asleep
it's not yet morning

This one's for the burro

2005-10-20T23:03:00.000-07:00

It's good to get called out, y'know? I mean, it's easy to just lay low, television on, download some Giant Sand... You can pretty much just skate on in to bed... maybe business is good, maybe you've done your duty; your kids are asleep, but who else knows you're alive?
There's a club now in Austin called Beerland. A place I would go if I were there. The people I knew go there. There are places people go in Portland, San Diego. I no longer go there.
Mr. Goyo is going back on down to 'tina. I told him he can't sleep outside with all of that 'spensive hi-tek shite, he'll need to get a room. And the burro and burrita are not gonna want to be his landlords.
My favorite guy, el Jefe, is now down in Texas, having given up the bird and the window in P town. I am sure he has a bird in Texas... or a stray cat. I miss him and his good brother quite alot. We always talked about Squalor Ranch, this place we'd get in the desert somewhere, maybe New Mexico or West Texas. We'd make this compound, with all kinds of attractions, diversions, opportunities. Something for everyone.
Last but not least I'd like to sign off tonight with a shout out to Paul and Javid. Sometimes you eat the bear, sometimes the bear eats you.
Take 'er easy, dude.
The country'll grow.

my love on tile

2005-10-09T09:22:00.000-07:00

sweeping out the sun
this broken arm and stupid music
I've got 3 minutes and I'm done.

That dog sounds like an old woman.
Which reminds me, how is your billy goat?
Have you tortured any frogs lately?

Addendum to Whelmed Over

2005-09-27T00:30:00.000-07:00

I mentioned below that The Other Place would be a great new bar. But I don't think it exists anymore. Which is a shame. There is though, at 6th and Clement, the 540 Club. Which would be appropriate, since it's like we've graduated from the 500 Club, where I haven't been in about 10 years. Ironically, I write this while those of you who would read and care are drinking and waiting for me to join with you... though I sadly say now that I will not, as I am tired. Unfortunately, you will not read this until tomorrow, when you turn on your computers there in your cubicles, hungover, and go straight to my blog, even before e-mail. So, I say to you, ha ha ha ha, I am not hungover.
On thursdays, the 540 Club apparantly plays 80's metal and punk rock and a shot and a beer are 5 bucks.
I'm just "putting it out there"... you know, not everything needs to be group mailed. My blog needs texture, SO Fuggettabata schteuwwwwwwwwp.