One of my rare current-events blogs.

I don't know why but I thought this was quite an interesting, newsworthy story, buried under an inauspicous headline.
U.S. TRADE CHIEF LABORS TO MEND RIFT WITH EUROPE OVER WAR (LA Times 5/3/03)

This does not seem like breaking news. It's been the gyst of one story after another. The interesting thing was the mention of a mini-summit held by "The coalition of the unwilling". France, Germany, Belgium and Luxembourg sent representatives to a summit in Brussels; one of their points of discussion was the proposed creation of new military facilities independent of NATO. U.S. Trade Rep Robert Zoellick characterized "the four nation summit as a somewhat odd security meeting, held by that paragon of power, Brussels."
O.K., now that's not being polite.

It really is the end of the world as we knew it. The U.S. is likely going to close most of, or all of its military facilities in germany, such as the massive bomber base at Ramstein. It seems to me that the end of NATO is a far more impacting story, than the ongoing struggle to maintain trade relations between the U.S. and Europe (read: France). Americans may boycott French wine, but they'll never stop buying AUDIs and Beemers.

Went to see CITY OF GHOSTS last night at the Arc-light. I highly reccomend this film! *Out there* is the best I can describe it. I had set out to see the 9:45 showing of a French documentary on migrating birds, but the ticket sellor informed me that it was not open yet.
My expecttions were somewhat low for CITY OF GHOSTS, and 20 minutes into it I was considering walking out. The first part of the film is set in New York, and it seemed to go nowhere and offer nothing. But this turns out to be a set up, and the rest of the film takes place in Cambodia... And that's all I'm saying about that.
It was during the opening credit sequence that I saw the Director of Photography was Jim Denault. I worked my first day as an electric on an HBO thing he was shooting up in Connecticut. I was really ignorant about set life then, and I remember repeatedly embarrassing myself as I tried to figure out the walkie-talkie in front of all these PAs... But nevertheless, Jim Denault is doing very well for himself. He also photographed BOYS DON'T CRY, so I gather he only takes the scripts that are interesting to him.

Yet another famous person I briefly overlapped with in New York.

I lost two blogs in a row. It has shaken my bogging life down to the boiler room.

What kind of scoundrel is trying to silence me?

Bob, have you rewired this thing? Has anyone strange been around your computer?

Today seemed to be the day of saying: enough is enough. Let's dispense with the kid leather... Get down to some nogahyde.

At some point during the weekend that I packed up my apartment in San Francisco, I was sitting on the porchhaving a smoke when a neigbhour approached me from across the street. It was pretty late, like around 11:30.
The guy was somene I saw around and exchanged pleasantries with, usually in Portuguese - to the best of my ability: Brazilian he was and I seemed to remember his name was Favio. He was friends with another Brazilian I knew who worked at Serrano's Pizzeria. Local color.
He came walking up with a big smile, and politely asked if he was disturbing me. He had a favor to ask - and it was to be a one time favor - and he hated to ask. He hated to bother me, he emphasized, with something so stupid.
I nodded my head slowly, trying to make something of his elaborate preamble. Just the mere fact that Favio had approached me so intently at 11:30 had me scrutinizing him somewhat. Disturbing a relatively unfamilar neigbhour at such a late hour, with an elaborate, convoluted story - seemed upon reflection to be outside the realm of acceptable behaviour. Night is the land of shadows, and it's pretty uncool to roll up on someone you don't know- and not at least be out with whatever it is they need - which better be pretty fucking important anyway.
What it came down to was Favio needed me to lend him $20 bucks, because his Brazilian ATM card wasn't working, and he had a girl on her way from SFO in a cab, and she didn't have any yankee-dollars, and there was no way to blah blah - and could I lend him the money? It seemed like a pretty hinky story. I hate being a sap, and I try not to take the position, but he'd always seemed like a nice guy. He dressed pretty well - kind of a long hair, tattoo on his bicep surfer type. Whatever. Maybe I'm stupid, but I took a chance. It's seemed like the neigbhourly thing to do. What's the gambIe I thought: $20 on the goodness of the human race; I'll take those odds. I'd considered asking for his watch as collateral, but that seemed rather mean and ungentlemanly.. I'd feel like some moth-eaten old pawnbroker, taking the guy's watch off like that. Making someone give up their watch seems very dehumanizing - It's kind of like; "You won't be needing this anymore." There's a thing about a watch in The Pianist. It's always the last act of desperation when you sell or trade away a watch

Of course favio never showed up with the money. All the next day kept an eye open for him, but he was gone like Buddy Holly. And I felt like a jackass. Had I learned nothing from three years of living in the Mission district?
Two weeks went by and I finsihed moving down to L.A.: The sting of Favio's little scam passed - I'd even forgotten about it, when who should I run into today? I don't think he was expecting to see me. And again, there were more greetings and saluations. Where had I been, he asked pleadingly. As he explained how he'd come by, again and again... And I just stared at him. When I finally answered, it wasn't in playfully broken Portuguese.
"What the fuck is up with my money dog?" I asked, without a trace of humor. "You got it? Give it to me now."
He padded both his front pockets with his hands, to indicate that he wasn't carrying twenty bucks. I insisted that he absolutely had to put the money in my hand that day. Slipping between Englisn and Portuguses, he protested that he had wanted to pay me, and that I was treating him like "um vago".
"As far as I'm concerned you are a vago." I said. "I want $20 in my hand to-day."
I turned slowly to walk away, then looked back.
"To-day." I said for the third and last time.

I'd related the story to my pop as we sat out on his front porch. I told him all about the Tag Heuer watch the guy'd had, and I laughed scornfully about the vago brand. I also laughed and bragged about how I'd kept repeating "to-day", emphasizing the two separate words, like Robert deniro says in Goodfellas. We were laughing, and kicking it like that when Favio walked up and handed me a twenty dollar bill folded in four.
"Thank you." I said pleasantly. I took the note and held it in front of my face.
Favio walked off sullenly, his hands in his pockets.
"Looks like it's your day to make deals." My pop said.
I admired the likeness of Mr. Jackson on the double sawbuck.
"Yeah, it looks like." I said smiling.






























At least he wasn't going around with a 12ga. and a roll of duct tape. I gave him three cigarettes: How's that for compassion? I was very worldbeat then.

Watching Baby play at the dogrun I got to thinking... That in the future we will likely see a greater tendency towards an international socialist system - despite the present conservative trend. What with all the nation remodelling the "coalition" is undertaking (Iraq is what's known as a tear-down), there will probably be a merging of the duties of the U.N. and the big international lending and development agencies. The basis of interventionism lies in a kind of internationalism, despite the lack of consensus on the part of the U.N.

I think history bears out that such an enterprise as a international socialist system requires a strong central power, and the world does not want for one of those lately. And socialism seems to be the likely destiny for a civilization driven by its quest for perfection: It's better living through science.

I'm not saying this a good thing, fellow bloggers - it's just a prediction.

We left the dogrun, and baby and I were walking up Duane St. to where I'd parked the truck. It had just stopped raining half an hour before, and I carried a new, black, gentleman's umbrella. The streets were still wet. As we were on the steepest part of the grade, two big dogs suddenly came running out of a yard and straight at me and Baby. The dog that got to us first was REALLY big - like over 100 lbs and his mate was two-thirds that size.
I was completely stunned by the speed at which they were upon us. I hadn't time but for four synapses: Dogs, big, fast HERE! I think I looked around nervously for someone who may be the owner of these hounds, but in that instant they were upon my dog. The big guy was snarling like mad, rearing up and landing on Baby's shoulder's. His smaller accomplce seemed to hook around low, as if to get at Baby's face. baby's ass was totally on the line, and he spun around again and again, whimpering - and then bolted into the street.
Actually it was like the three dogs moved as one, in their snarling combat, ending up right in the middle of the street - and it happened SO FAST!

And then a fucking car is comig down this steep hill, and the road is wet, and the driver slams her brakes - and the little blue car screeched to a stop but five feet short of the three dogs. The encounter had not begun 1.5 seconds before.
When I saw the car bearing down on my dog, my hands went up in to the air, like a goal referee declaring a filedgoal was good. I yelled the word out: FUCK! I'd lost that second because I bothered looking around for the owner of the two curs, but it had gone beyond the point where they could have helped.
I charged the bigger dog, whose back was to me, and brought the umbrella down on his back in a slash, like a Hussar sabering an infantryman. It got his attention, and he turned out not to be that tough a dog - not when the steel is on his back - he turned and bailed, and his mate followed, but not before I caught him as well, on the neck with my umbrella, in a backhand swing...
I was yelling too. I don't know what I was saying. But those dogs were gone dogs. Baby had managed to slip away during (the distraction I created for him) during the melee. He ran into a neigbhour's yard across trhe street, but returned when he saw the mean kids were gone.

It took him a little while to shake that one off. He had the most disquieting smell on him after... I don't know what it was. It smelled a bit like pee, but without the pissy, ammonia characteristic: Instead it was more like base-pee - like slightly fermented grains... But I would also describe it as a kennel smell; or the fecund, hot smell of livestock. I think Baby figured he was a goner, and some gland or other related to being a meal unloaded itself in him. He's alright though.

I'm formulating a theoretical viewpoint of sorts, that the true gulf that separates East from West is the notion of perfection. (Now I'm not an anthro[pologist, except in the general, human longing for knowledge way).
Me and a friend were looking a a Persian rug, and he pointed out the deliberate flaws in the geometrical designs... As it is prohibido to attempt perfection - You leave that for Allah. Sounds good to me man. Let's celebrate imperfection!

But now the cult of the West has it's basis in the quest for perfection - through our technology. Our tower of Babel... Instead of living simple - everyone in this socity is pushing the envelope... And it's infectious - no culture can resist it.
Pundits will often decry the appearance of a coca cola sign in latin America ( it's pretty sad) but in truth it's not products that neutralize culture and traditional relationships - it's the people's conversion to a way of thinking: The cult of the individual. Los Angeles is the heart of it... It's as west as you can go!

Raf and I watched The Big Lebowski a few nights back. I had seen it before, when it came out; but this time I really got into it. It's one of the best hommages to the whole L.A. trip in the filmic history of this town.
Raf mentioned that he'd sen a list compliled in some magazine of the 20 best films about L.A. Chinatown came out at number 1 and L.A. Confidential was up in the top 5. But I don't think either of them goes as deep into the mythology of this city - as does The Big Lebowski.

Yesterday we drove by the old Hollywood Star lanes on Santa Monica, which is now a vacant lot awaiting building by the L.A.U.S.D. It was a goddamn tragedy that they tore down the bowling alley to build a new school. That entire strip of Santa Monica is a collection of run-down body shops and dollar stores, with numerous vacant lots. I never knew anyone in this town who didn't love Hollywood Star Lanes. That's where I met Bjork one night, when I first came out here to work on a film. Everyone went to Hollywood Star Lanes: Actors, Mexican families, Armenian gangsters, gay-bowling teams... Every ethnic, linguistic, and fiscal class of Angeleno went to enjoy those all-night lanes.
Jell-O and I went there some nights when she was staying here, and things were too weird around the guys at the house. L.A. simply fucks everything up that it touches. It has to be the worst municipal bureaucracy in the United States: You see that evidenced daily in this town.

The thing about the demolition of Hollywood Star Lanes from which everyone can take comfort, is that there was really nothing anybody could do. Petitions were raised, and the cause of saving the bowling alley was taken up by many powerful and creative people - and even then it all amounted to nigh. Vince Vaughn apparently tried to buy it.... But the LA school district wasn't having it.

So when you watch the Big Lebowski, you'll know that Hollywood Star Lanes was a real place, just like in the movie. All the bowling alley employees portrayed in the film, were the actual guys who worked there. Raf pointed out to me that several of the bowlers they show throwing strikes were crew members, such as the stunt coordinator, and the best boy grip... I wish I could have brought everyone I knew there at least once, before it went away.

I WAS POSSESSED
Around 9:15 tonight, I talked on the phone with a chap who was interested in selling me something, which I happened to be interested in buying. The thing itself is not really germaine to the story I'm telling.
The guy's e-mail was devil@blahblah.com, and he answered the phone by annoncing his name - Del. Hence Devil. I talked to this very animated, if not altogether bugged out guy, and we made a plan to meet up at a bar on Folsom and 17th. During our conversation, he insisted that I drop in the bar for a drink, explaining that a great band new band was playing; who could be, in his words, the next Flying Burrito Brothers. I told him I'd see how things looked when I got there. We were appointed to meet at 9:50 outside, and I promised I would be punctual.
As I sat there at my desk trying to get off the phone with the guy, he asked how he would distinguish - in the middle of the crowded bar. I glanced over at the heavy red jacket I'd just worn on the motorcycle ride home.
"I'll be wearing a shimmering, sharkskin-like red jacket." I told him. "You won't miss it."
When I got off the phone, I considered washing a basket of dishes to pass the time before our meeting, but I was suddenly overcome with a great burst of physical energy. I stripped off my shirt and started doing push-ups on the rug in my diningroom. Then I began shadowboxing in front of the small vanity mirror in my bathroom. I was really getting into it, and my form looked tight. It was like - whack- whack - whackwhackwhack... Combinations of body hooks, and Thai uppercut elbows... Everything in the arsenal: Fop Fop Fop. Throwing long, staright jabs, with fingers extended outwards, to accentuate the form, and point it like a dart. It was really great.
I took a deep breath, and let my shoulders relax, the repose still feeling like fluid movement. I reached into my pocket to check up on the time before my appointment, and gasped when I realized I was supposed to meet Del - Devil - whatever THAT minute.
"Oh shit!" I said aloud. "Fucking late."
I grabbed the red jacket to put on over the white undershirt I was wearing, when I was suddenly seized with the impulse to run to the meeting at the bar. Instead of putting on the red jacket, I tied it around my waist.
"Baby, let's blow - we gotta go now." I said to my dog, as I hurriedly passed him, stretched out in the hallway.
The two of us jogged down the stairs, and when we landed on the sidewalk, there wasn't a car, or another soul to be seen. We took off running, crossing 21st st at a diagonal, and heading north on San Carlos. We were going pretty fast; it was between a jog and a run. The scenery of seedy white and off-white houses seemed to flow by like a kaleidoscope, as my lungs began borrowing oxygen from my brain, to supply the anaerobic thrust. Bay windows, cornices and fire-escapes cut against the dark clarity of the night like teeth on a saw-blade as it coasts to a stop. The blocks went by like they'd been reduced two-thirds in size.
At 18th, we cut east across Mission St., and into that other world, where tended yards are replaced by cars parked on the sidewalks. The few people we passed, seated on stoops, appeared cut short in the midst of forming an impression of us as we sped by; the air making a slight thwish sound against my wind pants.
When I reached the corner of 17th and Folsom, across the street from the bar where our meeting was to take place, I slowed and began to bounce back and forth on the balls of my feet like a boxer; left to right. With my fists up around my chin, I stepped in towards a lamppost and started throwing roundhouse kicks at it - but managing to slow the kick to nothing just before the point of impact - and my lower shin would bounce straight back to the point from which the kick was thrown - reset and BOOM off again - like a semi-automatic. I was rushing on every phermone, hormone, trombone and gall stone. I headed across the street to look for this Del inside the bar.
Inside the place was full: Every seat and stool occupied, and everyone riveted to a country trio on stage playing a sumptuous ballad. A blond-haired girl singing was fronting the band and she was a doll. From all the way across the bar our eyes made contact for a little more than a moment. I leaned against the door, as there was nowhere else to stand, and watched them play. I was amazed by how good they were.
I remembered the red jacket gag, and I untied it from my waist. I was sweating like a horse from the running and Drunken master workout session, and it felt like the air around me was 125 degrees. I realized I must have looked a fright, all pink-skinned and sweaty, but with the jacket on I felt ridiculous. Nevertheless I turned the collar up like the Fonz, and made a big deal out of smiling and nodding my head affirmatively at everyone in the place - as if to say - Yes, I'm THE guy...
The girl crooned on her sweet hillbilly number, but I had to keep pushing the door open to see if the dog was still there waiting for me. This drew a couple of the other patron's attention, but they seemed to avert their eyes from my friendly glance. Indeed, I looked a fright.
When the band finished their tune, the girl on stage asked the audience if she and her ensemble should do another one. There was applause and a few hoots: A guy off towards my right yelled back across the bar heartily: "Fuck yeah!". He was enthusiastic, and I could see he wanted to give the band some love, but his words didn't quite come from the diaphragm, and the words sounded a little false, like he'd checked his swing
There was a moment of quiet bar mumurt, in the wake of the guy's utterance, and I suddenly stepped forward ever so slightly - and filled it.
"IS THE DEVIL IN THIS HOUSE?" I yelled, very near the top of my lungs.
There was absolute quiet in the bar. As the saying goes, you could hear a pin drop.
I have an inherently deep voice, and the louder I go, the deeper it goes - and the gravel comes in - and the sand - I even heard a few nuts and bolts in there too. People have told me that when they heard me raise my volume, even without any intended anger, that it's scary sounding.
Almost everyone in the bar turned around to take in lobster-boy, sweating profusely in a red snowboarding jacket, who'd uttered the vaguely maniacal yell: I enquired about the devil, like I'd come in there to kick his ass.
"YEAH, I'M OVER HERE." Yelled back a guy I couldn't see. He was around behind some people gathered at the bar itself.
I felt a slight gratification that I'd gotten an answer. I could sense that most people in the bar had written me off as an obnoxious, possibly insane heckler. The thing had become a curious little event, and I enjoyed the center-stage moment. As my teacher Chris Bayes once confided to me: Clowns are not always there to make us laugh.

But then it turns out the guy who answered to the name Devil - is the wrong guy. He had no idea What I was or Who I was talking about. I got the wrong Devil. What is the probability of that?
"You're the wrong Devil." I said, turning to walk away. "I'm sorry for the inconvenience."
When I reached the door, I stopped before pushing it open, and turned to the angel singing on stage. I knew she'd look at anyone leaving in the middle of her song. Our eyes made contact, and I bowed slightly, like a Thai, my hands pressed together before my face. I slipped out the door in the smallest way I could.

My dog seems to be acting very strange these days. He seems sad all the time. I know that all dogs can at times be - hang dog-like; but it seems different with Baby. The dog just has damn issues and I have to tell myself over and over that it has nothing to do with me.

Last night I was sitting in my livingroom listening to a record. My hands were occupied with something, and the dog suddenly got up from his spot on the floor, and began to groan and press his snout into my thigh. He's a big enough dog that it kept me from continuing writing or whatevet I was doing.
"What's with you dog?" I asked, puzzled. And then a slight feeling of anxiety began to creep into me. Baby stared up at me with terrified eyes, and he groaned aloud. His tail tried to wag, but it was more of a clipped stutter against the floor.
Suddenly I was alarmed. I wondered if there wasn't going to be an earthquake - or something worse. Perhaps all of civilization'd worst fears realized.This was not a rational kind of fear, but the general, primordial variety. I listened to the house itself in silence, all the while staring at the dog; searching his eyes for an answer. Finally I exhaled.
"What the hell are you trying to do to me baby?" I asked him, sitting down irritatedly to write again.

I only remembered this today, when I stumbled upon this link:

http://www.craigslist.org/sfo/sfc/com/9863144.html

Listening to the news on Sunday, March 23

It sounds like things are getting completely fucked up in Iraq. It's surreal how anything so remote can be so immeadiate, and I don't even watch TV.

At least the news helicopters have gone away.

One day during the filming of Leela, Horse and I got tired of pushing the grip taco cart all over U.S.C. campus, along with all of our grip hardware, sandbags and stands. We attached the 5' tall taco cart's pulling handle to the hitch of a big, beefy flatbed golf-cart that U.S.C. had lent to production for moving our package around the location.
With our trailer tied up, we rigged-out the sides of the big golf cart with cardellini clamps, so that we could hang all of our step-ladders, 12X frames and speedrail on the sides. Our itty-bitty grip truck was seriously squared away.
One day, as we set out on one of the mini-company moves we did around the campus, Horse jumped into the driver's seat of the little electric tractor-trailer and released the parking brake. He then hesitated for a moment, and reset the brake and jumped back out.
I watched curiously as Horse walked back to the taco-cart and pulled off a half-apple box. He placed the half-apple on the driver's seat of the cargo cart and sat down on top of it so that the steering wheel was almost in his lap. He released the brake, allowing the whole rig to creep forward.
"Now it drives like a truck." He said with a snarl. He leaned forward and began to crank the wheel around hard, like a trucker pulling a fully loaded Peterbilt out of a Flying J service stop.
I tried to hide my smile, as I realized that Horse had seized onto the cab-forward style of our cargo cart. The steering axle was under his butt, so it steered like a city bus. When turning hard, the front end would swing around wide, just like the big guys.
"Hang on a minute Horse." I said. "I need to get a picture of this."
I walked off towards set in search of a Polaroid camera to borrow.
In the one picture I took, Horse is peering out sideways, as if to check the progress of his trailer around a tight corner. His left hand is cranking the wheel around, and his right is raised up to the canopy roof of the golf-cart, as if he's tugging on the rope and tooting' the air horn. Keep on truckin'.
That was the one time I ever saw Horse drive anything.
On the morning when we got the call that Horse had died, we all raced to his apartment on N. Stanley and Beverly in Hollywood. All his set tools, his diamond plate toolbox, his converse all-stars and cut-off Dickies were all laid out to go to work. The picture of Horse in the big-rig golf cart was stuck to the fridge. It had faded a bit, but still caught something of the humor in that moment.

We ran aong Ocean Beach today. It was brillaintly sunny, but an unceasing wind blew straight in from the ocean, loud as a freeway. We ran from Sloat Beach to the cliff house; a distance i jusge to be around three miles. I ran along the glistening wet sand in the immeadiate path of the tide. She preferred to run above the water line, along a path of crushed sea shells and other oceanic detritus.
I felt like i could have sprinted a lot of it, but I hung back and waited for j. The dog went crazy and tried to run down every gull and sand piper. He seemed tireless as he harassed the birds, running up and down the beach, constantly in and out of the water.
When we got ot the cliff house, we walked off the three mile jog, and I felt like every footfall we made along the sand was somehow earned. I told J what little I knew about the cliffhouse, and then we began the long walk back. It seemed much father when we were walking it, and the light was getting flat. The sea was a silver color, swishing around and breaking in its irregular, choppy way. It was uncomfortably cold by the time we got to my truck, and I had trouble opening the vehicle's locks with my numbed fingers.

He leaned against the door of the bar until it gave way, and then spilled inside all the while glancing back over his shoulder.
"Well look what the damn cat drug in." Said a large, almost man-like female bartender. She was despairingly ugly, with clownlike dyed red hair. The other patrons at the bar also looked at him hostiley.
"Hi, you're open right?" He asked, sheepishly. A moment went by before she answered.
"Well what does it look like?" She asked ferociously, looking around at the other customers. "Are you gonna have a drink or not?"
"Uh, yes. I'm going to have, umh…" His mind went blank, as he tried to imagine what he would order. The last thing he wanted was a drink at that moment, especially a drink he couldn't pay for.
"Can I have a club soda?" He blurts out finally. Everyone in the place is watching the confrontation. The barmaid gives him a hard look and says nothing for a moment, and then suddenly turns away.
"Alright, that's it. Three strikes your out. Get out of my bar Mister." She says gruffly. Don stands open-mouthed and silent
"Come on, clear on out." she adds, louder.
Don stands there, frozen for a moment, not believing that he's being so poorly treated,
"Could I just use your telephone?" He asks, earnestly leaning forward, trying to appeal to the barmaid's sense of "human connection". She slams her hand down on the counter.
"Get the fuck out of my bar!" She suddenly yells, but Don has already turned and is halfway outside like a dog helped out the door with a kick in the ass.
u

Yesterday, January 19th was all about football.

I amazed myself by getting out of bed at 11:30, putting togteher a suitable outfit for winter football, and headed up to McCaren park with D.H. The game was fun, and of course i was glad I went, but i'm sure suffering today. Even the firendliest football games are physical, and this was no exception. I was the smallest guy on the field by at least 15 lbs. I can make up for some of it by hustling, but invariably you find yourself getting bumped by "the other fellows."

During one play in which I was on the defensive line, one of their receivers I was covering straight-armed me right off the snap, all the while making a spinning movement to get around me. This would have enabled him to get deep into the downfield, while leaving me two or three paces back. I know he didn't mean to, but the kid's arm came around wide as he spun, and he caught me on the cheek with an open palm as his body tourqued around. I was slightly stunned, and I think I muttered "fuck" to myself.
Then I sprinted after him down to the end zone. When I caught up, I don't remember if he was then carrying a pass he'd received. It wasn't the reason I was after him at that point anyway: He could have been running for the bench. I came running up along side him, checked him lightly and then tripped him. He was at a good run when I tackled him thus, and he went down hard and slid a few feet. When he got up he was smiling, but he said, "why did you trip me man?"
"You slapped me hard across the face when you came off the line dude." I said.
"Oh, I'm sorry." He said genuinely.
"Being a little guy in sports -" I said shaking my head slowly. "It's the only way to stay alive on the field."

At least it's the only way I know. It's always been a kind of gospel of masculinity: In a game if someone hits you dirty, then you have to straighten him out right away. In hockey it's accepted practice; in boxing even more so. Sporting conduct grows right out of the junior high locker room; and that's law of the jungle.

So why don't I feel totally clean about it? I've got all my justifications lined-up perfectly. It would seem to be an open-and-shut case within my inner-courtroom. Now I'm thinking of taking this case all the way to my own supreme court.

I have a problem with getting hit in the face: I never liked it. Who does like it? I don't think anyone particularly likes getting hit hard in the face: But I really lose myself. It was always the worst thing in boxing - just getting popped! It makes you want to cry, yell, rage, turn around and run...

But chasing a guy down and deliberately tripping him in a friendly pick-up football game.

That's a tough one.

MISSING CONTRAST

I can't believe it: I've just run out of subjects suitable for the blog. Since I returned to Montreal, I have ceased to See. How terrible, to have those marvelous travel eyes smote, stricken; torn from my skull to be eaten by small birds.
My trip to France did not end when the A-320's tires skidded onto the frozen runway ay Mirabel airport. I was still a traveller when Janie picked me up and we drove together to st. Sauveur to look in on the camps. Funny how the lines blur around these sorts of things. A teacher of mine used to say that the 20th century began with WWI, and ended with the fall of the Berlin wall. I have this sense that the 21st century began on September 11th, but a part of me feels that is terribly morbid and fatalistic. When I consider this opinion, I wonder if I'm being Americo-centric, but then I remember that the French and the Caanadians (the Canaanites - that's my bible study slipping in unconsciously) seemed to want to talk about 9/11 more than Americans did. Hmm.

I have to catch up on my bible reading. It's a perfect activity for days like this. Reading is a perfect activity for the Montreal winter: It's -18 today. I would go ice-skating, but it's probably too cold for that.

Straight Berlin

Into the light of morning,
the great cars take olive oil to Marseille.
They seem to cruise sideways,
through the narrow alleys.

The sun in the sky,
is round as a pizza crust
burning still like a molotov cocktail,
even in the clearness of evening.

The moon finally tires,
and punches out early,
descending over an indigo sea.
Lazy, overpaid sonofabitch.

Mariesol has arrived,
and I am suddenly a prisoner.
Ah Berlin, both psych ward and cabaret.
In your clear canal`s waters
the men have given up kicking their feet,
through closed windows; looking downwards;
careless and hopeful.

I`m blinded to the tulips of the mountain,
fallen from windows, and in their final massive
closure, they are soiled and black.
They chant incatations for the 30th of November,
and Autumn`s final departure.

I am proud to be poor, and so full of distaste,
with my wool liederhosen,
and wrinkled, ill-fitting cuffs.
Marvelous how these ebony zippers
despoil my shoulderblades;

I am proud to be old,
and have but a sliver of life ahead of me.
Each stationary bit of nothingness I watch,
will but improve my complexion.
And clear up some of the wrinkles,
on the over-used map that is my ass.

Each stationary bit of nothingness,
covers the tracks to its end.
But it can still be found,
on the tip of my cock.
which I twirl playfully,
at everything I`ve seen before.

That deadness in my eye you see,
is due to the stale bread I ate,
this morning, at THE SWISS STOVE.
And my tired old mug
is but an overwrought lithograph.

Will I ever get out of Dusseldorf?
What time does the zoobahn open?

I was walking up 6th ave a couple of months ago, and I noticed a faded, peeling advertisement on the side of an old loft building. This was one o those large ads they would paint right on the bricks of a buildings sidewalls (very old New York). The ad was for some seriously outdated service, along the lines of LOUIE`S FURCOAT STORAGE, but the interesting thing was the phone number displayed at the bottom:

ALOGONQUIN 347

When did they get rid of that old phone routing system? And is there any way it could be revived? All over North America they prefixed phone numbers with names of things: Who thought those up? It seems like such a cool system.

I`m going to try and hunt down as many of the old prefixes as I can. The trick is to ask old-timers what their neigborhood routing was. Their eyes will tend to sparkle through the cataracts when they talk about the old days when a phone number...

In Bay Ridge was EVERGREEN
In North Beach was CHESTNUT (I think that`s what Anna told me)
(Springfield was KLONDIKE)

So go out in the streets of your own town or city! Talk to the lonely old guy who feeds pigeons in the park (ask him not to feed the pigeons) but also ask him what the old prefixes were where he lived and worked. There are tens of thousands of them and they`re all cool. With some coaxing I think Bob McMillan could be persuaded to mount a database on Filbert... Maybe there`s a contest here.

Last night was really interesting. It was only yesterday that I felt like I was filling in the time before my return to North America. As I saw it there was only two and a half days to go, and nothing interesting could possibly happen in two days. On top of that I felt heavy when I left Provençe, and I couldn`t understand why. When I left Paris for the south, I`d finally managed to reconnect with my old friend Thomas Brutschi here in Paris, whom I`d worked and been friendly with in New York. Thomas and I left it that we`d connect and have dinner once we were both back in Paris. This would be my last social call in France.
Thomas lives in a Paris suburb called Montreuil, which seems to be the Williamsburgh of said city. Actually, Montreuil is much cooler. You get the sense in Paris that they didn`t buy the hype throughout the 90s quite as much as us. Paris never went dot.com and it never fell into the whole political correctness thing. They probably didn`t need it. But I digress...

Thomas and I had a quiet dinner together in his really charming house, and then we sat and he told me of his family life. Never have I met someone who is so in love with being a father: It`s like a drug for him. I couldn`t help but feel that something went right in his life. Thomas made the right moves at the right times. Sitting by his fireplace, nodding my head slowly, I was struck with the sense that I had lived my whole life as a misfit - and contrary to what I`ve always tried to project, that is not something to be envied.

But there`s no crying in baseball.

In our rambling talks, we sort of touched on politics for a moment. Thomas expressed a feeling of unease at what he saw as dangerous changes occurring in the world. He mentioned the large presence of police and soldiers in Paris, and the new powers that the state was giving itself over the populace. I looked him right in the eyes as he told me of his concerns, and I shared his unease - for himself and for his family. Thomas lives in a place where everyone grows marijuana in their backyards, and when he gets a parking ticket that he feels is unfair, he`s right away down at the police station yelling at them about it. And he can get it reversed.

This may be the impression of a wide-eyed traveller, but I think human beings live much better lives in France than they do in the United States - or anywhere else for that matter.

It`s time to make moves,

I can`t stand still.

I`m taking the fast train south today,

and I`ll kiss these big city blues goodbye.

(or for those of you who don`t speak jive)
I`m getting bored of the tourist thing, and I don`t want to spend new year`s eve in Paris. So I`m taking the TGV to Marseille and then a cow train to Aix-en-Provençe.

Filbert-blog has become like the abandoned dacha in Doctor Zhivago, when Yuri returns from his press gang service in the white army. The sentimental poet searches for his wife and child, and the memories of peaceful summer days. But in the house are only icicles and sad traces of those happy times.

And carrying a chisel is being monitored by the French secret service.

Is blogging dead?

It is so quiet on filbert.net... Thank heavens for new blood (by this I mean the "it girl"). Otherwise Filbert would be a dusty abandoned street with a boarded-up movie theater and a few tumbleweed bouncing by. The one traffic signal flashing Christmas cheer from red to green; the amber light shot out by some kids with a .22.

I went to see SWEET 16 last night at the MK2 Quai de Seine. Everywhere you turn in Paris there is romance and history. We got off the metro at Jaures-Stalingrad, and immeadiatley fell into a wonderful fairground, with carousels and an ice-rink. Les concessionaires offered crèpes and gaufres belges with Nutella. Or you could try your luck in a midway shooting gallery game: 3 Euros buys you five shots: The target is three balloons enclosed by wire, bopping around wildly on a jet of compressed air
"You look like you know what you`re doing." My friend Anna said, as I loaded the pellet gun and tried to adjust the sight. Her heavily accented Swedish voice seemed both amused and perturbed by this.
"Just tell me which prize you want baby." I replied.

And like Bo Mason, 1898 champion shot of Montana, I took out three balloons in three shots. If only I had a pair of figure skates with me.