Tonight we had our last rehearsal of Shivah/Proper. Until saturday at 10:30pm each of the four of us can do our own thing. What a process this has been. What a. Nothing could have prepared me to act. Shivah may as well have been the first play I ever undertook. What I do seems to be going over with the company. They tell me good things. There's no explaining this.
I will do speed-throughs tomorrow. When I have abslolutely no desire to work, which is most of the time, then I can do speed throughs. I just do the monologues over and over as fast as I can. So many words. There was no direction really. The words found their meanings in our bodies. Eventually you can learn any script. I know now what it means to act.
I found a way to weep. I just did it. I imitated myself weeping. Weeping the way I don't even let myself weep. It was weird at first. Now it's as natural as sweating.
Now we're all weeping. One by one the other monologues are reaking into weeping. Tonight Alexis (woman On cross) began to weep when she finished off her husband Prayer. What a weird fucking play man.
I keep listening to MURDER FOR THE MONEY by morphine. They were so good.
New York is so good. It's its own fucking thing. Today I walked down Broaodway in SoHo to look for a pair of adidas *mali* indoor soccer shoes. SoHo is a horrible mega galleria super-imposed on 20 city blocks. Every storefront is a clothing boutique now. And people are mean. They are not nice. I can't believe it but I knew SoHo in another time, when it was on the brink of this transition. The lower eat side is pretty much the same. Fuckunting nitwits. Native people selling crafts. Gaaa.
I was thinking about L.A. all day. i =found myself talking to y dog. Aloud. Good typing. I'm glad I don't live here. But i'd be lying if I said i hadn't thought about moving back to NYC.
It's Murder. For The Money. I wish i had more to say. I feel funny but have no thing which strikes me as being worth talking about.
Thursday, August 12, 2004
Saturday, August 07, 2004
HOW DO YOU MAKE YOURSELF WEEP?
In this dream last night I was in montreal, driving in a little red mustang convertible. I was very pleased to have the car, but also afraid of it bringing trouble to me. I was with some old friend and we were trying to get across town when we were stopped by a line of riot police. I stopped the car and tried to signal to the cops that we just wanted to get through and park. Finally I gave up and backed the car away from them. I just then saw people fighting and rioting on the other side of the police line. It was very violent and I was suddenly disturbed by it. We got to an alley and I parked the mustang in it. I still felt insecure about the car, especially after the trouble I'd seen. The alley in which I parked was full of other old mustangs. we went upstairs to this old friend's apartment, and I watched the riot going on down the street from a window. It was extremely violent. There were guys in the street with huge knives, killing one another. I saw guys get stabbed and I was very disturbed by it. I tried to get my friend's attention to look out the window but he could not get there to see it. It was Daniel Diaz. We left after a little while to Janie's on Ste. Famille.
At one point I was riding my Superhawk down St. Urbain Street, and I popped a wheelie. A bunch of people cheered.
In this dream last night I was in montreal, driving in a little red mustang convertible. I was very pleased to have the car, but also afraid of it bringing trouble to me. I was with some old friend and we were trying to get across town when we were stopped by a line of riot police. I stopped the car and tried to signal to the cops that we just wanted to get through and park. Finally I gave up and backed the car away from them. I just then saw people fighting and rioting on the other side of the police line. It was very violent and I was suddenly disturbed by it. We got to an alley and I parked the mustang in it. I still felt insecure about the car, especially after the trouble I'd seen. The alley in which I parked was full of other old mustangs. we went upstairs to this old friend's apartment, and I watched the riot going on down the street from a window. It was extremely violent. There were guys in the street with huge knives, killing one another. I saw guys get stabbed and I was very disturbed by it. I tried to get my friend's attention to look out the window but he could not get there to see it. It was Daniel Diaz. We left after a little while to Janie's on Ste. Famille.
At one point I was riding my Superhawk down St. Urbain Street, and I popped a wheelie. A bunch of people cheered.
Monday, August 02, 2004
THE BEST THING I EVER DID WAS ALSO THE WORST. At least as far as motorcycles are concerned. And it happened last night. Well, it happened this morning to be totally factual about things. This morning meaning when I woke up. But that was actually yesterday. These sorts of things never seemed so complex when I was a kid.
OLD FRIENDS. They are coming up out of everywhere. Last night I found myself with some lighting technician buddies from new york. They're guys I'd known when I was starting out in grip/electric. Their names: Phil Ya Up and Robby Drubbin. They're crazy fucking dudes. New York and Los Angeles motion picture technicians are so hardcore. We met up at a restaurant on Sullivan street in the village: I had not seen Rob since - well I'd say - 1999. When Phil mentioned he was coming I got real excited. I don't know why. I guess I was just in a good mood. It was a beautiful warm summer night, and we were six people around the big outdoor sidewalk table of a Brazilian restaurant. I had worked that day on the set of a very kind but tiny independent film. We went thirteen hours.
WHEN ROB PULLED UP AT THE RESTAURANT HE WAS RIDING A HARLEY. It was really loud. The sound was amplified even more, bouncing off the tight little Greenwich Village street. It was one of those bikes everybody wants to see banned. I didn't get a good look at it, on account of his parking it behind a big roll-off type dumpster. Rob had always been into choppers. He was the first guy I knew who got into that. Craze. I hired him once as the key grip on an indie feature that shot out in New Jersey. The production payed very low rates, but they still managed to be sticklers about all kinds of shit. By that I mean protocol stuff. Everyone acted very big budget. On the first day of the job, Robby Rob as he was known, rode out to location, a high school in New Jersey, on some beat gone English chopper. The machine, an early 70s Triumph, had leather fringes hanging from the barends, but seriously worn and greasy. It was black, and smelled strongly of gas. Some of us were walking through the school parking lot to get to set, and we see Rob's bike, and we're suddenly breaking up laughing. He had parked the greasy chopper in the high school principal's very well posted, reserved parking spot. "What a biker Rob is." The girl I was with said, shaking her head in amazement.
WE WERE YELLING AND MAKING A RACKET AS IT GOT LATER. A couple of the people I 'd worked with had to leave, on account of their early call the next day. but Phil and Rob wanted to go to Doc Holiday's on Ave. A. I was looking at a day off, so I elected to hang with my old friends. They both seemed to have aged so cool in the five years I'd been away. Hanging out and making it memorable seemed like the thing to do.
I HAD ALWAYS HAD A PREJUDICE AGAINST DOC HOLIDAYS. Just like I did about everything else when I lived in the village. It seemed to have this air of phony redneck appropriationism. I regarded it as I would Coyoye Ugly, which now has a franchise in Vegas at the New York New York hotel casino. But Doc Holidays was where those dudes thought we should go. When we got there Phil right away ordered each of us a huge glass of Jack Daniels and a can of Pabst Blue Ribbon. It was going to be one of those nights.
WE GOT WASTED. WE LISTENED TO ROY ORBISON. I WON SOME MONEY AT POOL. We talked about all kinds of shit. We kept going out onto Ave. A to smoke cigarettes, and then back in to drink more Pabst Blue Ribbon. Phil was walking around singing along to Crazy by Patsy Cline. It was beautiful. He was beautiful. His voice was high and cracking like a 90 year old lady. I mean it was funny in the deep clownness of it. But it was his eyes and gaze that made it stirring. He really looked like he was going to cry. He didn't mind how bad his voice sounded at all. He just gave it up. His eyes looked so hurt. He would walk by and gaze, puppy-like at the two of us, standing there transfixed. After a couple of verses the two of us were laughing - even with the involuntary gesture of a hand to cover my mirth. As you do. Phil went on, in his high creaky voice, shrugging his shoulders with heartbroken resignation. Worrry! Why do i let myself, worry?
ROB HAD GOTTEN A HUGE TATTOO ON HIS SHOULDER OF THE WORLD TRADE CENTER TOWERS. He'd been on the set lighting crew that cabled and rigged ground zero for light, on the night of the disater. He was a genny operator. He didn't give a shit about film, or lighting. He just liked motors. I was outside having a smoke and I suddenly took a mind to go check out Rob's Harley. He'd only had it on the road for a year. But he'd spent three years building it. It was a 1979 sportser. 100cu/in., aircooled *iron head* V-twin. It was a rightside chain drive. I love Harley's with chain drive. I suddenly found myself completely grooving on the chopper. It was an epiphany. The engine was so large it was out of proportion to the stripped down bike's frame and tank. It didn't have extended forks, but the front end triple clamp was high like a bull's shoulder, as is characteristic of Harley's from the late 70s. Probably to accomodate the huge motor and crankcase. And that engine was clean, from having the oil painstakingly wiped off with a rag every day. The whole bike was polished with its own motor oil.
ROB GOT IT INTO HIS HEAD TO GO FOR A MOTORCYCLE RIDE. He was offering to let me ride his other chopper. A 1959 BSA 650. It was 3:30am. I immeadiately objected. I did love the idea, but I was wasted. Phil also spoke up against it, in his New Zealand accent. He thought it was a really bad idea. He kept saying that we should all just go get some coke. I suggested we walk over to Rob's place on 11th and Avenue B. , just so i could see the old BSA. Phil was getting all bent out of shape as he fell in behind us on tenth street. "You guys are gonna go for a fucking ride aren't you?" he kept asking, exasperatedly. "Let's just go get some coke man!" It was a perfectly calm warm night. There was not a soul on the street/ Even the parked cars were in REM.
THE BIKES WERE CHAINED TOGETHER ON 11TH STREET. He kept them under covers. We right away set to work starting the BSA. It was a kickstart, and the thing had such compression i could stand on the foldout kick lever with both feet and not be able to turn the engine at all. We took turns in threes for twenty minutes, and I bruised the inisde of my calf from hitting the foot peg several times. I was only wearing a pair of bright orange Dickeys shorts and a wife-beater under shirt. It was the same clothes I was wearing when i left the house for work, 18 hours before. My socks, my Doc Marten rangers, everything was plastered to my skin from the gritty heat.
ROB WAS STANDING SLIGHTLY BEHIND THE MOTORCYCLE, KICKING THE LEVER AND SHOUTING "INFERNAL MACHINE!" And suddenly it caught. It was caught and it roared. I mean- what a loud bike! It didn't have any muffler, instead the exhaust out the heads was sawed off with a grinder just under the right foot peg. Rob produced a helmet from the camper shell of his 73 ranchero parked across the street. He handed it to me, sitting there on the strange beast. "Now you're legal." he said. And he climbed onto the harley and fired it up. What a goddamn racket we were causing.
THE HELMET WAS A JOKE. It was one of those little, black wehrmacht style biker lids, but resembling in workmanship the plastic batting helmets they give out at baseball games. it had a teeny little nylon chin strap which was so loose I could fit a fist into the slack under my chin. It was not adjustable. Rob leaned over and hollered into my ear, over the roaring motorcycles, asking if I could figure out the gearshifting on the BSA. It had a right-side toe lever, with a 1-up/3-down arrangement. I had heard that English bikes were different from the Japanese ones I've owned. I realized, suddenly quite awestruck, that something remarkable was occurring. It was a bloody fucking marvelous thing. I lifted the lever up, heard it KNOCK into 1st gear; released the clutch and we were on the road. We both smiled broadly and I whoopped, inaudibly on account of the cacophonous motorcycles.
THERE WAS NOT A SINGLE CAR ON THE STREETS OF ALPHABET CITY. We had it absolutely to ourselves. We turned right so we were heading south on avenue B, and by some fluke we pulled up right behind a cop that had just left a space. We were stuck behind a cop on our choppers, while the city that never sleeps slept. But Rob had other things in mind. He headed straight for the F.D.R. We got on the highway and opened the bikes up all the way. The F.D.R. was so dead empty. I'd never witnessed such a sight in New York. Rob took off like mad on the Harley. He was doing at least 100mph. In a moment he was almost out of sight. I gave chase, working the gears of the BSA. It was crazy. The bike is a hard-tail. No suspension but the heavy steel frame. It also had no turn signals, gauges or mirrors. So cool. We roared down the FDR, under the WillyB and then the Manhattan and Brooklyn bridges. We overtook one car that seemed to pull over to get out of our way. Or maybe just to check out the bikes. They were really loud on such a still morning.
WE GOT OFF AT THE SOUTH STREET SEAPORT. It stank of fish. Everywhere smelled of the east river in all its pungent majesty. I didn't mind at all. My helmet of course had blown off and was dangling behind me from the chin strap. my eyes were tearing from not having goggles. Rob said that I really needed to open the bike up on the way back to the village. He suggested that I lead that time and give it everything it had. I didn't quite do that, but I got it going 80. It was the most wobbly motorcycle anyone ever built. It sounded like a firework plant conflagration, explosions bouncing off the building and bridges along the river.
AT THE CORNER OF AVE. D AND HOUSTON STREET THE BSA DIED. We were right outside the east river housing projects. We couldn't get it going again. We stayed there for an hour. Rob tried to clean the points with the striking surface of a paper match book, while I held a little keychain flashlight for his observation. He got pissed off. He would get up and walk around, going through his head the possibilities as to what may have happened. He said it all aloud. It was 5:30am.
"THE BIKE WASN'T HAPPY YOU RODE IT" HE SAID FINALLY. And he shook his head. It was conclusive. We still had a mile and a half to get back to Rob's place on 11th/B. He suggested towing me on the BSA with his Harley. I was immeadiately game. We tried it first with me sitting on the BSA, holding the harley's rear-fender. It seemed impossible. The Harley was pulling me just fine, but the BSA stayed where it was. What finally worked was me grabbbing his belt, and leaning the bike away from his at a steep angle, my feet out wide like outriggers. It actually worked. I won't say we were the first guys to ever tow one motorcycle with another, but it's not something people do very often. It seemed to go with the whole night. It was so warm and humid. We passed a cop car heading up Ave B. I could not believe they let us get away with that tow rig.
:BLUE MOON//YOU SAW ME STANDING ALONE//WITHOUT A DREAM IN MY HEART//WITHOUT A LOVE OF MY OWN:
That's not true. I never did that. Something very white just came into my head, that's all.
OLD FRIENDS. They are coming up out of everywhere. Last night I found myself with some lighting technician buddies from new york. They're guys I'd known when I was starting out in grip/electric. Their names: Phil Ya Up and Robby Drubbin. They're crazy fucking dudes. New York and Los Angeles motion picture technicians are so hardcore. We met up at a restaurant on Sullivan street in the village: I had not seen Rob since - well I'd say - 1999. When Phil mentioned he was coming I got real excited. I don't know why. I guess I was just in a good mood. It was a beautiful warm summer night, and we were six people around the big outdoor sidewalk table of a Brazilian restaurant. I had worked that day on the set of a very kind but tiny independent film. We went thirteen hours.
WHEN ROB PULLED UP AT THE RESTAURANT HE WAS RIDING A HARLEY. It was really loud. The sound was amplified even more, bouncing off the tight little Greenwich Village street. It was one of those bikes everybody wants to see banned. I didn't get a good look at it, on account of his parking it behind a big roll-off type dumpster. Rob had always been into choppers. He was the first guy I knew who got into that. Craze. I hired him once as the key grip on an indie feature that shot out in New Jersey. The production payed very low rates, but they still managed to be sticklers about all kinds of shit. By that I mean protocol stuff. Everyone acted very big budget. On the first day of the job, Robby Rob as he was known, rode out to location, a high school in New Jersey, on some beat gone English chopper. The machine, an early 70s Triumph, had leather fringes hanging from the barends, but seriously worn and greasy. It was black, and smelled strongly of gas. Some of us were walking through the school parking lot to get to set, and we see Rob's bike, and we're suddenly breaking up laughing. He had parked the greasy chopper in the high school principal's very well posted, reserved parking spot. "What a biker Rob is." The girl I was with said, shaking her head in amazement.
WE WERE YELLING AND MAKING A RACKET AS IT GOT LATER. A couple of the people I 'd worked with had to leave, on account of their early call the next day. but Phil and Rob wanted to go to Doc Holiday's on Ave. A. I was looking at a day off, so I elected to hang with my old friends. They both seemed to have aged so cool in the five years I'd been away. Hanging out and making it memorable seemed like the thing to do.
I HAD ALWAYS HAD A PREJUDICE AGAINST DOC HOLIDAYS. Just like I did about everything else when I lived in the village. It seemed to have this air of phony redneck appropriationism. I regarded it as I would Coyoye Ugly, which now has a franchise in Vegas at the New York New York hotel casino. But Doc Holidays was where those dudes thought we should go. When we got there Phil right away ordered each of us a huge glass of Jack Daniels and a can of Pabst Blue Ribbon. It was going to be one of those nights.
WE GOT WASTED. WE LISTENED TO ROY ORBISON. I WON SOME MONEY AT POOL. We talked about all kinds of shit. We kept going out onto Ave. A to smoke cigarettes, and then back in to drink more Pabst Blue Ribbon. Phil was walking around singing along to Crazy by Patsy Cline. It was beautiful. He was beautiful. His voice was high and cracking like a 90 year old lady. I mean it was funny in the deep clownness of it. But it was his eyes and gaze that made it stirring. He really looked like he was going to cry. He didn't mind how bad his voice sounded at all. He just gave it up. His eyes looked so hurt. He would walk by and gaze, puppy-like at the two of us, standing there transfixed. After a couple of verses the two of us were laughing - even with the involuntary gesture of a hand to cover my mirth. As you do. Phil went on, in his high creaky voice, shrugging his shoulders with heartbroken resignation. Worrry! Why do i let myself, worry?
ROB HAD GOTTEN A HUGE TATTOO ON HIS SHOULDER OF THE WORLD TRADE CENTER TOWERS. He'd been on the set lighting crew that cabled and rigged ground zero for light, on the night of the disater. He was a genny operator. He didn't give a shit about film, or lighting. He just liked motors. I was outside having a smoke and I suddenly took a mind to go check out Rob's Harley. He'd only had it on the road for a year. But he'd spent three years building it. It was a 1979 sportser. 100cu/in., aircooled *iron head* V-twin. It was a rightside chain drive. I love Harley's with chain drive. I suddenly found myself completely grooving on the chopper. It was an epiphany. The engine was so large it was out of proportion to the stripped down bike's frame and tank. It didn't have extended forks, but the front end triple clamp was high like a bull's shoulder, as is characteristic of Harley's from the late 70s. Probably to accomodate the huge motor and crankcase. And that engine was clean, from having the oil painstakingly wiped off with a rag every day. The whole bike was polished with its own motor oil.
ROB GOT IT INTO HIS HEAD TO GO FOR A MOTORCYCLE RIDE. He was offering to let me ride his other chopper. A 1959 BSA 650. It was 3:30am. I immeadiately objected. I did love the idea, but I was wasted. Phil also spoke up against it, in his New Zealand accent. He thought it was a really bad idea. He kept saying that we should all just go get some coke. I suggested we walk over to Rob's place on 11th and Avenue B. , just so i could see the old BSA. Phil was getting all bent out of shape as he fell in behind us on tenth street. "You guys are gonna go for a fucking ride aren't you?" he kept asking, exasperatedly. "Let's just go get some coke man!" It was a perfectly calm warm night. There was not a soul on the street/ Even the parked cars were in REM.
THE BIKES WERE CHAINED TOGETHER ON 11TH STREET. He kept them under covers. We right away set to work starting the BSA. It was a kickstart, and the thing had such compression i could stand on the foldout kick lever with both feet and not be able to turn the engine at all. We took turns in threes for twenty minutes, and I bruised the inisde of my calf from hitting the foot peg several times. I was only wearing a pair of bright orange Dickeys shorts and a wife-beater under shirt. It was the same clothes I was wearing when i left the house for work, 18 hours before. My socks, my Doc Marten rangers, everything was plastered to my skin from the gritty heat.
ROB WAS STANDING SLIGHTLY BEHIND THE MOTORCYCLE, KICKING THE LEVER AND SHOUTING "INFERNAL MACHINE!" And suddenly it caught. It was caught and it roared. I mean- what a loud bike! It didn't have any muffler, instead the exhaust out the heads was sawed off with a grinder just under the right foot peg. Rob produced a helmet from the camper shell of his 73 ranchero parked across the street. He handed it to me, sitting there on the strange beast. "Now you're legal." he said. And he climbed onto the harley and fired it up. What a goddamn racket we were causing.
THE HELMET WAS A JOKE. It was one of those little, black wehrmacht style biker lids, but resembling in workmanship the plastic batting helmets they give out at baseball games. it had a teeny little nylon chin strap which was so loose I could fit a fist into the slack under my chin. It was not adjustable. Rob leaned over and hollered into my ear, over the roaring motorcycles, asking if I could figure out the gearshifting on the BSA. It had a right-side toe lever, with a 1-up/3-down arrangement. I had heard that English bikes were different from the Japanese ones I've owned. I realized, suddenly quite awestruck, that something remarkable was occurring. It was a bloody fucking marvelous thing. I lifted the lever up, heard it KNOCK into 1st gear; released the clutch and we were on the road. We both smiled broadly and I whoopped, inaudibly on account of the cacophonous motorcycles.
THERE WAS NOT A SINGLE CAR ON THE STREETS OF ALPHABET CITY. We had it absolutely to ourselves. We turned right so we were heading south on avenue B, and by some fluke we pulled up right behind a cop that had just left a space. We were stuck behind a cop on our choppers, while the city that never sleeps slept. But Rob had other things in mind. He headed straight for the F.D.R. We got on the highway and opened the bikes up all the way. The F.D.R. was so dead empty. I'd never witnessed such a sight in New York. Rob took off like mad on the Harley. He was doing at least 100mph. In a moment he was almost out of sight. I gave chase, working the gears of the BSA. It was crazy. The bike is a hard-tail. No suspension but the heavy steel frame. It also had no turn signals, gauges or mirrors. So cool. We roared down the FDR, under the WillyB and then the Manhattan and Brooklyn bridges. We overtook one car that seemed to pull over to get out of our way. Or maybe just to check out the bikes. They were really loud on such a still morning.
WE GOT OFF AT THE SOUTH STREET SEAPORT. It stank of fish. Everywhere smelled of the east river in all its pungent majesty. I didn't mind at all. My helmet of course had blown off and was dangling behind me from the chin strap. my eyes were tearing from not having goggles. Rob said that I really needed to open the bike up on the way back to the village. He suggested that I lead that time and give it everything it had. I didn't quite do that, but I got it going 80. It was the most wobbly motorcycle anyone ever built. It sounded like a firework plant conflagration, explosions bouncing off the building and bridges along the river.
AT THE CORNER OF AVE. D AND HOUSTON STREET THE BSA DIED. We were right outside the east river housing projects. We couldn't get it going again. We stayed there for an hour. Rob tried to clean the points with the striking surface of a paper match book, while I held a little keychain flashlight for his observation. He got pissed off. He would get up and walk around, going through his head the possibilities as to what may have happened. He said it all aloud. It was 5:30am.
"THE BIKE WASN'T HAPPY YOU RODE IT" HE SAID FINALLY. And he shook his head. It was conclusive. We still had a mile and a half to get back to Rob's place on 11th/B. He suggested towing me on the BSA with his Harley. I was immeadiately game. We tried it first with me sitting on the BSA, holding the harley's rear-fender. It seemed impossible. The Harley was pulling me just fine, but the BSA stayed where it was. What finally worked was me grabbbing his belt, and leaning the bike away from his at a steep angle, my feet out wide like outriggers. It actually worked. I won't say we were the first guys to ever tow one motorcycle with another, but it's not something people do very often. It seemed to go with the whole night. It was so warm and humid. We passed a cop car heading up Ave B. I could not believe they let us get away with that tow rig.
:BLUE MOON//YOU SAW ME STANDING ALONE//WITHOUT A DREAM IN MY HEART//WITHOUT A LOVE OF MY OWN:
That's not true. I never did that. Something very white just came into my head, that's all.
Sunday, July 25, 2004
I watched a great baseball game tonight. I totally get baseball - again. I mean the last time I cared about baseball, such as developing a relationship with the players and the TEAMS, was when i was twelve years old. The Boston Red Sox are such an interesting team. I have a lot of friends from Connecticut, new Jersey and that part of the country, and they're all huge redsox fans. Today, watching Boston defeat the new york Yankees 9-6, I grasped why so many love this team and so emotionally.
I had never seen Fenway prk from the air. I was spookily amazed to observe that the field is not the usual diamond, but is instead shaped like a kidney. You wonder by what strange fluke that happened. The red Sox have so much damn character.
And isn't it great that they play at Fenway Park. Their old clubhouse. It's so Boston. The Boston RedSox are not going to have a home ballpark called pizzahut.redsox.com/stadium. It's Fenway Park. And damn well it should be. I think these corporations should be ashamed, but i guess it's really the team owners. It's the whole chingasa it is. How about a corporate culture which makes a stand, and doesn't try to overwhelm and eradicate the small things which give our cities some depth? How about allowing some mysticism, besides the hypnosis of brand loyalty? Yeah that's going to happen.
But then, those redsox. Senator John Kerry was sitting next to the Boston dug-out, in what i imagine would be the most coveted seats in the ballpark. He was with John Glenn, and the crowd loved it. I loved it. Millar jacked a homerun with the bases empty in the bottom of the sixth. On his way back to the dugout he high-fived Kerry. I mean kerry is Boston. Talk about a son of that state. He threw out the opening game ball; a flacid lob I have to say. It landed on the plate itself, ane of the announcers good-naturedly called: "Breaking ball."
Volkofsky noted amusingly that the Red Sox are a hair band. It's true that a lot of them have funky hair. I barely know anything about team line-ups, but Boston has all the guys I've heard of. I guess I know the names of few yankees players too.
But I know that Boston has, or recently had Tim Wakefield, a knuckleballer. He has the slowest pitch in the big leagues. His knuckleball averages between 41 and 61 mph, and the catchers can't even catch them. They're junk wobbling through the air. This is at a point in the game when buffed up jocks with flame throwers are throwing fastballs at 104. Wakefield plays a really old school game, in which owners have little confidence. And of course he plays for Boston. The teams are run like McDonalds. At least a very high paying McDonalds.
Ken Burns was being interviewd on NPR theother day, and he was waxing poetic about baseball. He made such great points about the mysticism of the game, at least what baseball's diehard fans will always try to convince you is the game's mysticism. Burns pointed out that baseball the only sport in which it is the Man who scores the point. In all other sports it's the ball, the puck, the stone which has to cross, or be placed or slamdunked in order to gain points. And in baseball it's the runner, and he does it by getting home.
I had never seen Fenway prk from the air. I was spookily amazed to observe that the field is not the usual diamond, but is instead shaped like a kidney. You wonder by what strange fluke that happened. The red Sox have so much damn character.
And isn't it great that they play at Fenway Park. Their old clubhouse. It's so Boston. The Boston RedSox are not going to have a home ballpark called pizzahut.redsox.com/stadium. It's Fenway Park. And damn well it should be. I think these corporations should be ashamed, but i guess it's really the team owners. It's the whole chingasa it is. How about a corporate culture which makes a stand, and doesn't try to overwhelm and eradicate the small things which give our cities some depth? How about allowing some mysticism, besides the hypnosis of brand loyalty? Yeah that's going to happen.
But then, those redsox. Senator John Kerry was sitting next to the Boston dug-out, in what i imagine would be the most coveted seats in the ballpark. He was with John Glenn, and the crowd loved it. I loved it. Millar jacked a homerun with the bases empty in the bottom of the sixth. On his way back to the dugout he high-fived Kerry. I mean kerry is Boston. Talk about a son of that state. He threw out the opening game ball; a flacid lob I have to say. It landed on the plate itself, ane of the announcers good-naturedly called: "Breaking ball."
Volkofsky noted amusingly that the Red Sox are a hair band. It's true that a lot of them have funky hair. I barely know anything about team line-ups, but Boston has all the guys I've heard of. I guess I know the names of few yankees players too.
But I know that Boston has, or recently had Tim Wakefield, a knuckleballer. He has the slowest pitch in the big leagues. His knuckleball averages between 41 and 61 mph, and the catchers can't even catch them. They're junk wobbling through the air. This is at a point in the game when buffed up jocks with flame throwers are throwing fastballs at 104. Wakefield plays a really old school game, in which owners have little confidence. And of course he plays for Boston. The teams are run like McDonalds. At least a very high paying McDonalds.
Ken Burns was being interviewd on NPR theother day, and he was waxing poetic about baseball. He made such great points about the mysticism of the game, at least what baseball's diehard fans will always try to convince you is the game's mysticism. Burns pointed out that baseball the only sport in which it is the Man who scores the point. In all other sports it's the ball, the puck, the stone which has to cross, or be placed or slamdunked in order to gain points. And in baseball it's the runner, and he does it by getting home.
Monday, July 19, 2004
NOTE TO TO SELF - NEVER EAT POT COOKIE AGAIN AS LONG AS YOU LIVE! DO YOU COPY?
Wow. Boy was this last week ever weird. It seemed to pass by like something that fell off the roof. I had to go back to LA last friday for a job with Keith that we'd planned weeks ago. I'd booked my return friday afternoon, thinking that i'd have the evening to relax and I could show up for keith's show refreshed and prepared. But it didn't fucking happen that way. I couldn't get anyone to pick me up at the airport in long beach, so i got in one of those vans headed up to LA.
The problem was the dude didn't inform us that his first stop was in pasadena, and so we ended up stuck in afternoon rush hour traffic for two hours. A guy riding behind me started laying into the driver, and i just wanted to shrink, or dissolve or something. he was absolutely right that the driver should not have racked us in a van to pasadena, when we were all going to LA. But who wants to hear someone berated like that? Fucking sucked. I saw my refreshing little evening dissolve before my eyes.
But that's not the weird part. No. No, that was monday. The weird part happened on monday when I ate a pot cookie a friend passed me. NOTE TO TO SELF - NEVER EAT POT COOKIE AGAIN AS LONG AS YOU LIVE! DO YOU COPY?
My idea had been to catch a light buzz and then just tend to chores around the house. There were plenty to do what with my imminent departure for new york. And all of them were sufficiently brainless that the cannabis would just glide me through all mellow and ras. The problem was that the buzz i caught was not light. I was fucking wasted - and delusional. My heart beat at some anaerobic level for about 10 hours. I was unable to catch my breath. i went into the kitchen and ran straight into my housemate. She seemed startled. She could look right through me.
"Dude, I ate a pot cookie and I am really fucked up.' I said.
"Oh wow, really?" She asked with what seemed like a complete absence of concern. She made a THITCH sound with her tongue against the back of her teeth.
"Well I hope you come down soon." She singsonged, as one reads the last line of a bedtime story to a sleeping infant
"Yeah yeah - me too." I said, smiling weakly as I backed away from her towards my room. I closed the door and exhaled fully. Must not leave room again, I thought to myself.
I sat down at my desk and stared at the elder tree in the backyard. I tried to think of happy reassuring things and I concentrated on Volkofsky's play. The play is the greatest thing in the world. In my world. Yeah that's right, the world. The play is my beautiful world. My magic box.
The breath suddenly tightened in my lungs when I grasped the essence of DOC, the demented character I'm to play. I had an innocent little fairy of an epiphany turn into a horrendous, howling demon. I gasped in fear and regret for having accepted the part. I couldn't believe that I had agreed to do it; If the devil handed me a signed original contract for my soul, i could not have had greater regret or terror: For having left my happy little pink house in california to be subject to the indignities of that part.
Volkofsky is trying to destroy me. Oh my God. How could I not have seen it? just the concept of Doc, his ugliness and sadism, channeled through me... A dark cold thought came over me: It's a Jewsih sacrifice ritual. And I'm the guy who's gonna get it.
This part - this Doc is a human meat grinder. I do a three page monologue not only wearing red boxing gloves, high heels and a glass of water strapped to my head - I actually have no pants on. My cock, my balls and my ass are literally hanging out! They may as well be hanging out on the corner, smoking cigarettes and whistling at girls. Volkofsky is going to utterly destroy me! Of course! It's a Jewsih sacrifice ritual. He needed a gentile to destroy, and I was the perfect mark. Oh god help me! I said aloud.
My eyes were as big as faberge eggs - falling out of their sockets - dangling from intercom wires like an improvised explosive art device. Terrifying and fucked up.
I lurched across the room and fell down on my bed. Breathing erratically and trying to get a hold of myself I stared up at the acoustic cottage cheese ceiling, and in the faint outlines of the boards beneath it, I saw a great white cross - glowing before me.
"Holy fuck-ing shit" I whispered: over and over. "Holy fuck-ing shit"
Hours later, after a three hour nap and still stoned out of my mind I went over to Trader Joes on the bicycle. There was no way I was driving a car in that state. I was terribly thirsty, and stood in the line with four bottles of Orangina. Everyone seemed perfectly aware that I was sub-human waste, but I managed to get through the check-out line. As I was walking out the store, the phone rang in my pocket
caller ID:
VOLKOFSKY
He must know that I'm onto him.
I let the call go to voicemail. I seriously thought about going to see a priest. I thought about calling my dad. I finally fell asleep in the hammock in the backyard.
The next day, still bleary as hell, I went online and booked a ticket back to new york. I called Volkofsky to tell him that I would make it for the saturday rehearsal.
"Good." He said. "I was wondering for awhile yesterday if you wouldn't back out."
"Nah, I wouldn't do that." I answered. "I did actually freak out for awhile yesterday, but I feel okay now."
"What were you freaking out about?" He asked.
"Ahhh, I'll uh - I'll tell you about it another time." I finally said.
You know. The thing is, he is going to destroy me, or at least part of me. But I'm kind of into it. And anyway he did the part last year, and he seems like a better man for it.
Wow. Boy was this last week ever weird. It seemed to pass by like something that fell off the roof. I had to go back to LA last friday for a job with Keith that we'd planned weeks ago. I'd booked my return friday afternoon, thinking that i'd have the evening to relax and I could show up for keith's show refreshed and prepared. But it didn't fucking happen that way. I couldn't get anyone to pick me up at the airport in long beach, so i got in one of those vans headed up to LA.
The problem was the dude didn't inform us that his first stop was in pasadena, and so we ended up stuck in afternoon rush hour traffic for two hours. A guy riding behind me started laying into the driver, and i just wanted to shrink, or dissolve or something. he was absolutely right that the driver should not have racked us in a van to pasadena, when we were all going to LA. But who wants to hear someone berated like that? Fucking sucked. I saw my refreshing little evening dissolve before my eyes.
But that's not the weird part. No. No, that was monday. The weird part happened on monday when I ate a pot cookie a friend passed me. NOTE TO TO SELF - NEVER EAT POT COOKIE AGAIN AS LONG AS YOU LIVE! DO YOU COPY?
My idea had been to catch a light buzz and then just tend to chores around the house. There were plenty to do what with my imminent departure for new york. And all of them were sufficiently brainless that the cannabis would just glide me through all mellow and ras. The problem was that the buzz i caught was not light. I was fucking wasted - and delusional. My heart beat at some anaerobic level for about 10 hours. I was unable to catch my breath. i went into the kitchen and ran straight into my housemate. She seemed startled. She could look right through me.
"Dude, I ate a pot cookie and I am really fucked up.' I said.
"Oh wow, really?" She asked with what seemed like a complete absence of concern. She made a THITCH sound with her tongue against the back of her teeth.
"Well I hope you come down soon." She singsonged, as one reads the last line of a bedtime story to a sleeping infant
"Yeah yeah - me too." I said, smiling weakly as I backed away from her towards my room. I closed the door and exhaled fully. Must not leave room again, I thought to myself.
I sat down at my desk and stared at the elder tree in the backyard. I tried to think of happy reassuring things and I concentrated on Volkofsky's play. The play is the greatest thing in the world. In my world. Yeah that's right, the world. The play is my beautiful world. My magic box.
The breath suddenly tightened in my lungs when I grasped the essence of DOC, the demented character I'm to play. I had an innocent little fairy of an epiphany turn into a horrendous, howling demon. I gasped in fear and regret for having accepted the part. I couldn't believe that I had agreed to do it; If the devil handed me a signed original contract for my soul, i could not have had greater regret or terror: For having left my happy little pink house in california to be subject to the indignities of that part.
Volkofsky is trying to destroy me. Oh my God. How could I not have seen it? just the concept of Doc, his ugliness and sadism, channeled through me... A dark cold thought came over me: It's a Jewsih sacrifice ritual. And I'm the guy who's gonna get it.
This part - this Doc is a human meat grinder. I do a three page monologue not only wearing red boxing gloves, high heels and a glass of water strapped to my head - I actually have no pants on. My cock, my balls and my ass are literally hanging out! They may as well be hanging out on the corner, smoking cigarettes and whistling at girls. Volkofsky is going to utterly destroy me! Of course! It's a Jewsih sacrifice ritual. He needed a gentile to destroy, and I was the perfect mark. Oh god help me! I said aloud.
My eyes were as big as faberge eggs - falling out of their sockets - dangling from intercom wires like an improvised explosive art device. Terrifying and fucked up.
I lurched across the room and fell down on my bed. Breathing erratically and trying to get a hold of myself I stared up at the acoustic cottage cheese ceiling, and in the faint outlines of the boards beneath it, I saw a great white cross - glowing before me.
"Holy fuck-ing shit" I whispered: over and over. "Holy fuck-ing shit"
Hours later, after a three hour nap and still stoned out of my mind I went over to Trader Joes on the bicycle. There was no way I was driving a car in that state. I was terribly thirsty, and stood in the line with four bottles of Orangina. Everyone seemed perfectly aware that I was sub-human waste, but I managed to get through the check-out line. As I was walking out the store, the phone rang in my pocket
caller ID:
VOLKOFSKY
He must know that I'm onto him.
I let the call go to voicemail. I seriously thought about going to see a priest. I thought about calling my dad. I finally fell asleep in the hammock in the backyard.
The next day, still bleary as hell, I went online and booked a ticket back to new york. I called Volkofsky to tell him that I would make it for the saturday rehearsal.
"Good." He said. "I was wondering for awhile yesterday if you wouldn't back out."
"Nah, I wouldn't do that." I answered. "I did actually freak out for awhile yesterday, but I feel okay now."
"What were you freaking out about?" He asked.
"Ahhh, I'll uh - I'll tell you about it another time." I finally said.
You know. The thing is, he is going to destroy me, or at least part of me. But I'm kind of into it. And anyway he did the part last year, and he seems like a better man for it.
Wednesday, July 07, 2004
I just noticed that i'm coming up on the 100th blog marker. That's unbelievable to me. It seems like only yesterday I was *trying it on*; looking for a voice. i wondered what kinds of thoughts and ideas would lend themselves to the format. And now - oh how we've grown! Ha ha ha. But these are my favorite writing pieces I've ever done.
I'm not certain of this, but i believe that it's the uncertainty of readership which creates the blog's wonderful tension. I write from a place of not knowing whom, if anyone will actualy read it. I know that some people read my blog regularly, such as my mother - but I'm never sure of anyone else.
The blog then is addressed: To whom it may concern. This is my message in a bottle. Volkofsky described my writing as a plea to be understood. And though I shuddered from embarrassment at the time he said those words, I've come to see that he's 100% right. If anyone cares to hear me, then I shall keep talking.
i made the decision to spend the summer in new york. I know the impact of this decision will be felt long and profound for the duration of my existence, and so i'm not even really considering it. That would just freak me out too much. We have begun rehearsals of Shivah Proper. I have not undertaken a theatre project nor so much as held a script in my hand since 1998, when i was doing THE ALL GIRLIE LIVE CLOWN REVUE. It was during our final week of rehearsals that i was mugged and beat up on the Williamburgh bridge, and my clown I put away after that. My next live appearance was a Muay Thai match on my 30th birthday, in which I hit one of my friends so hard in the face that his mother climbed into the ring and screamed at me that I was a bad man and I must leave her son Hanson alone. This poor woman was so angry that she was shaking.
Today I began the work of learning the text of the play. I sat in a coffee shop most of the morning, putting off the the inevitable first breaking of ground that would eventually be a vast underground chasm of words. That's what learning a script bears the greatest resemblance to (yeah i know, thats a preposition: i don't give a shit - it's my blog). The first sentence begins:
No one lives. Forever. Anyway.
Pacing around Kirsten's apartment, I engraved the words into my quick access storage-brain. And that was the the spade's first cut through the grass and clay. As I move along further down the first monologue I reach the point that I can recall the entire first five lines. I find that I've dug a tunnel: I begin to add shoring in the areas that are weak. I go back and work over and over on the more complicated word groupings. It's like I'm adding a fourbyfour here and there (don't want a catastrophic cave-in). Some dust and plant roots fall from the earthen ceiling onto my head, but it seems to hold.
I'm asking myself: How do I make it shine? This role has only ever been performed by Volkofsky himself. The very words he wrote are now coming from my mouth. It's as if we are melding into one being. I have to give myself over to his direction entirely. I've never tested a friendship so.
The last few days Volkofsky and I have gone to play baseball at a riverside park in astoria. We take turns pitching to one another, each of us trying to outjunk the other with interpretations of victorian era pitches. We attempt knuckle balls and exaggerated sidearm breaking balls. Some Dominican kids came along yesterday and challenged us to a game of three on three. That's a concept that doesn't really work, unless you love to run. I had rollerskated to the park and so I had no shoes to wear. Each time the biggest of the kids nailed a pitch into the deep outfield, with a resounding KLINK from the aluminum bat, I tore off through the field after it, all the while trying to watch out for broken glass. Those kids thought i was some kind of wild old dude.
Lately i've thought the same thing myself.
I'm not certain of this, but i believe that it's the uncertainty of readership which creates the blog's wonderful tension. I write from a place of not knowing whom, if anyone will actualy read it. I know that some people read my blog regularly, such as my mother - but I'm never sure of anyone else.
The blog then is addressed: To whom it may concern. This is my message in a bottle. Volkofsky described my writing as a plea to be understood. And though I shuddered from embarrassment at the time he said those words, I've come to see that he's 100% right. If anyone cares to hear me, then I shall keep talking.
i made the decision to spend the summer in new york. I know the impact of this decision will be felt long and profound for the duration of my existence, and so i'm not even really considering it. That would just freak me out too much. We have begun rehearsals of Shivah Proper. I have not undertaken a theatre project nor so much as held a script in my hand since 1998, when i was doing THE ALL GIRLIE LIVE CLOWN REVUE. It was during our final week of rehearsals that i was mugged and beat up on the Williamburgh bridge, and my clown I put away after that. My next live appearance was a Muay Thai match on my 30th birthday, in which I hit one of my friends so hard in the face that his mother climbed into the ring and screamed at me that I was a bad man and I must leave her son Hanson alone. This poor woman was so angry that she was shaking.
Today I began the work of learning the text of the play. I sat in a coffee shop most of the morning, putting off the the inevitable first breaking of ground that would eventually be a vast underground chasm of words. That's what learning a script bears the greatest resemblance to (yeah i know, thats a preposition: i don't give a shit - it's my blog). The first sentence begins:
No one lives. Forever. Anyway.
Pacing around Kirsten's apartment, I engraved the words into my quick access storage-brain. And that was the the spade's first cut through the grass and clay. As I move along further down the first monologue I reach the point that I can recall the entire first five lines. I find that I've dug a tunnel: I begin to add shoring in the areas that are weak. I go back and work over and over on the more complicated word groupings. It's like I'm adding a fourbyfour here and there (don't want a catastrophic cave-in). Some dust and plant roots fall from the earthen ceiling onto my head, but it seems to hold.
I'm asking myself: How do I make it shine? This role has only ever been performed by Volkofsky himself. The very words he wrote are now coming from my mouth. It's as if we are melding into one being. I have to give myself over to his direction entirely. I've never tested a friendship so.
The last few days Volkofsky and I have gone to play baseball at a riverside park in astoria. We take turns pitching to one another, each of us trying to outjunk the other with interpretations of victorian era pitches. We attempt knuckle balls and exaggerated sidearm breaking balls. Some Dominican kids came along yesterday and challenged us to a game of three on three. That's a concept that doesn't really work, unless you love to run. I had rollerskated to the park and so I had no shoes to wear. Each time the biggest of the kids nailed a pitch into the deep outfield, with a resounding KLINK from the aluminum bat, I tore off through the field after it, all the while trying to watch out for broken glass. Those kids thought i was some kind of wild old dude.
Lately i've thought the same thing myself.
Saturday, May 15, 2004
The last flashes of my time in Mexico are only glowing now. I've received a few e-mails from friends there, all promising to come up to California, or else insisting that I return to the D.F. It's almost as if I wasn't ever there. I feel the weight of emotion on my chest. The loss of so much new love and life. I had to remember why I went there in the first place: It was a job. And now the job consists of unpacking our freight on monday, and getting my check from keith and moving on with my life.
That's the only view that's consistent with my survival.
The last time I saw Tulo was at Papagoyo Tabares in the center of Acapulco. Him and some of the other guys dragged me back to the famous stripclub for one last insanity, even though I protested that I was sick and feverish (which I was) there in the hotel parking lot, and that I hadn't had any sleep in 32 hours, and that I had a plane to catch at 5am. No matter, they said. Better I should have some tequila to attack the fever, and stay awake with friends at tabares.
Tabares was on. just a few nights before some of the other Americans had gone there on my reccomendation, but they complained that the girls were ugly and it took them forever to get their clothes off. Of course these guys had also gone with wives and girlfriends, and so they did not end up with their booth full of chicas, grabbing at their pricks and selling them sex and an end to all pain. Well of course they didn't like it! they were in a little bubble.
That night was my thrid trip to Tabares. I had literally become a regular. Tulo had also become a regular, and the to of us sat drinking beer talking about the Scorpions. Tulo's wallet had been stolen in tabares a week before, and one of the company grips - Noe - had been mugged at gunpoint on his way home, but no matter; we were right at home there. I loved all the girls. I told them they were angels. They understood my emotion. On the set us dirty bastards in lighting and grip don't get any attention from women in the comapany. For one thing we're too busy working, and then those chicks are alays occupied with the male talent - los putillos - whose hair they're brushing and clothes they're arranging.
Everyone in the company knew we hung out in tabares. Hell we left every dime we made there. If you stay in tabares late enough the fun show begins. Clowns and dwarves rollerblade around the place, and all the girls are carried out and deployed to dance on the tables in matching red sequin dresses. Some guys in the bar are dragged up on stage to receive their *privados* in front of the whole place, and they end up ith their clothes off, on stage, getting their dicks sucked to raucous aplause and approval from the bar's patrons.
And then the music changes. Metallica or whatever strip club standard is discarded, and there beginds the peeling violin of a drunken mariachi or ranchero. And then you're really in Mexico - timeless Mexico. I stumble seeing double to the bathroom, and not one table fails to salute this staggering gavacho with a tipped bottle of beer or a lecherous wink.
The last time I saw Tulo he was in the private dancing booth. i had looked all over tabares for him, because I had to leave to catch my flight. He was sprawled out on the rounded booth, and a girlwas lying naked atop him, perpendicluar to his body.
"Puta madre guey! Testoy buscando por todos lados!"
"Ya que onda guey?!" he yells back over the roar of the maricahi.
Me voy ahorrita. We kissed. i kissed him over and over, and then I kissed his putilla and thanked her for loving him. I reminded him to create the image of the *Virgen de Tabares* and i would have it tattooed on my chest, and then I left for the USA.
That's the only view that's consistent with my survival.
The last time I saw Tulo was at Papagoyo Tabares in the center of Acapulco. Him and some of the other guys dragged me back to the famous stripclub for one last insanity, even though I protested that I was sick and feverish (which I was) there in the hotel parking lot, and that I hadn't had any sleep in 32 hours, and that I had a plane to catch at 5am. No matter, they said. Better I should have some tequila to attack the fever, and stay awake with friends at tabares.
Tabares was on. just a few nights before some of the other Americans had gone there on my reccomendation, but they complained that the girls were ugly and it took them forever to get their clothes off. Of course these guys had also gone with wives and girlfriends, and so they did not end up with their booth full of chicas, grabbing at their pricks and selling them sex and an end to all pain. Well of course they didn't like it! they were in a little bubble.
That night was my thrid trip to Tabares. I had literally become a regular. Tulo had also become a regular, and the to of us sat drinking beer talking about the Scorpions. Tulo's wallet had been stolen in tabares a week before, and one of the company grips - Noe - had been mugged at gunpoint on his way home, but no matter; we were right at home there. I loved all the girls. I told them they were angels. They understood my emotion. On the set us dirty bastards in lighting and grip don't get any attention from women in the comapany. For one thing we're too busy working, and then those chicks are alays occupied with the male talent - los putillos - whose hair they're brushing and clothes they're arranging.
Everyone in the company knew we hung out in tabares. Hell we left every dime we made there. If you stay in tabares late enough the fun show begins. Clowns and dwarves rollerblade around the place, and all the girls are carried out and deployed to dance on the tables in matching red sequin dresses. Some guys in the bar are dragged up on stage to receive their *privados* in front of the whole place, and they end up ith their clothes off, on stage, getting their dicks sucked to raucous aplause and approval from the bar's patrons.
And then the music changes. Metallica or whatever strip club standard is discarded, and there beginds the peeling violin of a drunken mariachi or ranchero. And then you're really in Mexico - timeless Mexico. I stumble seeing double to the bathroom, and not one table fails to salute this staggering gavacho with a tipped bottle of beer or a lecherous wink.
The last time I saw Tulo he was in the private dancing booth. i had looked all over tabares for him, because I had to leave to catch my flight. He was sprawled out on the rounded booth, and a girlwas lying naked atop him, perpendicluar to his body.
"Puta madre guey! Testoy buscando por todos lados!"
"Ya que onda guey?!" he yells back over the roar of the maricahi.
Me voy ahorrita. We kissed. i kissed him over and over, and then I kissed his putilla and thanked her for loving him. I reminded him to create the image of the *Virgen de Tabares* and i would have it tattooed on my chest, and then I left for the USA.
Tuesday, May 04, 2004
Oye que desmadre es esta programa..!
Mexico. I don't know how much more I can take. I had always heard that this land was more akin to a civilization than a mere country. Now I have this place running through me like a dialysis. I wish I had written more but i was too busy working and trying to finish the damn show honorably. From the first day we loaded in our trucks to the hero villa in Las Brisas we were massacred by inexperienced people above us. We survived on beer and late nights. the entire city hits it so hard.
I would have blogged more but i had no e-mail *contacto*. I'm living in Spanish, learning the nom enclature of set lighting. My vocabultry of Spanish slang has exploded. Of all the lighting terms I picked up here in Acapulco my favorite is the expression for gripping down a light source so that it has some shadows. the Mexicans call that *punishing* the light.
"hay que castigar mas a este 6K PAR.
I still love Mexico but I'm not sure how much more I can take. Everyone is exhausted of living in a hotel. I for one want nothing more than to take my espresso at my kitchen table, with the birds singing and the day's LA Times. I'm unable to socilaize anymore... But in Mexico there is no isolation. It's great for me. I can already hear the melancholy echo of all these wonderful voices from where I live. This job has been an outright sprint, and my head will still be in motion for longtime after.
Salud
Mexico. I don't know how much more I can take. I had always heard that this land was more akin to a civilization than a mere country. Now I have this place running through me like a dialysis. I wish I had written more but i was too busy working and trying to finish the damn show honorably. From the first day we loaded in our trucks to the hero villa in Las Brisas we were massacred by inexperienced people above us. We survived on beer and late nights. the entire city hits it so hard.
I would have blogged more but i had no e-mail *contacto*. I'm living in Spanish, learning the nom enclature of set lighting. My vocabultry of Spanish slang has exploded. Of all the lighting terms I picked up here in Acapulco my favorite is the expression for gripping down a light source so that it has some shadows. the Mexicans call that *punishing* the light.
"hay que castigar mas a este 6K PAR.
I still love Mexico but I'm not sure how much more I can take. Everyone is exhausted of living in a hotel. I for one want nothing more than to take my espresso at my kitchen table, with the birds singing and the day's LA Times. I'm unable to socilaize anymore... But in Mexico there is no isolation. It's great for me. I can already hear the melancholy echo of all these wonderful voices from where I live. This job has been an outright sprint, and my head will still be in motion for longtime after.
Salud
Monday, April 05, 2004
Damn my email's been corrupted by the neon sleaze of pop-up ads. Like a vine these things grew into my mail and browser so that I have full page smut with no functioning close buttons. It juts goes to show you that things break down. The weeds start creeping. I get this abnormally high sprint bill which has a surprising new added service.
PCS Vision premium Pack $15.95/month
I called right away. That made me mad as hell. They make so much money off me it's not funny. They make it off all the hardcharging disorganized people who don't have time to read their bills. Leave it to Sprint to go and invent some service that has nothing to do with phonecalls. The Sprint operator informed me that I got that service automatically when I bought my new phone.
"But I never asked for this." I said. "What does it even do?"
"You did agree to it sir, when you signed up or the rebate on your newest phone." She said. "It's for downloading games and screensavers - worldwide webbing etc."
She sounded confident that she had me. 'The rebate you got - remember?' Her voice seemed to tease. I had taken the money she gently reminded me.
"I never got the rebate on this damn phone." I said to her. "I paid full price."
"I don't understand." The operator's voice on the other end of the line
"I paid something like $230 for this phone, and I never got the application in or the rebate."
She was silent on the other end. Is she calling or her manager?
"I just blew it off - do you understand? I never signed up or this PCS Gold vision pack."
How do these corporations function? Their M.O. seems to be to introduce a charge - weasle it in, and then cash in on the aggregate of disorganized people like myself who let it go by - just for being too busy to read the itemized section of the bill. The few customers who bother to go through the phone labyritnth in order to get it refunded - like I just did - will only get a credit back in a month. Sprint is able to generate a shitload of cash like that. I wonder what they call that practice, in their little dens.
What do they call it in those big companies when they lower the blade and take a thicker cut? I'm sure that there's a word for this.
PCS Vision premium Pack $15.95/month
I called right away. That made me mad as hell. They make so much money off me it's not funny. They make it off all the hardcharging disorganized people who don't have time to read their bills. Leave it to Sprint to go and invent some service that has nothing to do with phonecalls. The Sprint operator informed me that I got that service automatically when I bought my new phone.
"But I never asked for this." I said. "What does it even do?"
"You did agree to it sir, when you signed up or the rebate on your newest phone." She said. "It's for downloading games and screensavers - worldwide webbing etc."
She sounded confident that she had me. 'The rebate you got - remember?' Her voice seemed to tease. I had taken the money she gently reminded me.
"I never got the rebate on this damn phone." I said to her. "I paid full price."
"I don't understand." The operator's voice on the other end of the line
"I paid something like $230 for this phone, and I never got the application in or the rebate."
She was silent on the other end. Is she calling or her manager?
"I just blew it off - do you understand? I never signed up or this PCS Gold vision pack."
How do these corporations function? Their M.O. seems to be to introduce a charge - weasle it in, and then cash in on the aggregate of disorganized people like myself who let it go by - just for being too busy to read the itemized section of the bill. The few customers who bother to go through the phone labyritnth in order to get it refunded - like I just did - will only get a credit back in a month. Sprint is able to generate a shitload of cash like that. I wonder what they call that practice, in their little dens.
What do they call it in those big companies when they lower the blade and take a thicker cut? I'm sure that there's a word for this.
Tuesday, March 30, 2004
I've been out skating at night. I went last night and another night about a week ago. Before I settled on my present skate spot I spent a long time looking for a place suitable for my particular brand of *shredding*. It had to be sufficiently close to the house that I didn't need to drive there, but it also had to be private enough that i could work out without feeling self-conscious.
The biggest condition of all for a skating area is that no one gives a shit that i'm there. If they're going to call the cops then it's not a good spot. I would walk all around the neigbhorhood with baby, trying to find a place that would make me feel comfortable to strap on my wheels. I finally settled on the Discount Tire Center on Hyperion Blvd where I can go to blow off steam and work on in-line tricks.
Quitting smoking is what set this off. I've simply got too much energy. So I skate.
I'm working on jumping. That's the basis of all in-line skating tricks. You have to be able to jump - and land - on-wheels. It's sketchy because I'm top-heavy like only a human can be. I get tired too. Skating is hard work. It's hard on the lega.
But the best thing of all is the time spent outside on the streets of LA. Skating in the city is very showy at any time. At night, hauling ass down city sidewalks all dressed in black, with a dog running behind is downright edgy. The city appears different when one relatres to it in such a way. Last night me and the dog were over on Sunset boulevard and we had the sidewalk to ourselves. I could skate backwatds down hills with baby galloping along behind me. There are little concrete ramps and culverts to jump and grind off. No one bothers us.
Last night I couldn't concentrate too well. I was busy thinking about the job I'm starting in Mexico. There's is so much at stake here for me. Each day as I talk to friends who have no work, I realize I was damn lucky to get this gig in Acapulco, keying a network show. My stock is shooting way up from this - after 10 months of having nothing. I've been doing AFI films just to keep my skills up, and now I'm making $2000/week cash, living in a *****hotel on the beach, overlooking Acapulco bay.
There is so much that could go wrong. I've been up nights reading books on stage rigging and large scale electrical rigs for television. I know this shit but i feel like I've kind of gotten out of it. Two very important friends in this business plugged me for this job. I have to rock them down there, and there will be many more high paying TV shows.
The biggest condition of all for a skating area is that no one gives a shit that i'm there. If they're going to call the cops then it's not a good spot. I would walk all around the neigbhorhood with baby, trying to find a place that would make me feel comfortable to strap on my wheels. I finally settled on the Discount Tire Center on Hyperion Blvd where I can go to blow off steam and work on in-line tricks.
Quitting smoking is what set this off. I've simply got too much energy. So I skate.
I'm working on jumping. That's the basis of all in-line skating tricks. You have to be able to jump - and land - on-wheels. It's sketchy because I'm top-heavy like only a human can be. I get tired too. Skating is hard work. It's hard on the lega.
But the best thing of all is the time spent outside on the streets of LA. Skating in the city is very showy at any time. At night, hauling ass down city sidewalks all dressed in black, with a dog running behind is downright edgy. The city appears different when one relatres to it in such a way. Last night me and the dog were over on Sunset boulevard and we had the sidewalk to ourselves. I could skate backwatds down hills with baby galloping along behind me. There are little concrete ramps and culverts to jump and grind off. No one bothers us.
Last night I couldn't concentrate too well. I was busy thinking about the job I'm starting in Mexico. There's is so much at stake here for me. Each day as I talk to friends who have no work, I realize I was damn lucky to get this gig in Acapulco, keying a network show. My stock is shooting way up from this - after 10 months of having nothing. I've been doing AFI films just to keep my skills up, and now I'm making $2000/week cash, living in a *****hotel on the beach, overlooking Acapulco bay.
There is so much that could go wrong. I've been up nights reading books on stage rigging and large scale electrical rigs for television. I know this shit but i feel like I've kind of gotten out of it. Two very important friends in this business plugged me for this job. I have to rock them down there, and there will be many more high paying TV shows.
Friday, March 26, 2004
I've got this idea to recreate my oldsmobile as an Italian rallye vehicle. It all started with yellow striped tires. A sporty old American car pretty much has to have a white wall. That's what everyone says. But then I thought to myself, what's the matter with a yellow band on the tire wall, to offset the racey green paint job.
No one does that. It's awesome. My buddy Mike Gonzalez out in College Point, texas drives a black '66 Ford Galaxy. The thing's a John Birch mobile, except that Mike had the tires installed with the markings on the inside, so that all you see is no-name tirewall. That's very cop; I like it. A nice small subtle touch.
Janie says the Cutlass's green paint is a stock ferrari color. *Medio-verde* she says, echoing the bodyshop guys who did the paint job 15 years ago. But who's ever seen green ferrari? I asked an italian guy about it and he said there was never a green ferrari, anymore than there was ever a green Ducati. Italian cars and bikes are red, black, yellow or silver.
IL CUTLASS DI CORSA - EN MEDIO VERDE - i'm seeing my Cutty, the all-american grocery-getter with yellow striped racing tires, and a set of foglights racked on the two intakes of the grill. That would give the Cutlass six eyes total - that's enough to see everything - and look like a mean motherfucker at the same time. The fibnal touch would be a European licence plate - one of the square ones with two rows of letters. No one does that. It's fucking badass.
No one does that. It's awesome. My buddy Mike Gonzalez out in College Point, texas drives a black '66 Ford Galaxy. The thing's a John Birch mobile, except that Mike had the tires installed with the markings on the inside, so that all you see is no-name tirewall. That's very cop; I like it. A nice small subtle touch.
Janie says the Cutlass's green paint is a stock ferrari color. *Medio-verde* she says, echoing the bodyshop guys who did the paint job 15 years ago. But who's ever seen green ferrari? I asked an italian guy about it and he said there was never a green ferrari, anymore than there was ever a green Ducati. Italian cars and bikes are red, black, yellow or silver.
IL CUTLASS DI CORSA - EN MEDIO VERDE - i'm seeing my Cutty, the all-american grocery-getter with yellow striped racing tires, and a set of foglights racked on the two intakes of the grill. That would give the Cutlass six eyes total - that's enough to see everything - and look like a mean motherfucker at the same time. The fibnal touch would be a European licence plate - one of the square ones with two rows of letters. No one does that. It's fucking badass.
Sunday, March 14, 2004
I worked the whole damn weekend in my garage (the hacienda) trying to get some of my stuff in there organized. jesus how boring can a weekend be? My little 22 year old roomate went galivanting around the town with her friends. Would I switch with her - and feel fabulous? Talking, hanging out, going to bars and clubs? Hell no, of course I wouldn't. It's fucking boring and there's nothing out on those streets.
But working at cleaning up the garage all weekend..?
This terrible bombing in Spain has really held my attention for days. i keep going back to the news, looking for signs of where the story is leading. I find all of this unsettling - yet fascinating. The most recent item was that the Spanish had tossed their government and elected a socialist one in its place - who then promised to extract all the Spanish forces from iraq by June.
Well, the people have spoken, and they want no part of the American/British war in the middle east. Nevertheless I find it surprising that this one attack managed to back them off so much. It's like walking up to someone and slapping them across the face... And they say: "whoah, okay man whatever."
I got to thinking that the real distinction between people's views on the iraq war comes down to whether one hopes that the thing works out. You can NOT support the war, but also hope and pray that it succeeds in its stated objectives. I guess that's the closest thing to a postion that I have.
But working at cleaning up the garage all weekend..?
This terrible bombing in Spain has really held my attention for days. i keep going back to the news, looking for signs of where the story is leading. I find all of this unsettling - yet fascinating. The most recent item was that the Spanish had tossed their government and elected a socialist one in its place - who then promised to extract all the Spanish forces from iraq by June.
Well, the people have spoken, and they want no part of the American/British war in the middle east. Nevertheless I find it surprising that this one attack managed to back them off so much. It's like walking up to someone and slapping them across the face... And they say: "whoah, okay man whatever."
I got to thinking that the real distinction between people's views on the iraq war comes down to whether one hopes that the thing works out. You can NOT support the war, but also hope and pray that it succeeds in its stated objectives. I guess that's the closest thing to a postion that I have.
Saturday, February 21, 2004
So I learned I’m still stuck in my own head. I’ve always been stuck in my own head, except for a few hours of escape I achieved via sex or hallucinogens.
The pilot house of this vehicle, if you could call me that, is my upper palate. You can sit right on down there
In the captain’s chair, and take me for a spin. Look through my eyes – they’re a split windshield.
My septum is the dash board. It has leopard skin on it. Feel free to put your feet up. You can take me off road if you want.
When I was about ten years old I spent a lot of time alone, walking and hiking on my own adventures. I can often remember this feeling of a benevolent stranger sitting behind the windshield of my eyes, maneuvering the vessel.
He was a little man about 1” tall. He had the physical attitude of a super-keen 1950s gas station attendant.
I was always fascinated by mechanized creatures such as the Imperial walkers from Empire Strikes Back. Walkers were these big slow-moving metallic beasts of four legs, with long-barreled laser cannon on the sides of their head. Their drivers and gunners were inperial soldiers who sat behind armor plating in the walker’s head as it swung from side to side blowing the shit out of everything. I thought those things were bitchin’. I liked them so much I was probably a little self-conscious to even discuss it. That is how powerful I felt about manned animal-like machines.
How weird is that? It makes me think there’s something more to it than simple little boy truck fascination. There’s something funny and a little strange I recall from that age between nine and 12. Not to suggest that any age is more normal than another - but i seem to remember something unique about 10 years of age. It could be something to do with the development of consciousness. Maybe not the setting up of it, but the curing – where things really get hard, like Portland cement.
But what is it about trhe idea of sitting behind the controls of another creature that seems so far away from the adult thoughts people take on.It seems like a vestige of early consciousness from the hidden archives of inheirited memory. WhateverI gotta go to bed.
goodnight imperial walkers
Don't jump up and sleep on the couch
The pilot house of this vehicle, if you could call me that, is my upper palate. You can sit right on down there
In the captain’s chair, and take me for a spin. Look through my eyes – they’re a split windshield.
My septum is the dash board. It has leopard skin on it. Feel free to put your feet up. You can take me off road if you want.
When I was about ten years old I spent a lot of time alone, walking and hiking on my own adventures. I can often remember this feeling of a benevolent stranger sitting behind the windshield of my eyes, maneuvering the vessel.
He was a little man about 1” tall. He had the physical attitude of a super-keen 1950s gas station attendant.
I was always fascinated by mechanized creatures such as the Imperial walkers from Empire Strikes Back. Walkers were these big slow-moving metallic beasts of four legs, with long-barreled laser cannon on the sides of their head. Their drivers and gunners were inperial soldiers who sat behind armor plating in the walker’s head as it swung from side to side blowing the shit out of everything. I thought those things were bitchin’. I liked them so much I was probably a little self-conscious to even discuss it. That is how powerful I felt about manned animal-like machines.
How weird is that? It makes me think there’s something more to it than simple little boy truck fascination. There’s something funny and a little strange I recall from that age between nine and 12. Not to suggest that any age is more normal than another - but i seem to remember something unique about 10 years of age. It could be something to do with the development of consciousness. Maybe not the setting up of it, but the curing – where things really get hard, like Portland cement.
But what is it about trhe idea of sitting behind the controls of another creature that seems so far away from the adult thoughts people take on.It seems like a vestige of early consciousness from the hidden archives of inheirited memory. WhateverI gotta go to bed.
goodnight imperial walkers
Don't jump up and sleep on the couch
Tuesday, February 10, 2004
MONTREAL EXPOS TO MOVE TO MONTERREY, MEX
That's what I'm hearing in these parts. Sunday afternoon I was bored as usual and so I walked next door to mooch some barbequed meat from my neighbor Manuel. There were a few geezers over there, drinking beer in manuel's backyard. These guys are serious norteno cowboys. They're all related - suegros and cunados. They hail from Jalisco. They're pretty good neigbours i have to say.
Anyway they were talking about baseball and got to saying that the agreement was all but made which would see the Montreal expos ball club, players, real estate, Dominican farm teams - relocated to Monterrey, Mexico. Now that's a hell of a thing. With a mexican ball club the majors would really become a North American league. It's only a matter of time before there's a Dominican club, because that's where all the players seem to come from. Baseball could make a HUGE comeback, if there were japanese and Korean, Mexcan and Cuban teams in the world series.
And I predict that montreal will regret losing the Expos. The hapless ball club for Montreal will be like the old car they finally have towed off the property - which turns out to be worth $50,000. Relocating the expos will give them IMMEADIATE street cred. 80 million mexicans, not to mention Central America, will fall in behind the Los Expocisiones.
The Expos will be down and brown.
That's what I'm hearing in these parts. Sunday afternoon I was bored as usual and so I walked next door to mooch some barbequed meat from my neighbor Manuel. There were a few geezers over there, drinking beer in manuel's backyard. These guys are serious norteno cowboys. They're all related - suegros and cunados. They hail from Jalisco. They're pretty good neigbours i have to say.
Anyway they were talking about baseball and got to saying that the agreement was all but made which would see the Montreal expos ball club, players, real estate, Dominican farm teams - relocated to Monterrey, Mexico. Now that's a hell of a thing. With a mexican ball club the majors would really become a North American league. It's only a matter of time before there's a Dominican club, because that's where all the players seem to come from. Baseball could make a HUGE comeback, if there were japanese and Korean, Mexcan and Cuban teams in the world series.
And I predict that montreal will regret losing the Expos. The hapless ball club for Montreal will be like the old car they finally have towed off the property - which turns out to be worth $50,000. Relocating the expos will give them IMMEADIATE street cred. 80 million mexicans, not to mention Central America, will fall in behind the Los Expocisiones.
The Expos will be down and brown.
Tuesday, October 21, 2003
It's witheringly hot in Los Angeles this week. The heat has brought ants. I left a couple of water-logged dog food kibbles in the bottom of the sink this morning, and when I went to make lunch there was a dense black line of ants in the process of disassembling them and carrying them off. I can't deal with this kind of heat. Evenings are nice though; sultry, but cooled by gusty desert winds.
When will the rains come? We need it to rain. Everyone says it will be any day now, but the sky is void of clouds. I spent the morning yesterday cleaning out drainage sumps and ditches. i checked gutters, and tried to be ready for the deluge. The ground outside is hardpack, brown earth. Even the cactii look thirsty.
I got a call yesterday to work two low budget music videos. In the circumstance of my career drought, that call was like the rumble of distant thunder. Rain can take so many forms. Here in the desert when it rains, the first droplets only kick up the dust. That's what these videos will do. They'll make a muddy mess of my life, but the wildflowers will blossom. later the great rains will come and soak everything.
I hope the roof does not leak. Walter Mosely once wrote that when it rains in L.A., it falls straight down. I just want to stand on the porch and smell the water as it soaks into the ground.
When will the rains come? We need it to rain. Everyone says it will be any day now, but the sky is void of clouds. I spent the morning yesterday cleaning out drainage sumps and ditches. i checked gutters, and tried to be ready for the deluge. The ground outside is hardpack, brown earth. Even the cactii look thirsty.
I got a call yesterday to work two low budget music videos. In the circumstance of my career drought, that call was like the rumble of distant thunder. Rain can take so many forms. Here in the desert when it rains, the first droplets only kick up the dust. That's what these videos will do. They'll make a muddy mess of my life, but the wildflowers will blossom. later the great rains will come and soak everything.
I hope the roof does not leak. Walter Mosely once wrote that when it rains in L.A., it falls straight down. I just want to stand on the porch and smell the water as it soaks into the ground.
Thursday, September 25, 2003
Today I got a very slick package in the mail from Nissan Motor company. It was delivered in a hardback boxset type of jacket, of material of such uncertain origin that I was not sure whether to trash it or recycle it. It turns out this is a presentation of Nissan's new line of automobiles, in case I care to buy another one. Those guys...
Inside the *boxset* there are six or seven fold out brochures that each depict one of the Nissan family of cars. Well these brochures are so slick and colorful that the stench of ink could make you fall down. It smells like those old crank-out printing presses they had in my grade school.
Now each one of these brochures depicts some rich scene, more often than not completely unrelated to driving. In the lower right hand corner is the Nissan sales pitch SHIFT. So the first one in the smelly stack depicts a family rafting down some white water lined on its shores with tall verdant pines. The two little girls of the family (well, the kids they hired for the shoot) are in the foreground, splashed by the cold fresh water. They smile ecstatically with their crooked 12 year old teeth. Mom and dad are sitting further back in the raft. It sure looks like one hell of an unforgettable day. The caption in the corner?
SHIFT_bonding
Buy the 8000 lb. S.U.V. depicted inside this brochure, and you can have family experiences like this as well. Hey, it's even rated for 9,100 lbs. towing capacity, in case you come across a broken Freightliner on the way home, you can tow the poor bastard to a dealership.
"And because Pathfinder Armada is built on a rugged truckframe, it can confidently take you to the most remote, unspoiled spots to enjoy your outdoor toys."
One of the other brochures depicts a diver hitching a ride on the back of a Manta Ray! That one says:
SHIFT_sensation
More likely they'll be looking at the exhaust pipes of my bike, when i leave behind in unmoving traffic on the 405.
Later dude.
Inside the *boxset* there are six or seven fold out brochures that each depict one of the Nissan family of cars. Well these brochures are so slick and colorful that the stench of ink could make you fall down. It smells like those old crank-out printing presses they had in my grade school.
Now each one of these brochures depicts some rich scene, more often than not completely unrelated to driving. In the lower right hand corner is the Nissan sales pitch SHIFT. So the first one in the smelly stack depicts a family rafting down some white water lined on its shores with tall verdant pines. The two little girls of the family (well, the kids they hired for the shoot) are in the foreground, splashed by the cold fresh water. They smile ecstatically with their crooked 12 year old teeth. Mom and dad are sitting further back in the raft. It sure looks like one hell of an unforgettable day. The caption in the corner?
SHIFT_bonding
Buy the 8000 lb. S.U.V. depicted inside this brochure, and you can have family experiences like this as well. Hey, it's even rated for 9,100 lbs. towing capacity, in case you come across a broken Freightliner on the way home, you can tow the poor bastard to a dealership.
"And because Pathfinder Armada is built on a rugged truckframe, it can confidently take you to the most remote, unspoiled spots to enjoy your outdoor toys."
One of the other brochures depicts a diver hitching a ride on the back of a Manta Ray! That one says:
SHIFT_sensation
More likely they'll be looking at the exhaust pipes of my bike, when i leave behind in unmoving traffic on the 405.
Later dude.
Saturday, September 13, 2003
I really could not believe I made it. Today at 11am, with an hour to spare I rolled into the chainlink encircled compound of Dependable Auto Shipping in Linden, New Jersey. The last hour and a half of the drive was the most nerve-wracking I'd ever spent in a car. It was the rain that made things so crazy.
Yesterday after the wedding ceremony, mathew (the groom) and I went swimming in the choppy grey-green waters off Montauk. For days the forecasters said that Hurricane Isabel would come ashore somewhere off the east coast, and that prediction was made very real by the growing swells we encountered. The waves crashed hard on the steep beach, and then retreated at such a pace we were both easily upended by the surging waters. The afternoon light was hazy and wind blew the sand hard against the friends and family who watched us two kooks from lounge chairs on the sand.
I managed to swim past the bone crushing breakers so that I was bobbing up and down in the swell. I felt very intimidated to realize that I was in 12' deep waters, rising no less than 8' with each passing swell. It was indeed a hurricane coming ashore.
But the hurricane really hit back in the city, when i exited the lincoln Tunnel on the Union City side. After fighting my way across Manhattan, continually plagued by engine stalls and leaks in the weatherproofing, I found myself in rain so hard i couldn't exceed 20mph on the NJ Turnpike. I put on the hazards. wiped my brow and said "Goodness gracious!" It was not clear the Cutlass would make it home, oh on my friend, it was not.
Tonight i'm going to meet Cache (like hidden) the most beautiful girl I've ever met, who became my date at the wedding, and spent the night at my room (though nothing happened). She's a vetrrnarian from Trinidad, and she needed her sleep, she explained, becasue she had to spay two cats and neuter a dog today.
Yesterday after the wedding ceremony, mathew (the groom) and I went swimming in the choppy grey-green waters off Montauk. For days the forecasters said that Hurricane Isabel would come ashore somewhere off the east coast, and that prediction was made very real by the growing swells we encountered. The waves crashed hard on the steep beach, and then retreated at such a pace we were both easily upended by the surging waters. The afternoon light was hazy and wind blew the sand hard against the friends and family who watched us two kooks from lounge chairs on the sand.
I managed to swim past the bone crushing breakers so that I was bobbing up and down in the swell. I felt very intimidated to realize that I was in 12' deep waters, rising no less than 8' with each passing swell. It was indeed a hurricane coming ashore.
But the hurricane really hit back in the city, when i exited the lincoln Tunnel on the Union City side. After fighting my way across Manhattan, continually plagued by engine stalls and leaks in the weatherproofing, I found myself in rain so hard i couldn't exceed 20mph on the NJ Turnpike. I put on the hazards. wiped my brow and said "Goodness gracious!" It was not clear the Cutlass would make it home, oh on my friend, it was not.
Tonight i'm going to meet Cache (like hidden) the most beautiful girl I've ever met, who became my date at the wedding, and spent the night at my room (though nothing happened). She's a vetrrnarian from Trinidad, and she needed her sleep, she explained, becasue she had to spay two cats and neuter a dog today.
I really could not believe I made it. Today at 11am, with an hour to spare I rolled into the chainlink encircled compound of Dependable Auto Shipping in Linden, New Jersey. The last hour and a half of the drive was the most nerve-wracking I'd ever spent in a car. It was the rain that made things so crazy.
Yesterday after the wedding ceremony, mathew (the groom) and I went swimming in the choppy grey-green waters off Montauk. For days the forecasters said that Hurricane Isabel would come ashore somewhere off the east coast, and that prediction was made very real by the growing swells we encountered. The waves crashed hard on the steep beach, and then retreated at such a pace we were both easily upended by the surging waters. The afternoon light was hazy and wind blew the sand hard against the friends and family who watched us two kooks from lounge chairs on the sand.
I managed to swim past the bone crushing breakers so that I was bobbing up and down in the swell. I felt very intimidated to realize that I was in 12' deep waters, rising no less than 8' with each passing swell. It was indeed a hurricane coming ashore.
But the hurricane really hit me when i exited the lincoln Tunnel on the Union City side. After fighting my way across Manhattan, continually plagued by engine stalls and leaks in the weatherproofing, I found myself in rain so hard i couldn't exceed 20mph on the NJ Turnpike. I put on the hazards. wiped my brow and said "Goodness gracious!"
Tonight i'm going to meet Cache (like hidden) the most beautiful girl I've ever met, who became my date at the wedding, and spent the night at my room (though nothing happened). She's a vetrrnarian from Trinidad, and she needed her sleep, she explained, becasue she had to spay two cats and neuter a dog today.
Yesterday after the wedding ceremony, mathew (the groom) and I went swimming in the choppy grey-green waters off Montauk. For days the forecasters said that Hurricane Isabel would come ashore somewhere off the east coast, and that prediction was made very real by the growing swells we encountered. The waves crashed hard on the steep beach, and then retreated at such a pace we were both easily upended by the surging waters. The afternoon light was hazy and wind blew the sand hard against the friends and family who watched us two kooks from lounge chairs on the sand.
I managed to swim past the bone crushing breakers so that I was bobbing up and down in the swell. I felt very intimidated to realize that I was in 12' deep waters, rising no less than 8' with each passing swell. It was indeed a hurricane coming ashore.
But the hurricane really hit me when i exited the lincoln Tunnel on the Union City side. After fighting my way across Manhattan, continually plagued by engine stalls and leaks in the weatherproofing, I found myself in rain so hard i couldn't exceed 20mph on the NJ Turnpike. I put on the hazards. wiped my brow and said "Goodness gracious!"
Tonight i'm going to meet Cache (like hidden) the most beautiful girl I've ever met, who became my date at the wedding, and spent the night at my room (though nothing happened). She's a vetrrnarian from Trinidad, and she needed her sleep, she explained, becasue she had to spay two cats and neuter a dog today.
Wednesday, September 10, 2003
I'm just sitting not believing that I made it here.
Today I left montreal, Waverly St. and the neighbours who always sit out smoking and juicing and shooting the shit. Behind me are those trees with little round green leaves that always seem to shimmer in the breeze, which comes all the way from the north pole.
We made it to the American border, where the men carry live guns, and they will mess with you, and into the state of New York we rolled in the old car, and every mile I couldn't believe that it still rolled along.
We got a flat, but a guy fixed it for twenty bucks, and mile after mile we made it into new York city, where everything demands that you engage with it, and yet friends were waiting, and it was warm and all was well, and i smelled like sweat and sun all the way from my head down to my socks.
I knew at night the old car would have to sleep inside, and i felt terrified to leave it in the garege, where the guys said they'd have to move it every hour, and i tried to explain how startying it can be a biot of a headache, but no matter, for i finally gave the guys a sawbuck and said try to take care, that car's been in my family since i was a little kid, and I just want to get it back to California.
Behind me, I could weep, for my friends on those familiar streets, on their stoops and around the town, where you're never forgotten, laughing over food, or canoing across the lake. Grace was visited upon me today, and for a time there is no sorrow, but only pleasure at still, by some goddmaned fluke, being fucking alive.
Today I left montreal, Waverly St. and the neighbours who always sit out smoking and juicing and shooting the shit. Behind me are those trees with little round green leaves that always seem to shimmer in the breeze, which comes all the way from the north pole.
We made it to the American border, where the men carry live guns, and they will mess with you, and into the state of New York we rolled in the old car, and every mile I couldn't believe that it still rolled along.
We got a flat, but a guy fixed it for twenty bucks, and mile after mile we made it into new York city, where everything demands that you engage with it, and yet friends were waiting, and it was warm and all was well, and i smelled like sweat and sun all the way from my head down to my socks.
I knew at night the old car would have to sleep inside, and i felt terrified to leave it in the garege, where the guys said they'd have to move it every hour, and i tried to explain how startying it can be a biot of a headache, but no matter, for i finally gave the guys a sawbuck and said try to take care, that car's been in my family since i was a little kid, and I just want to get it back to California.
Behind me, I could weep, for my friends on those familiar streets, on their stoops and around the town, where you're never forgotten, laughing over food, or canoing across the lake. Grace was visited upon me today, and for a time there is no sorrow, but only pleasure at still, by some goddmaned fluke, being fucking alive.
Monday, July 21, 2003
IS ENVIRONMENTALISM THE NEW RELIGION?
I was talking with a friend yesterday about such matters, and I was struck by the extent to which she sounded like a doomsayer. Concerning the ozone layer, she stressed that if we did not repent (stop burning fossil fuels) then we would live to see fire come down from the heavens (global warming) and the seas would rise to drown all but the faithful (actually, they're going to get it too).
It's all probably true, but it still seems straight out of the Book of Revelations. The sin here is materialism and greed: Avarice.
I had more weird dreams last night. In the first one, my room began to collapse around me, and I could hear studs snapping and rusty old nails screaming as they're wrenched from dry wood. I sprang from my bed and out the back door, like as if I'd accidentaly spooned a cobra... But as I regained consciousness, the room seemed to be its old crooked self. Still, I searched the walls for new cracks; it would be another hour before I could get back to sleep after that.
In round II I dreamed that Brad had come down from oakland to help me form out the foundation, only he'd brought with him this real asshole of a guy wo he called his "helper". He said I'd be billed $75/hr for the guy's work, which I wanted to protest, but it seemed to make more sense to just play it cool and get the foundation finished.
Then the two of them started randomly pouring cement slabs all over the backyard. That's when I told them to get the fuck out. In the dream I coul;dn't believe Brad would do such a number on me... But then i was also struck with the sense that nothing is so surprising anymore. That must have been real life bleeding into the dreamworld, instead of the other way around - which is how it usually goes.
I have to finish this project and get the house rebolted. It's driving me nuts to have my place resting on a stack of railroad ties I bought at Home Depot. Sometimes I walk into a room and do a sudden double-take at the weird intersecting angles of floor vs. ceiling vs. window casing... And I start to thinking that the house has moved again - while I wasn't looking!
Tonight I had cleaned up everything, but then I walked into my office, and it looked so completely catty-wompus that I hurriedly crawled back under the house and pumped the jacks a couple more times, adding lumber... Hoping for the best. What I'm seeing is that all the mouldings were added after the house had settled, so now the floor is level but the mouldings are off - instead of the other way around. It can really fuck with you.
L.A. is sure hot this time of year. It's been awhile since i've felt anything like this. It always makes me want to jump into a dark, cold lake up in canada.
I was talking with a friend yesterday about such matters, and I was struck by the extent to which she sounded like a doomsayer. Concerning the ozone layer, she stressed that if we did not repent (stop burning fossil fuels) then we would live to see fire come down from the heavens (global warming) and the seas would rise to drown all but the faithful (actually, they're going to get it too).
It's all probably true, but it still seems straight out of the Book of Revelations. The sin here is materialism and greed: Avarice.
I had more weird dreams last night. In the first one, my room began to collapse around me, and I could hear studs snapping and rusty old nails screaming as they're wrenched from dry wood. I sprang from my bed and out the back door, like as if I'd accidentaly spooned a cobra... But as I regained consciousness, the room seemed to be its old crooked self. Still, I searched the walls for new cracks; it would be another hour before I could get back to sleep after that.
In round II I dreamed that Brad had come down from oakland to help me form out the foundation, only he'd brought with him this real asshole of a guy wo he called his "helper". He said I'd be billed $75/hr for the guy's work, which I wanted to protest, but it seemed to make more sense to just play it cool and get the foundation finished.
Then the two of them started randomly pouring cement slabs all over the backyard. That's when I told them to get the fuck out. In the dream I coul;dn't believe Brad would do such a number on me... But then i was also struck with the sense that nothing is so surprising anymore. That must have been real life bleeding into the dreamworld, instead of the other way around - which is how it usually goes.
I have to finish this project and get the house rebolted. It's driving me nuts to have my place resting on a stack of railroad ties I bought at Home Depot. Sometimes I walk into a room and do a sudden double-take at the weird intersecting angles of floor vs. ceiling vs. window casing... And I start to thinking that the house has moved again - while I wasn't looking!
Tonight I had cleaned up everything, but then I walked into my office, and it looked so completely catty-wompus that I hurriedly crawled back under the house and pumped the jacks a couple more times, adding lumber... Hoping for the best. What I'm seeing is that all the mouldings were added after the house had settled, so now the floor is level but the mouldings are off - instead of the other way around. It can really fuck with you.
L.A. is sure hot this time of year. It's been awhile since i've felt anything like this. It always makes me want to jump into a dark, cold lake up in canada.
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