The Cult of Bud

Did you ever stop and think about that sign in the window? The one you see throughout the city? The one with a threat so severe, it is sure to ward off any potential wrong-doer?

WE CALL POLICE!

Then there's that bizarre symbol twisted into a circle, that follows the threat. What is that? Is it supposed to have something to do with the police? It could be anything. The symbol of neighborhood unity. The logo for Portillo's Hotdogs. Anything.
So, what is the meaning behind this sign? Really? Are we to believe that normal people - people that haven't put this sign in their window - would be okay with intruders, trespassers and general mayhem makers? We just invite them in? Right? Forget the police. These moments are just too rich to hand over to the involvement of the authorities. I guess we want to be raped, robbed and murdered. Should we put up a sign, just to be sure that happens. And soon.

WE DON'T CALL POLICE!!

The reason that I bring up the stupidity of this sign is that they have one in their window. And by they, I mean the Asian Dog-worshipping cult across the street.
There are five of them. And at the center piece of their religion is a crippled dog. A Siberian Husky-Chow mix with 2 working legs. Every 3 hours, he is carried out by the five. Three are motivators and two are watchers. Mark my word, if you happen to be outside during the ritual, you will be watched. And like I've already said, they call police.

The canine is brought out on a device with leather straps. The straps form a square through which his legs hang down. Both his working legs and his non-working ones. (I'll just call him Bud from here on out. The pronouns can become tedious.)
So, once Bud is out in the yard, the five Asians lower him with the straps and the ordeal begins. Immediately, the three motivators surround him. Their back to the street. And they begin a low, guttural chant. The watchers turn out to watch the street. Passing cars. Pedestrians. Other animals. Anyone within eye-shot could be danger. God forbid you try to see what they're doing in the yard. God forbid you should try to check out Bud. You will be targeted. They noticed a friend of mine recently. I guess she looked to long. Now when she passes in her car, one of the watchers runs out into the road. Making a note of the plates, I guess. They will follow you into your apartment if you live in the neighborhood. Never breaking the Korean Evil eye. Safe in the comfort of your home, you are violated as they point and stare into your windows. Threatening. Mocking. Frenzied. Am I safe? Should I call police?

As far as I can tell, Bud just sits there. If he does do anything, it is not for my eyes. Honestly, I am scared to look over there at all. I try to avoid going outside when they are there. The ritual last about ½ hour. And during the hours of darkness, a special blue flashlight is used to...well I used to think it was just so Bud could see, but I have a feeling he's blind too. So it must have something to do with the ceremonial procedures of the motivators.

When the ritual is complete, Bud is carried back into the house using the same harness. The watchers linger behind just a bit to focally threaten anyone who might be tempted to sneak a peek. Or those unfamiliar with the ways of the dog. The female watcher is the scariest. She has hair like M.C. Hammer had in that Too Legit to Quit video. And I have no doubt that she would hurt me.

I'd call the cops on those Asians, but I can't be sure they're doing anything illegal. I'd do a little investigation of my own, but I think I've already been tagged and I don't want to risk any further action. I'm sure that I was witnessed in their yard after one of the Bud episodes. I thought that if I could at least find a pile of doogie-doo or something, it might clear up some things. Maybe they were chanting this old soul out of constipation. If they were, they haven't been very successful. Their yard is as clean as a playground.

I'm going to stop trying to figure it all out. I know that somewhere along the line, people did worship dogs. And dog is god spelled backwards. And, don't they eat dogs in Korea? I am so very confused, but it does make me feel better knowing that is Bud's fan club is ever disturbed, they will call police.

SPIKE JONZE LOST

New shit has come to light. I thought, after watching The Virgin Suicides, several years ago, that I was in love with Kirsten Dunst. You see, normally I would never be attracted to that "perky blonde type with slight depression". Then last year, like everyone else, I saw Lost in Translation, and fell in love with Scarlet Johansen. Now she's a blonde. (At least in that movie.) Hardly perky, but slightly more depressive. I fell harder, but stil...not really my type. I don't even know why I am obsessing over this so much. I mean I have Nicole, right? She's blonde. She's beautiful. She's a foreigner. She's wildly thought of as perky. But the secret depression thing - that's my real cup of tea. For the sake of my rant, however, let's leave her out of this.

This weekend I watched Lost in Translation for the second time and it all became clear. I am in love with Sophia Coppola. Granted, she didn't actually write the source material for The Virgin Suicides, but she did do everything else. And to do what she did in those two movies was genius. She took these moments between two people (Kirsten and Josh Hartnet / Scarlet and Bill Murray) and made you ache inside. Made you think you were missing out, no matter how fulfilling the relationship you're in. Made you think you had no idea what love is. Or passion. Or those intense unspoken moments between two people that only seem to exist in that alternate reality of film. People that have seen these movies - do you know what I speak of? Sensitive artistic guys that have seen these movies - you KNOW what I speak of. The good pain that one is left with upon viewing these movies leaves traces of junior high in your bloodstream. That's the only way I know how to say it. Your heart and your soul are screaming and you just want to find a girl - maybe on the streets of Tokyo - and give her some pathetic scrap of colored construction paper with a heart and a check yes or no box and wait for the gift of lasting make-out sessions filled with bubble gum flavored lip gloss kisses and incidental touches of her arms and feet and time. Lots of lingering fragrant time.

It is clear to me that this goes beyond any acting break-through. This is much deeper than any surface affinity I might have for Scarlet or Kirsten. This is about a director that has me ripping my hair out with grief over the loss of something that I never loss. How does she do that? I don't know, but it got me thinking about Sophia in The Godfather III, and how everybody bitched about her performance. I didn't think she was half bad. In fact, I kind of liked her. Thought she was cute. Very cute. And Italian. Like me. And with dark hair and she had these moments with Andy Garcia that were kind of hot. You know, with the pasta dough and all. In fact, I think I'm going to get out my copy and watch it right now. And after that, maybe The Virgin Suicides one more time. And then, hell, I just watched it, but I don't think I'll ever get tired of the torture that Lost in Translation brings.

How does one woman have so much insight into the psychology of human connection? At this point, I've stopped asking questions. Maybe Nicole will get cast in one of Sophia's movies. Wouldn't that be swell. And let me just say this: Spike Jonze, you do some cool movies too, but you're an idiot. When you have someone who thinks that way about feelings like that. When you have someone who can express the notion of love and attraction in a way that puts the world in a sort-of romance coma. When you have someone like that and you walk away from her. You walk away from her while we all watch. And starve to death. Well, you're an idiot.

PATRIOTIC DISSIDENCE

I think it's time to get political again. There's only so many blogs I can write about me and Nicole's ecstatic love for one another. Or about our uncertain future, now that another life may be involved. How about the uncertain future of the United States. For just a minute or two...indulge me.

Not that I haven't been thinking about this for a while, but things flared back up again, the other night when I attended the Dave Egger's reading. Let me relate his story to you as concisely and completely as I am able. Although the real charm in the anecdote came through Egger's relating, here are just the facts

Eggers asked if anyone has been directly affected by the implementing of the Patriot Act. He then explained that he has been working on a biography about a Sudanese man for 3 years now, and had attended a conference in Atlanta last year, where a large group of "the lost boys of Sudan" were meeting. Unfortunately, on the plane leaving Georgia, en route to D.C., he accidentally left behind his writing notebook. Just a black notebook. About the size of a large Moleskine. In this notebook were his notes, obviously, concerning the book he is writing. Among other things. He called the airline as soon as he realized it was missing and they said they had it. It was in the lost and found, and they would send it to him through the us mail. Immediately. Taken care of like that. Great customer service, he thought. Two hours later, however, he received a call from the state department. They said they were in possession of his notebook and would like to talk to him about his "writings".
(I just want to point out, as Eggers did, that writers are known by what they write; crazy people, on the other hand, are marked by their "writings")
Anyway, seems the kind flight attendant, that initially wanted to help out Mr. Eggers and send him his notebook, started to take a peek. What she found was the following: pages of notes on the Sudan story with words like oil and George Bush and terrorists and Sadaam Hussein, and Dave's assorted drawings, which included Yeti snowmen heads and fire. It only took a minute for this flight attendant to put two and two together and derive that Mr Eggers, a Pulitzer prize nominated writer, posed a great threat to this country. She made some calls, and Eggers was met at the gate in D.C. to be questioned about this incriminating notebook.

Am I the only one who finds this scary? Not to mention preposterous? If I were Dave Eggers, I would be pissed. I am pissed. Do you know that I was stopped on my own street about a month ago. The police called me over to their unmarked car with a "Hey, boss. C'mere" Seems there had been some break-ins in the area and they wanted to ask me some questions. Check my id. That sort of thing. And I guess I looked suspicious. Home in the middle of the day with my long hair and Old Navy ski vest. Yeah, I posed a real threat. I shouldn't be so offended since I had nothing to hide. Police just doing their job and all, right? I was profiled because I looked like a delinquent, okay? And that's just not right.

This Patriot Act was supposedly established for our protection, following 9-11. But everything that I've read about it makes me think that the real crime is being perpetrated on us. If my dad is arrested for terrorist activity, they can hold me without cause? For as long as they want? If I buy a new house, I have to sign a waver allowing them to stockpile troops at my house if the government feels it necessary? I just don't know about it all.

My big problem stems from Egger's experience. I am scared about being subject to a government that will hold me accountable or make me defend anything I might write down. Or anything I might read. Did you know that if you check out certain books from the library, you will be "flagged" by the cia? Don't think I will be checking out Mein Kampf anytime soon. I did, however, get a copy of the Patriot Act, and am currently trudging through the 342 pages in pdf format.

Maybe I am overreacting a bit. But isn't this the land of the free and the home of the brave? I am sure that my government knows better about what is needed for my protection than me. And maybe a little invasion of privacy is a small price to pay for not being blown up. But, I just don't feel very free or brave anymore.

Mr Eggers and Mrs Spears

I went to hear Dave Eggers speak last night. The author of the most amazing book I haven't read yet - The Heartbreaking Work of a Staggering Genius. Some might know him from his work in The Believer. Or from McSweeneys, the print/online journal and mast head under which The Believer is published. Also his baby. Which he said he started just to say that he could do it. Even though it would probably lose a lot of money.

He was in Chicago as part of Columbia College's Literary Festival : The Politics of Story. The Literature of Rock and Roll. Dave was joined by Joe Meno, another writer who wrote a book I've been meaning to read, Hairstyles of the Damned. But I am here to pay homage to Dave right now. He shared quite a few pieces of fiction, beginning with a list of nine conceivable titles that Charles Bukowski might have written if he wrote kid's books. The list had been passed to him by a friend, but it was hilarious and dead on, though not from Egger's directly. Why don't I think of this stuff? My favorite title was Wishbones are from Turkeys, Harlots are from Hell.

My very favorite part of Egger's set, however, was his reading of several letters addressed to various CEO's of Fortune 500 companies. He wrote these letters under the guise of a man named Daniel, from Austin, Texas. And Daniel, from Austin, Texas, wrote under the guise of Stephen, a very frisky Irish Setter with a potty mouth. Follow that? (If not, I believe the letters were originally published in McSweeneys,(http://www.mcsweeneys.net/ , so you can check it out there.) But I laughed so hard when Eggers assumed the voice of this dog, that I thought it only appropriate to continue in my homage by testing out the device.

In order to abstain from any political critique (for today only), I will send my letter, not to any CEO, but to a pop culture icon. And in an effort to remove myself from any similarities to Stephen, the Irish Setter, my letter will be from Jason Hill, the black cat with no fear. Thanks for the inspiration Mr. Dave Eggers.

Dear Mrs. Spears,
I am writing to you today with the knowledge that it could be my very last letter. I am at the doctor right now and they are checking my pee, since I have continually had problems with blockage. It may be fatal. Hence the whole bit of melodrama about it possibly being my last letter and all. But death doesn't scare me. It's just been pretty damn painful. I don't know if you've ever had any trouble with blockage at all. Maybe Kevin has. But it gets pretty bad. Sometimes I just lay around on the floor and cry. But, anyway, I know that my blockages are not really your concern. Let me tell you why I am writing.

My name is Jason Hill, and I am a black cat. I live with these two women, and I guess you could say they treat me okay. But, honestly, they think I'm some kind of idiot. Constantly monitoring me as if they knew best. They don't feed me half the time. Well, they feed me, but the one tries to give me petroleum jelly like it's some kind of candy. And the strips off her maxi-pads. What the hell am I supposed to do with those? The other one tries to keep me from 'acting out' anytime I get it in my head to try and have a little fun. Okay, so I like to aggravate the other cat that lives here, Harrison. But I mean, he's a little bitch. Can't take a little screwing around. I ruffle his hair a little bit or get close to his food and he starts crying for his mommy. If he was just fuming about his name, I'd understand. It's just as stupid sounding as mine. But he cant even stand me near him. I'd like to pounce him. Like I said, he's a little bitch. Then the girls shot me with the water bottle. Well, one of them does. I mean, I don't really give a shit. It's all fun to me. But it's the principle of the whole thing. I feel completely misunderstood. I'm absolutely sure you understand this. Granted you probably don't enjoy burying things, but you probably do feel gravely misunderstood by the media. I see all that shit they say about you. She lines my litter box with the newspaper. So, I wanted you to know that I am on your side. Personally, I think your marriage to Kevin has a chance.

This leads me to the reason for my letter.
I don't know if you have a cat or not? Or if you've ever thought about it. I am aware of little BitBit from his pictures. And I can assure you that we would get along. But this is my plea to you for a relationship of emotional respect. Knowing that I have a condition that is possibly terminal. I would like nothing more than to be able to spend the remainder of my days with you and Kevin. In an environment where I am taken seriously, rather than one where I have to worry about getting squirted because I got on the counter at the wrong time. Or where I am made to play with some stupid fake mouse, hanging from a bungee cord on the back of a closet door. I hate that shit. I am so bored. Do you know that one time, I had to pee so bad I was screaming and they wouldn't even take me to the doctor because they had no money. They had spent their last dollars on some electric skillet from Amazon.com. At least I know that I'd never have to worry about that with you. I'm young and I would even keep my ass clean. All on my own. All for you Britney. Please consider this an invitation of my services to you. I would be a good cat. I know that you would not treat me like I was stupid because you understand the kind of abuse I have fallen victim to. And I could finish the remainder of my days in peace. Content to be your pet. Please contact me as soon as possible, because I could be dead soon. They're coming back to insert the catheter. I have to go now.

Sincerely,
Jason Hill

A Work of Fiction

I have been spending a lot of time in the library. It's probably one of my favorite places in the world. If I go downtown, there are 8 floors of heaven. Including one just for A/V materials. Reasonably, I could go in, with nothing but my citizenship in the good city of Chicago, and come out with the Criterion Collection DVD of The Last Temptation of Christ, the cd soundtrack for the Buena Vista Social Club, a vinyl copy of the Stone's Exile on Main Street, and copy of Phillip Roth's new novel. Can you do that in Barnes and Noble? Not to mention all the other amenities of a billion-dollar, city-funded resource. So that's really fun for a vacation every now and then. But usually, I hang out in my local branch. Sort of the Jim's Pub to downtown's Taj Mahal. But it has it's finer points. The least of these being that it is a block from my house.

Now a library sounds like a depressing place to be. I know. But Nicole has gone to see her mother while we are sorting some things out. This whole thing with the delayed menstrual cycle has put quite a scare on us both.
Anyway, the library is not depressing. Granted there are a lot of seemly characters that hang out there. Primarily because it is a free place to go. Out of the cold. But I go there to write. And read. And post this blog. It's not good for man to be alone in his apartment. Plus, its easy to get tired to death of depicting the plight of human nature in my work, if I am not spending any substantial time 'being' in human nature. I have to give props to Thomas Mann for that one.

So today, as I am sitting in the corner of the Sulzer branch, out of the way, I hear a ruckus. A class of 10th graders from the Chicago Public School system. They are taking a field trip. A tour of the library. My library. And they are not quiet. Now, I could give you several incriminating anecdotes that show how inadequate the education of this band of 16 year olds actually is. But that would be the perception of one person, right? I will give you one example of an actual overheard portion of the tour. You tell me.

TEACHER: Now over here is where the fiction section is housed. A fiction book is a story that isn't real. It isn't true. Like The DaVinci Code by Dan Brown. That is fiction. They are arranged in these rows here. Alphabetical. By the author's last name. Can anyone give me an example of another fiction?

I wanted to stop them right then and there. I wanted to raise my hand and say, "OOOHHHH, I KNOW! I KNOW! The Fox News Channel!" Oh to be 16 again and to know then what I know now. Seriously though, politics aside, am I to believe that a kid in the 10th grade, in the city of Chicago, does not know what the word fiction means? Shouldn't this tour have taken place like...10 years ago. My daughter was writing fiction by the time she was 8.

So if the killings in Minnesota spurred me to admonish you to aggressively love your children, this should encourage you to take your kids to the library every once and a while. Read them books. Fiction and otherwise. Teach them to read. Don't wait for the educators of the world to spoon-feed them their knowledge. And while this is no slight on American teachers (who I am sure are very intelligent and work very hard at what they do), at no time should your child's education be sloughed off as the sole responsibility of the state school system.

Some Kind of Monster

So it's happened again. The media says "echoes of Columbine. The media says he may have asked a student if they believed in God before he killed them. The media says that he may have favored Nazism. Of course they do. Anything to draw a line between us and this horror. A great chasm. Between us, the good American people and the monsters that perpetrate these horrible acts upon the innocent. We've been led to believe that separation is our defense instead of the cause of all this. I am not going to pretend that I know what was going on in his mind when he did what you did yesterday. Or what all the influences were, that swayed his decision to kill. But I do know who is to blame. I do know who failed. Who failed him. I have an idea.

First know that is wasn't Marilyn Manson. Or Ozzy Osborne or Snoop Dog. Nor was it God or the church. You can't even blame the devil. Not directly at least. It wasn't gansta rap or Hitler. It wasn't alcohol or drug abuse. It's not the violence that we see in our movies and television programs. Or in the video games we try to monitor for our children. It's not even the slack gun laws that we have in the United States. (Although I think they are deplorable. Please see Bowling For Columbine if you haven't already) What it boils down to is this - absence. Both physical and emotional. That is what is changing our children into monsters. Automatic says he was bored by Elephant, but he had to admit, it scared him. I think that Mr. Gus Van Sant has a clearer picture than anyone in the media of what is eroding our youth. We are.

I have a nine-year-old daughter. Automatic has a son. I think I can speak for him when I say that I am going to do everything in my power to love on my kid. To be there for her. To let her know how far I would go to protect her. What I would do for her well being. I look at Eric and Dylan, and what they did in Colorado, 6 years ago next month, and my heart hurts. Why did no one know what was going on with them? Why did no one care? What do I have to do to save my daughter from the same fate? I think I have to be there. Don't say it wont happen to your kid, because that's when things start to slip. Know that you have a weakness. We all do. And work on your child's life like it was your own. Some of us can't seem to get our head out of our own problems, much less be involved in our children's lives as much as we should.

What happened yesterday was horrible. What happened in Columbine was equally horrible. But it's not going to stop. It will keep going. Until we fight for the soul and hearts of our children. Without us, you might as well consecrate them to the evil one, because they are fucked for life. And that's what keeps happening. The media wants you to believe that these children, (because that's really what they are), are monsters. Evils that are beyond comprehension. That we can't understand. Here's what I understand about what happened yesterday in Minnesota:

His mother died of brain cancer.
His father killed himself because of it.
He lived with his grandfather.
His grandfather was busy. With his girlfriend.
He had troubles at school and worked from home.
He had no friends.
He was made fun of because he was different. Wore all black.
He was a 17 year old kid.

All the characteristics of a monster, right?
I don't want to be blamed for what happened yesterday. But if I don't make my daughter's life as important as mine...I don't really have a choice but to take some of that on myself.

REGENERATION

It been a heavy weekend. Sunday. Palm Sunday. Bringing with it the burden of the coming holy week. The burden of a debt I can never repay. And to add to the guilt, of which I am very worthy, the pain of Saturday's anniversary. Two years since the U.S. launched a pre-emptive strike in the middle east. If I am not to blame, why do I feel so bad? The end of this weekend also brings the beginning of Spring. And Nicole is late. You know what I am talking about. The kind of late for which I am to blame. How can one person take in this much?
Spring: Bring it on. I have a fondness for Winter and Fall, but getting warmer is not going to kill me. I don't think. Flowers come out and I guess that's cool. It's the season that really speaks to awakenings of all kinds. A metaphorical moment of rebirth. But this year, there's a chance that hits too close to home. I'm struggling. Trying to take care of myself. What will awakenings do for me? It's like spit in the face. A mirror to my spinning wheels. I might be able to take off the heavy coat, but regeneration scares the hell out of me.
Nicole's late: I think I've expressed my concern. I mean, she wasn't around enough this last month for it to come as anything other than a shock. She hadn't had a chance to go to the doctor and didn't want me to worry. As if she didn't have enough dealing with her and Tom's kids. And my Courtney. Does the world really need another out of work actor/writer? Pray for me.
Palm Sunday: I took communion today. And tried to process the meaning of the coming week. It's so hard trying to figure it all out. To want to know why. And how. What did I do anyway? To warrant all that love? When I take the time to really mediate on it all, I keep coming back to the same thing. I am just a piece of shit. Forget Nicole. Forget my daughter. None of it means a thing by comparison. I certainly don't deserve them. Much less Him. What He did. I'm an asshole.
2 Year Anniversary: I had every intention to attend a vigil or something. Maybe not a demonstration or anything as political as all that. But at least some candles. And some prayer. And some hope for those who have loss. Some love for those who will lose. And some thoughts on how we can do a better job with the little bit of kindness we have to give. The day came and went and I was watching some Disney movie. Eating turkey chili and drinking pop. Distracting myself while people died for the 712th day in a row.
See what I mean about heavy? I want to learn something about death and life. About birth and rebirth. About love and war. About peace and happiness. But I need to pace myself. Stop trying to cram it into 2 � days. Or my time will come and go and I will know nothing. I will have done nothing. Save some stupid words on a page. Then I will have to give an account. A blank account. I'm starting to realize one thing for sure. Despite what they tell me, life is real. It's not just fodder for television.

1984

I am beginning to think that Star***ks has more of a hold on my life than I am willing to admit. I know, I know, I have become somewhat of a champion of the independent. Independent everything. From convenience stores (other than 7-11 or White Hen) to record stores (other than Virgin or Tower). And I still believe it is very important to support those who have less in the world. Thus making us more equal in a way. This is the part of me that really, really, wants to trust the power of Socialism. But lately, I have considered why, especially, Star***ks has been demonized so much at my hands.
These thoughts have led me here:

During the 80's, when I was in high school, absorbing summers full of the Replacements and the Cure, the good REM and Sonic Youth, I had a conversation with my then girlfriend, Joyce. Seems Joyce was a bit perplexed with my musical taste, never satiated with my side affinity for 38 Special and Survivor. Our exchange went something like this:

(On a date. In my blue Pinto station wagon. The Cure's Killing an Arab blasting on my radio from K-Mart.)
Joyce - Why do you listen to that stuff?
James - What are you talking about? This is good music.
Joyce - No, it's not. It doesn't even make sense.
James - It's not supposed to make sense.
(*I was aware that this music - especially a song as loaded as Killing and Arab - made perfect sense. It was pointed and spoke to an awareness of consciousness. I was just too exhausted to go there with her)
Joyce - Well, I think that you listen to all this ‘alternative' music because you just want to stick out and be different.
James - I do not. I really like this stuff.

Now, we sort of moved on after that. Started making out or something after I changed the cassette to the Rocky 4 soundtrack, but I never forgot that conversation. Yes, I did want to be different. I did want to stand out. But I also really liked the music. And though I had no point of reference when Paul Westerberg was singing about vomit crusted floors and cigarette burns, I was completely passionate about this new sound. It made me think about freedom for the first time in my sixteen-year-old life. Freedom by way of grabbing this ‘less popular' form of culture and making it my own. Screw Top-40 music. Why did I want to listen to everything that everybody else was listening to?
So, this idea sort of sums up my problem with Star***ks. They are the big dog in the coffee world and I rebel against that. They represent everything that I don't support. But, just a few years ago, I could be found there. Sunday mornings with a paper, coffee dates and script meetings. So do I really think they are evil? Maybe not. It's just easier to give a face to the fragments of my teenage angst. And now, with a close friend contemplating employment with these grande gargoyles, I have to ask myself...what's my problem? I have some writing to finish up this afternoon. Dare I consider a Venti Caramel Mochiata with my freedom of expression? Maybe while Michael Stipe croons Don't Go Back to Rockville in the background.

THE TAO OF AUTOMATIC

Automatic asked "where the fuck are you, man? What the fuck is going on and where the fuck are you?!" I've got to be honest with you, even though I haven't been with myself...I don't really know where the fuck I am. Now I'm not depressed or anything. Don't kid yourself. I'm too big for that emotion. Plus, we've been through that one already. It's just that I've been thinking a lot about 1997, and that has my perspective all screwed up.
Is it wrong to long for simpler times? Is it wrong to look at the past every now and then and want to lie there for a while? Sleeping. Blaring THE UNFORGETABLE FIRE ten years after the fact, and completely unaware of the present. I used to work in the laundromatt and it was hell. Going through everyone else's dirty clothes except my own. Longing for that one girl with the blue hair that would wash on Wednesdays. Every Wednesday. Without fail. And thinking how perfect life was with her in it. How more perfect it could be if she would just let me wash her clothes for her. How perfect it would be to just get a little closer. Of course, I never did get beyond a peek at her lacy things while she stepped out for a cup of coffee. They weren't very lacy. But that didnt matter at all. They were her private moments. Suspended in the tumble mode.
I had the wisdom of Automatic being pushed into my life on a regular basis. And that kept me sane. Partly because he had as much shit as me. Partly because I watched him learn to cry. And partly because he was the closest thing to home I had ever experienced. Blue girl or not.

So where did all that go? 1997. Like Mr. Corgan's 1979. Lost forever, I think. No tangible remnants remaining. Beyond my fractured memory. Pathetic at best. Now I have to make all these huge decisions. Like what is life all about? Or what do I do next so I don't end up on the streets eating out of garbage cans? Selling old baseball cards. I can't ride on Nicole forever. Who knows. We might not even make the long haul. You know how those Hollywood things work out. Or don't work out. And we are only half of that. I don't even really deserve her in my life. But I am not going to spend any time being self-deprecating. I just want to know what's in store for me, you know? I want to know where I am. Because that will determine everything. And if I can't figure that out, I might as well learn how to be content as a slack-ass. Sponging off people for the rest of my life. Writing whenever I get the chance, but really just existing to find out what happens tonight on 'must see tv'.
So, to answer your question...I don't know where the fuck I am. I'm working on that right now. But I applaud your insight. From the distance of 2000 miles, you are the only one who seems to be able to reach out and know that I am feeling lost. So very far from home. Since 1997 is only going to ever come around once, as far as I can tell, I want to thank you for being there. No one else will ever know who the fuck we were. Or where the fuck we were going. Or what the fuck we planned to do when we got there. Somehow, I still think things are like that. And I am, at least, happy with that.

SOCIALISM AND DEPRESSION

Let's face it. The art of moping. The act of locking yourself in your apartment, listening to nothing but Nick Drake, Jeff Buckley and Nirvana. (Sarah's Fumbling Towards Ecstasy for all the metrasexuals) The awe of pain washing over you like scalding, stagnant bathwater. It's really no respecter of persons, is it?
Can you explain to me why the rich commit suicide? Or why the homeless are the most happy? Why, after your only child dies, you take a 6 month vacation to Fuji, and it ends up being the best time of your life? Or why, after finding the cure for cancer and being championed by the medical community, forget the world, you slash your wrists in defeat? I just can't figure it out. Other than God must have made us all very different. Big enlightening moment, right? But think about it for a second. Is it really fair? I mean, just because I've been blessed with tolerance at large and get my non-anxious view of life from a pure source, rather than from a little purple pill, does that make things easier for me? Yes, it does. But I don't necessarily like it.
Despite the circumstances, (and mind you, I have had no great tragedies in my life yet), I remain relatively calm throughout. Would I be pretty upset if I lost Nicole? Yes. Would I want to kill somebody if they ever hurt my daughter? Of course. But I am even keel, and don't continually stuggle under the cloud of darkness most artists languish in. Does my work suffer because of it? Maybe, but I'll take my chances. A good dash of Bukowski and Hubert Selby Jr should fix me right up. This while I sunbathe with a glass of orange juice while sketching my plans for the future.
Why were so many other people born with the incapacity to deal with their shit. It's their shit, after all. In a world where anything could really happen to anybody at any time, we should have been given what it takes to deal with the inevitable in a healthy, and even productive, manner. Right? It's only fair.
Some would say that we don't live in a fair world. Automatic says it all the time when he contemplates a future without the majesty of maternal mentoring. I tend to agree with him. But I will say this. If I could figure out how to take the pain and suffering of our nation, (what I would call a necessary evil if I believe in the sovereignty of God), and spread it around so that we all feel it. Equally. None greater than the next. Than I would do what it took. I would hope. I would make that sacrifice I know I would have to make, and pray I had enough love for humankind in my heart to follow through until the end.
If I lost a daughter, or if you lost a mother, or if a Tsunami hit the suburbs of Illinois, at least I would know that things would be fair for the very first time.

PANIC ON THE STREETS OF LONDON

I have been doing a bit of reading lately. Outloud. To Nicole. A trend I started about a month ago, when things had frozen over outside, and I was forced into hibernation. Today, it's pretty nice out, despite a temperature below 20 degrees.
Anyway, Nicole and I are curled up on the red couch again, and I am telling her the tale of little Davey Copperfield, as it unfolds for the very first time for both of us. All this time, all my immense love of books, and criticism of books, and I have never read a Charles Dickens novel. Not even the classic A Christmas Carol. (Though I've seen countless reditions on stage and on film) Go figure.
Dickens is considered, by more than a few people, to be the greatest writer of all time. And if that wasn't enough prompting for me, Nick Hornby, (who I AM familiar with), says, in his lateset book of essays on the books he reads, that Dicken's novel David Copperfield, is the best novel ever written. Actually, he says that Dickens is the greatest writer ever. That he had exhausted the bibliography, except Copperfield, and that while reading this final of Dicken's books, decided that it was his greatest. So the logic follows that this must be the best and greatest novel ever written. At least in Hornby's eyes. Which is good enough for me.
So, as reading outloud takes it's toll on your vocal cords, and because I have to wait and contend with Nicole's schedule and my mood, I am only on page 125 after 3 weeks. Only 700 pages left. But, let me tell you, it is a great pleasure.
My opinion, after avoiding Dickens for all these years, for fear of his long-winded-ness, is that Dickens probably is the greatest writer of all times. Even without Hornby's opinion. The richness, the insight, the detailed melancholy, the character, the voice of that age is so captivating. Why did I wait for so long? The thing that I find the most compelling, though, in the way that Dickens spins his myths across the grid of a ravaged and bleak England, is the heart of his hero. (I say this only being familiar with little Davey at this point, but I expect it to be true in the case of all his books - which I intend to devour in the future.) It's good to be shaken up through the forcefullness of good literature, and that's what Dickens has a knack for. It's inspiring. So, if you haven't read him yet, please...go out and get one. Any one. Start with A Tale of Two Cities even. Nicole tells me that's a good one. Although, we did have a little dispute over what was the best start to a novel ever. You tell me..."It was the best of times. It was the worst of times." Overrated or not. I'd be willing to bet that the best stuff is to be found on the inside.