THE LAUNDROMATT

So, I was out of underwear. Actually, I've been out of underwear for about 3 days now, but it's been so damn cold, that I took my chances commando style. No sense trudging out in the snow unless I absolutely had to. Today, I absolutely had to. The Laundromatt called on this brisk Monday morning. Plus, my butt cheeks were getting a little chaffed.
Automatic was there. As always. Cranking Love is Hell Part 1. Or was it Part 2? I tried to tell him to chill on that country boy for a while. Mr Adams has 3, count them, 3 new albums coming out this year. (So says ryan-adams.com) Included in those 3 is a double album with him and the Cardinals. So, I just didn't want Automatic to over-do it. Then come June, he wouldn't be able to stand the sound of Mr. Self Destructo. But, of course, Automatic wouldn't listen. Ryan Adams, despite his keen insistence on making an ass out of himself and abusing his body, is a genius, and will never grow tired. He might kill himself first, but he will never grow tired.
So, I washed my whites. And Automatic and I caught up. For the first time in a long time. Mr Parker Posey and the tumblers whining in the background. I bitched to him about my inability to snag tickets to the 4, count them, 4 concert dates with U2 in May. And he bitched to me about public displays of child abuse and the alcoholics that cause it. Not bad for a Monday. May I never go without underwear again.

BUGGER (OR ME)

So some is trying to get between her and me. To take away what we have. Those sacred things that I thought were safe. What can I even do to protect us? I know this is more about her than it is about me, but come on! I'm involved and now all the intimate details of 'our' life are out there. Just floating around for God knows who to suck up.
You know that proliferation of advance communication devices that I was ranting about mere days ago? Well, all I have to say is "SEE, I TOLD YOU". When I tell someone, (you all know I'm inferring Nicole here, right?), that I think their fingers look like matchsticks, and that their hair reminds me of smoldering apricots in a fall fire, and that I want nothing more than to fall asleep inside her until the day I meet my Savior face to face, then I intend for that to disappear in thin air, the residue resting in the nooks of her memory. What I don't want is all my tender moments, all my "stuff", reduced to a transcript and read by Pat O'Brien, sandwiched between stories of Lindsay Lohan and 50 Cent's baby's momma's drug habit. Is there no decency at all left in this world? Is the Tsunami, and all the horror it left behind, lost it's media staying power? What about this war in Iraq? Didn't we just lose more soldiers in one day than we ever have since this terrible thing started?
You know I do my best to share with you what is going on in my life, but this is unacceptable. I give you what I want to give you. Don't take anymore from us. This attention could drive her away forever. And then I would be heartbroken. Leave us alone and I'll tell you what you want to know.

GOD PART 3

I don't believe in Starwax. I don't believe the lies they tell us. I don't believe that we have to sell off our children's inheritance so they can line their swollen belly, teaming with the caffinated cancer of trendy commercialism. It's just a cup of coffee, after all.
I don't believe Tsunamis are God's judgement on the earth any more than I believe AIDS and cancer are. If you think that, Satan has caused you to believe a lie.
I don't believe that the religious right has a monopoly on God or on morality. If you belive Bush or Kerry were the right men for the job, that is your perogative. But I don't think you should malign either one of them with your hate. There's a bigger picture.
I don't believe that people should talk on cell phones while they are driving. They weren't made for that. And one of you bastards hit me while I was walking in the snow last Friday.
I don't believe we should spend as much on ourselves as we do. Honestly, it's gross. If we took one SECOND to think about others, for every DAY we think about ourselves, we would be so disgusted with remorse that we might just save a nation.
I don't believe we should have to chew our food if we don't want to. Even to make an impression on the young. We all know the risk just putting that crap in our system. Why should we have to monitor its processing. If we choke, that's our own fault. We'll deal with it.
I don't believe the independent system should be putting out all the best films. Despite my rants, money is not evil. And Hollywood - you've got some. Show us what you can do with it and we will watch. And speaking of Hollywood...
I don't belive Paul G. got robbed for his performance in Sideways. No Oscar nod? In favor of who...Clint Eastwood. Come on.
I don't believe Nicole when she tells me that this is not really heaven.
I don't believe I can fly.
I don't believe I'm going anywhere unless He takes me there.
I don't believe that un-slouching will make you taller, manlier, or more attractive.
I don't believe that Saturday morning at 10:00 A.M. I will be anywhere other than sitting online with TicketBastard, the burgeoning co-joined twin of Starwax, so I can get my tickets to see U2 in May.
But I...I do believe in love.

The Death of Marshall Mcluhan

So, was Johnny Carson the world's greatest entertainer, or is that a spot we often reserve for ourselves? I'd like to break it down to another level. Simple and free communication. I don't believe that the 'medium is the message'. Those of you not familiar with communication theorists are probably wondering why I seem to have chosen Patricia Arquette as the subject of my blog, but that is not what I am getting at.
With the advent of email, so many years ago, many people, including myself, began to wonder whether this would allow the lost art of letter writing to flourish in a brilliant new way. The romanticism of a bygone era was suddenly new again and we would all become young Rilkes, and love affairs would blossom with an abundance of free flowing words of love. :) LOL Need I say more. I was very dissappointed with our immediate obsession with communication short-cuts. (This is similar to how the ,once merely annoying, Starwax with their day-burn track lighting and day old newspapers forged ground into supremely evil territory when they installed drive-thrus onto their dark dens. Now we can get those $15 caramel mocha latte with soys and never talk to anyone but a box.)
Anyway, with my new found interest in taking time with writing and reading and listening, it causes me to, sort of, hate all this advacement. If things were the way they were when the Tonight Show first aired, it would be alot better around her. I think what we are really trying to communicate with each other is failing. The modern trappings of email and cell phones and instant messaging and, God forbid, even Apple products is numbing us into oblivion. We are, to quote Neil Postman, "amusing ourselves to death". And that just is not right. Prove it to yourself that a machine cannot contain your true feelings. Get some paper in your hand. Get a good pencil. And write that special person in your life a nice long letter. They will thank you for it. They might even write you one back. And what a trend that would be.
Automatic says "I can't live without my IPOD", but I say, "I can't live without my Automatic."

READING AND WRITING

Finally crawled out of the frozen tundra and found myself a better man. Hibernation can be very redeeming when there is a purpose. The last couple of days, God has been sending us loads of freeze-dried manna. No real substance. Just an overall whiteout. So I couldn't really go out of the house. I was to be a snow-driven captive and I had to make the best of it.
Reading outloud was never something that appealed to me. Partially because I can't hear it when others read outloud. (Some kind of block) And partially because I love the sound of my own voice a little too much. But when Nicole told me that she had never experienced Fitzgerald, Hemmingway, Huxley, Sallinger, Henry James...I had to oblige her in a way that would make a sincere difference. We sat for hours on my quilted red day bed. Her head in my lap as I layed out the classics in her mother tongue. Hours and hours. I must admit, things got a little difficult for all involved when I broke out the Henry Miller and Anais Nin, but we managed. And in the grey of the snowy afternoon, God gave love to his children and we started a fire for him. It's still burning. I've been putting on logs every hour since Friday night.
(NEXT DAY)
I'm back now. After the love has gone. The arcade fire is mere cinders and ash and smoke. I had to take all of my clothes down to the Laundromatt and wash the lot of them. I'm talking about everything in the house. Even Nicole's. Automatic had to help me with the 26 loads. Damn. I've got a lot of useless material lying around here. I saw the girl with those strips of color in her hair. She looks amazing. I'll have to watch myself until Nicole comes back. My weekend may have come to an end, but my week is just beginning. My house still smells ablaze. It inspires me as I assume the voice of Holden Caulfield and write. Just write. A rant. No cough syrup necessary.

MEDIA FOR THE MASSES

Okay, so I know that I have railed about this from the start. That mass-consumerism that seems to seep into the pores of our being. It is so prevelant, we don't even realize it. We are the toxic people I so desperately want to escape from. I do know this - at no given time is it ever appropriate to step inside a Starwax for any reason other than to A: Talk to someone who looks interesting or that you already know and eventually get around to asking them what the hell they are doing in such a soul-sucking place. Or B: To protest. Now...I will make that stand and then turn around and order a cup of coffee when I am in a Barnes and Noble BOOK SUPERSTORE with my daughter. Well, for those who are not aware, Barnes and Noble has some sort of co-op deal with the devil. Hence they sell the Starwax coffee. I haven't investigated this very far, but they might actually BE Starwax coffee.
So, am I a hypocrite. It's beginning to strike at the core of my moral fiber and I am scared.
And what about the whole partially hydrogenated thing? Is fooling myself by assuming ignorance of ingredients really just a paper tiger sort of stance? I'm wondering.
But then, there is the purpose of this posting...BLOCKBUSTER. Which as you know, I have railed about before. Not only for their shortage of good film and their permeance of Hollywood mediocrity, but just because there are too damn many of them. They're getting to be like Starwax - on every corner - and that's not good. I don't think. Well, it just makes it hard for Jim and Betty Blue's Film Store is all. But recently, there has been a change. No, I am not talking about NO LATE FEES. I am talking about their direct mail order rental system. $14.99 a month with 30,000 films. Guaranteed for a year. Same specs as Netflix, who are currently at $17.99 a month with only 25,000 films. Who sounds better to a starving artist, who is obsessed with film, and who can't think of a better way to spend his unemployment check? I know, I know. And I was checking their website for everthing. Stuff by Ozu, Antonioni, Bergman, all the Criterion Collection, etc. They had it all. What's a poor man to do but sell his soul? Excuse me while I stack my queue.

THE ART OF LUCIDITY

Automatic said, "Go high up on that mountain and if you yell out what you really want...you'll get it." Of course, I don't believe him. Nothing is that easy. The desires of my heart are always just a couple of steps away, but a couple of steps might as well be across the world. I'll tell you what I really want because here, in this venue, I can share it all raw and it doesn't cost me a thing. I want my heart back.
Sometimes I wonder where I'd be without Nicole around. She seems to bring me so much warmth that I shudder to think what banality would overcome me if a true vanishing occured. Just so we're clear about things, it's her that has my heart. She's had it for a while. Since the dream. And normally I wouldn't mind it so much. But she spends so much time out of the apartment. Out in the world. Drifting among all those toxic people. Drinking coffee with them even. And things just aren't the same anymore. She comes home dizzy, with her hair ratted out, smelling like cigarettes and failing - utterly - in the art of lucidity. That is not the Nicole I fell in love with. I wouldn't mind the time away at all. Just so she comes back. When she's here, she's never really here. And this is the keeper of my heart we're talking about. It would be so wonderful if we were back in the dream together. Like before. Walking around London in sweatshirts and long hair. Searching for open benches to lean into and let hours slip away.
These days...God know where she is. She has something very important of mine, and I want it back. My heart or her. She can decide. For now, I have some mountain climbing to do.

GIVE THE PEOPLE WHAT THEY WANT

Automatic said everything is not what it seems. We don't live and die by the word here. And nothing is off limits to the manipulation of the creative soul. You see, everytime I tell a million people that my love life is shot and I spend hours crying in desperation and often think about what it would feel like to kill myself...I'm just being an artist. Give me a break. Do you think this is how I actually live my life? Currently I have been binging on Aleve. They say if you use this over the counter drug everyday, for a series of days, you could be jolting yourself right into the ground. It, evidently, causes heart attacks by the bottleful. I'm game. So I indulge. Six, maybe seven a day for about 3 weeks now. It gives me a lush feeling most of the time like being wrapped in cotton, dipped in starch, one of the two. But mostly, it helps me get over myself and puts me closer to my destiny. Waxing into oblivion. If I live to be 40, it will be a miracle of God. Which I completely belive in, so don't give up hope for me yet.
Anyway, this manipulation of the creative soul that I partake of...I don't feel guilty about it one bit. Who want's to hear about a trip to the laundromatt? Honestly? Wouldn't you rather be baited with the details of my sexual shortcomings, or hear about my desperation as I pine for Nicole, alone in this coffin of self-depravation? Sure you would. And if I can tell you that...tucked nicely in a soft, fluffy, but compelling metaphor. And play a little rock and roll in the background. Charmingly, at the ear-bleeding level. Then I am doing my job. Pretty damn well, I might add.
So...as the strains of The Arcade Fire blare in the background, think about me...alone, distraught, and hopped up on Aleve, contemplating the weight of desire in a sexually aggrevated cabaret of persistence. I need you Nicole. I need thee every hour.

SACRED/PROFANE

Why is it that angels spend all their time hanging around on the ground not doing much of anything? Fighting boredom. Meanwhile, the devils all have wings - their flying around to all the parties in the neighborhood, having a good time and getting their freak on. There is a definite shift in the nature of things and the tsunami has nothing to do with it.
(Just as a side note for those of you who keep a file on the abslolutely ridiculous - a friend of mine, in the aftermath of the wreckage in south east asia, made the comment that "it was something about all those people dying in that hurricane, wasn't it?" I told you it was ridiculous)
But...in regards to the nature of things here at home, where - God willing - we have been blessed to not have to be on the recieving end of such apocalyptic destruction, I give you angels and devils. Now I, when the chips have all fallen, am an angel. That doesn't mean I am perfect. It just means that I do the "right thing" more than I do the "wrong thing". I'll let you figure out the politics of the morality in that one. So...I stand back and watch the devils, (the opposite of my definition of angels - for all you geniuses who believe in the hurricane like my friend), and I think...damn. Devils be having fun.
I mean I have fun as an angel. Don't get me wrong. But I still think...damn. Devils be having fun. So, how do I balance that? I don't. I fight tooth and nail everyday, with all my being, to keep this halo from falling off. Not only that, but I try to convince other people to become angels as well. I never said I didn't want to be an angel. Just that it's hard sometimes when the devils are wearing plunging necklines of red, silky fur and saying "hi sexy". Meanwhile, I keep the devils at bay by watching them on my 27inch color flat screen HD ready television. Waiting for the end of time and trying to make peace in this world by waging a war. I'll get my wings back one of these days. Damn greedy devils.

ELEVATE ME

Automatic said don't be a lazy blogger, but it's hard to focus when you're trying to save the world. Maybe I could do it one blog at a time, but I want to give them more. Something of substance. As things stand now it's just enough rope to form a noose.
When the dreams don't suck me dry, and when Nicole is vacationing down under, it's easy to see things for how they really are. And it scares the hell out of me. Who is there among us that is willing to scream the truth at any cost? Who is there among us the is willing to shed the materialism of X-Box Live and extend our hands to those sliding into the ocean? Who is there among us that is willing to forgo that Caramel Machiato so that pink and brown babies can eat? Who is there among us that is willing to stop thinking about our lover's breasts for one night and hold her like there will be no sunrise? Who is there among us that gives one true shit? I'll be honest...I don't know if I do sometimes.
Every day I say "God - give me purpose. Use me. Somehow. I don't want to be meaningless." Then I blog - maybe not as frequently as Automatic. Then I write - maybe not frequently enough to deem my artist status. Then I eat. And sleep. Maybe watch a movie. And try to make sense of life in the city. Scared. Unemployed. Trying to make theatre really happen for the first time. Ever.
Maybe it wont keep those bodies from sliding into the ocean. But then again, maybe it will. Maybe He will. And then maybe...I can.