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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Last night I had this dream I was in Montreal.

It was snowing - wet and sloppy - and there were people everywhere out in the streets and on the corners.

On what dreamily resembled the corner of Villeneuve and Jeanne Mance there was a little American-style diner that seemed to have a hip scene gravitating to it, and I decided to drop in.

I felt somewhat self-conscious and out of sorts, and I wasn't sure whom exactly I was going to visit up in the old neigbhurhood. I ordered a cheeseburger from the counterman.
"Fallen on hard times have you?" He asked me, as he began to set up the burger on a stainless steel grill.
"No." I replied. "I just like cheeseburgers.

I was trying to remember if anyone I knew still lived at my old apartment at 5969 Park ave. I was having strange visions - as if from previous dreams - of a large additional apartment at the back of that flat, which Mike K. and I had never discovered.

I realized it was Vali I wanted to see, and so I set out again towards the Mile-End. As I stepped out of the greasy spoon, a black Volkswagen squareback passed by in the wet slush - fishtailing left and right.

Outside on the corner, as big wet snowflaes fell, a crowd was gathered as some incident had occurred. A little slow moving old lady was trying to throw rocks at someone else, and everyone laughed at the pair of them cruely and exagerratedly. At first her throws were impotent and off-mark, but then I heard one of the stones striking a body with some power. A few people in the crowd turned to me with gay smiles, and silently mouthed the words "OW"...

The scene changed and I was in a warm, unfurnished house with Hanford Woods. He was pulling on wrist-bands in preparation to go play soccer at the Redpath resevoir. The moment was fleetingly poingnant and precious to me, as it was lifted straight out of childhood's most irretrievable moments. Hanford complimented me on my writing, but I wished he would invite me to play soccer.

And then just as suddenly I was back in California on a beach. There was an enormous aircraft carrier anchored just beyond the surf. Hanford was there, set to begin his soccer game. he explained to me that I had to ride out to the ship in a little remote control dinghy. It wasn't so much a dinghy as an inflatable - but a big, red floppy amorphous raft with a powerful outboard motor.
As I set off towards the massive warship, I was barely clinging to the gunwales of the raft. A woman appeared in the water behind me swimming fast in a breast-stroke. To my disbelief, she overtook the motorized raft to which I was clinging.

These are some of the things I see in my day..

There is a pair of Mourning Doves that come everyday and pick grubs from the little garden in front of Raf's place. I'm pretty sure they're a husband and wife team; I really appreciate them a lot, even though they take flight when ever I come around. They're a nice young couple - just starting out as I see it.
The problem is a couple of Tom-cats from the 'hood that I've actually seen stalking them. I fear it's only a matter of time before they take out the slower flying female. I'll kill those cats if they harm one single bird. I might kill them anyways because they keep going into Raf's place to eat L'il Mao's food - and they've sprayed it too.
The other day I found a lizard they wasted. It was eviscerated. I don't get the cat thing. People will "adopt" two or three cats - which means leaving a little food out now and again. They're still animals out of control in the city, and they eat everything.

Today a new avian friend came around, which I identified as a California Thrasher. He's about the size of a jay, with long spindly legs, an almost hook-like long beak, and tail feathers the shape of an axe-head. He really is a little thrasher too. He scampers through bushes and says: GAK! GAK! I dig him.

Next door to me is a decent old geezer named Ruben Ponce. He's a retired sprinkler fitter who fought in WWII and actually landed at Utah Beach on D-Day. He always tells the story about the mite-boat ahead of his getting hit by a mortar round, and the rain of helmets, canteens and human limbs that landed on him and his guys. Ponce was actually born on the same property next door where he's presently living. Back then there was just a little shack (like mine) way at the back of the lot. In 1962 he tore it down and built a massive stucco suburban number for him and his girl Jackie. She died sometime in the '80s, so I guess he's pretty lonely over there now.

On the other side of my house lives a Mexican dude named Manuel, and his crazy son Enrique. They're actually alright, but the kid is a little nuts. He's a hardcore gangster and always brags about "being up in the pen dawg!" He's got the L.A. Dodgers logo tatooed on the side of his head in 5" tall letters, and then some other huge gothic letters on the back of his head. His neck... Everyting. That kid has some mad ink, but I think like everyone else he just wants to be liked. I never know how far to go with people like that, cause I've had it backfire on me.

I'm lucky to live here man. It's never boring.

THE SONG OF THE FOUNDATION DIGGER

I'm wishing tonight I could just dissapear,
and vanish from everyone's sight.
I simply too proud to crumble before them,
and seeing that I'm wretched and useless- Well dammit,
Turns out all this time they were right.

I show up for life, as I've done in the past,
It's a habit one can't put away.
But inside there's a feeling which aches in my soul,
a pain I'll cast out - as sure as my shadow!
By means which I'd rather not say.

I ask o'er and o'er how it came to be,
That I landed in such a bad place.
Once laughter and love filled the rooms of my heart,
but like the poor children on so many milk-crates,
they've now dissapeared without trace.

So I'm under the house with a pick and a spade,
How fitting this ghoul I've become.
The company's good in the land of the dead,
with spiders and mold in my ears and my mouth,
In this cool ground I wish to be laid.

A mind is a terrible thing to have.

La vie c'est le desir,
Ralenti par le memoire
Le futur et le passe luttent,
Pour l'instant.
Enfin C'est ce que compose
le seul moteur de nos reves

CRAZY. I got swept up into a massive, hooligan motorycle rally last night.

I'd just made a big yawn inside my helmet, as I rode north on LaBrea, when all of a sudden there are hundreds of roaring, smoking, tuned-up, tricked-out Jap sportbikes passing by in the opposite direction. I hesitated, watching the massive pool of riders dominate every lane, like a school of Piranas. Some of the riders beckoned me to turn around and fall in with them. I should not have done it, but I did it.

Suddenly I was a motorcycle rebel.

The mass of superbikers stopped at a gas station on Sunset, as more and more dedicated two-wheel *fuck you* types pulled up, coming from all directions, in squads of three to five riders. I rode very slowly and carefully around the pumps, conscious of keeping my balance good and my feet on the pegs. Stuff like that matters when you're on *a run*. It was cool, because I could pretend to be looking for "my set", when really I was just marvelling at the faces of the riders, most of whom had pushed their helmets back and whipped out spliffs and cell phones.

I gathered that despite the few lone wolves like myself, most of the other riders came with their local bike clubs. There were a lot of black guys (easily half the crowd), but also many Asians and Latinos, which is not so common in the superbike crowd. There even seemed to be some smaller outfits composed entirely of chicks... But all that was no matter, becasue it was a straight up motorcycle fest. No one was judging anone else - It was very cool.

A guy on a Suzuki started doing a standing burn-out in the middle of the service station. With both of his feet up on the pegs and the engine screaming at 10,000rpm, he crabbed his bike in circles, as it smoked and burned and screamed.
Suddenly all the bikes were roaring, and we were off down Venice Blvd, headed for the 710 freeway to Long Beach. There were 400 bikes in the mass at that point, and not ONE observed a single traffic regulation. I saw guys going through city streets at 100 to 110 mph... Inches of separation between them and other bikes. A guy at the gas station had told me to stay near the front, so I could see the hardcore guys doing tricks on the freeway - and I was not dissapointed.

So it's like 11:30pm at this point, but instead of being cosy at home, I'm hauling ass down the 710 freeway to L.B.C., trying my damndest to keep up with what I realized to be an honor guard of southern California trick riders.
The riders at the front of the pack doing all this insane shit were these types who sport German-styled helmets and black bandanas over their faces bank-robber style. They all seemed to be wearing black football jerseys, and I realized later, this is to cover the body-armor they wear underneath.
These are the same guys who do the stunts on shows such as BIKER BOYZ and FATS AND THE FURIOUS.
As these are the guys who do the stunts for movies, I'd say they are the hottest, extreme-superbike riders in the world, which I believe puts them among the most extreme anything in the world... Or at least anything I've ever encountered - and i've seen some insane shit.

The most beautiful thing you can do on a bike is a *12 o'clock-wheelie*. That's what they call a wheelie in which the bike is perfectly vertical, and the rider stands up straight on the pegs with his stomach pressed against the gauges. In that position, the rider is effectively 8' tall, riding a unicycle down the freeway at 90mph. To see it from up close - from another bike two car lengths back - is really unforgettable. They can hold those wheelies for a long time. Sometimes two or three guys would do them side by side, within a single lane. That had to be the wickedest thing I have ever seen.

Being the artsy-fartsy guy that I am, I found myself wondering later why those wheelies created such a response in me. Because I was near enough to the trick riders, I was able to see something in those moves that was never visible to me before. A superbike standing up straight on its back tire, when see from the rear, has the silhouette of a voluptuous, hourglass figure. Literally, it looks like a woman. If you imagine the bike pointing skyward, you can trace the outline of that hourglass shape - the wide tank, which tapers inward to the seat, which then flares back out in the tail piece.
Next time you see a superbike parked, imagine how a 12 year old boy would make that hourglass form with his open hands, and you'll see what I mean.

But to see a guy holding onto this 350 lb. female effigy... Controlling it, despite the obvious disparity in power... It's like a Tango with booster rockets.

I'm getting crushed by Yahoo right now. Two weeks ago I was slightly dismayed to find that my old password would not get me into my e-mail account. Since then I have become more anxious about it. I have not been able to pick up mail for two weeks. I have no idea wha's going on in there.
And the worst thing is that it feels a bit too much like this was no accidental screw up. I suspect there is a *mano neri* at work here.

Could someone really be in there? Doing whatever ill she chooses? I'm trying to visualize all the possibilities for mischief that two weeks in a stranger's (assumption) e-mail would provide.
It may be a simple Yahoo screw up, but that's not the feeling I'm getting.
It's as if someone has changed all the locks... No, it's more like someone has welded steel plates over the doors and windows. That's not quite right, becasue there is only one entrance to one's yahoo. It's more like a tiny condo within an unmagniably large complex. It's very futuristic when you visualize it.

And it's getting worse. Last night I discovered that my e-bay password no longer works.

Anyway, I sure could use some help if anyone has experience with this. The yahoo support system is the mother of all automatic routing systems to nowhere. It's all e-mail based, so there is a painfully long turn-around time for *solutions* - which are shite in any case.

Anna has been my angel in all of this - by the way. Like Rose of No man's land, tending to the fallen boys left in the mud of Flanders and Verdun, so Anzo has swooped in and set me up a temp e-mail account: vincent_dow@yahoo.com

I'm curious to see how this thing turns out. I hope it's a big nothing. I'll still never feel the same way about e-mail again.

QUITTING SMOKING AGAIN

Why do I fucking do it?
Now I've got a habit built up, and I can feel the tingle inside me, of all the cells reworking themselves into non-smoking mode. Agh, it sucks: It sucks and yet I like it. I like anything that's different.
Yesterday I got it in my head to take the dog for a run on the beach. That's something I was doing often, just before I left the Bay Area. By my account it's the best environment for running, because you have the option of firm or soft sand on which to run. It's just a question of how close you get to the water.
So I drove out to Santa Monica on the 10, but ran into huge traffic when I got off at the beach. There was not a single parking spot to be found in Santa Monica, because of all the touruists and resident parking restrcirtions.
The thing about resident parking permits that really gets to me, is that not everyone has them. I'm not able to park on your street, but you can park on mine anytime right? I wondered to myself how they'd like to have their cars vandalized, when I remembered quitting smoking, and why I'd come to the beach in the first place.
I finally managed to park down in Venice.
Using my tailgate as a bench I got my jogging rig together, and then walked the five blocks to the beach. It was crowded as hell in Venice, like St. mark's place on a Saturday night. With all the foot, bike and rollerblade traffic, I knew I couldn't run with the dog off-leash. There are no dogs allowed on the beach in L.A. county anyways- with or without leash. I was stumped, stymied... Sphinctered. I wanted a cigarette.
No. I wanted revenge. I wanted to see the destruction of a system that allowed one group of people to park wherever they wanted, while another group is forced to drive endlessly around the block. I wanted to sadistically punish those who had gotten dogs banned from L.A. beaches. My cells continued to sizzle and crackle.
I decided to head home and settle for a walk around my own neigbhourhood. I knew I couldn't run with the dog on the leash, as he invariably pulls ahead, or stops to smell the trace of some other dog.

Hours later, as I rode slwoly along Effie st. on my 12 speed, with the dog accompanying me unhastily, I allowed myself to relax. I hadn't smoked, and I wasn't freaking out. I had forgotten about my earlier disgust with the L.A. motorized approach to leisure. It was what it was.
A passing dog walker had just finished lecturing me about having my dog off-leash, when two strange dogs bolted from a house right at me and Baby. I could hear their owner yelling frantically from inside the house, so I knew the animal's escape was not a good thing. Baby, since he got his ass kicked one or two months ago, didn't wait around to see if they were friendly. He bolted up the steep hill, on a course that would bring him into perilous traffic if he went far enough. The two dogs, a brindled boxer and collie sheperd, gave a ferocious chase but couldn't get near Baby. Within seconds all three dogs were over the top of the hill and out of sight.
The woman who had come out chasing the dogs seemed to be almost on the verge of tears. She could have been quitting smoking too for all I know. There were two other people in her yard, who seemed to be in the midst of a move.

You just can't walk your dog off leash in L.A. At least every other house in this area has dogs in its yard. They're all pumped up and territorial. Anyone who's been chased by a farm dog knows this: A dog's territory begins and ends where HE says it does - unless you can persuade him otherwise - with a stick, a rock a fucking hand grenade - whatever. They never know their own property line. And sometimes they're going to slip out and cause all kinds of mischief.
I went at it with the dog's owners, once we'd all gotten our animals rounded up. They were fucking imbeciles. I really let them have it too - no mercy homes. A neigbhour who watched the altercation told me afterwards that theirs was the house where trouble always managed to show up. There's always one.

But I didn't smoke. Typical first day of quitting smoking that was!

I just saw a serious motorcycle accident at the Silverlake reservoir. It wasn't but 40 minutes ago.

I managed to actually see the mishap because of a distinct crunch sound from behind a stand of trees. The sound was obviouisly motorcycle plastics impacting - it was obvious to me - but then I found that odd, as I've never heard motorcycle plastics breaking. Perhaps I'd heard the bike from a ways off, but did not process it consciously, amidst the drone of L.A. traffic.
Though not loud, the sound was *hot* and everyone including myself turned to look in the direction of Silverlake Blvd. Then the motorcyclist came into view from the point at which the trees ended. He appeared to be powering through the curve, from the angle at which he was leaning. Then he leaned the bike upright, and seemed to be having difficulty with it, as one would who couldn't find a gear. The bike was losing speed, and was by then doing no more than 20mph. The rider still worked to get the bike under control. He was braking hard, which was evident from the way in which the bike and rider pressed down the front shocks.
Suddenly a shimmy went through the motorcycle's frame, from front to back. What began as a shake in his handlebars became the rear tire bouncing from side to side - higher and higher.
I realized later what the guy did was a hi-side. What we saw was the bike shimmying - and then he was flung off, like a ravioli is flung with a spoon. The speed at which he flew across the street was like a cartoon. And he stopped just as suddenly - against a fire plug. He took off and landed from one point to the other like a cricket. It was unnatural. I saw three of the other dog owners shoot their hands into the air.

The bike he rode was a Kawasaki Ninja 900. After it threw him across the street, the thing slid another fifty feet and came to a rest on a sidewalk wheelchair ramp. A Ninja 9000 is a serious fucking suicide machine. Though the Suzuki GSXR 750 holds the title as the most fatal bike. It's a little cheaper so that 18 years olds can afford it.

The Silverlake dog run lies in the epicenter of a cellular phone dead zone. It's almost impossible for me to get service there. Still, someone managed to summon an ambulance - which came with a firetruck. They cut his helmet and clothes off, and then loaded him into the meat wagon. Somebody who stood nearby told us that he was conscious but in shock. Great day right?

It turns out the guy had been hammering around the resevoir, passing cars in the bike lane on the right shoulder. He hit a patch of gravel, which sent him out of control. That's when he hit the first car. Why he was speeding away in a superbike corner lean, I do not know. I suspect that he was trying to get away from the car he'd hit, and he didn't know that he'd damaged his own bike.

The worst thing about such an accident, in my opinion, is that you bring it on yourself. Not only are you torn up, but you're an idiot: You've proven it with concrete actions.

Today marked a first in my blogging life: I received a phone call over a blog/comment string. I find myself wondering if this blogging can still possibly be a good venture, . How far will the debate go, I wonder. How deep do our ideas run?
I've arrived at the conclusion that I must be addicted to politics. Like a Rubic's cube, it's a puzzle that I keep trying to put together. Sometimes I even get three colors in a row, or have a whole side monochromatic. But always it bogs down in the human factor. There's no logic to history, and few have ever succesfully predicted the turns that humanity takes. It's not knowable. It's like death that way.

I'm writing this in an attempt to articulate what is a source of discouragement for me. I see such an enormous divide of opinion everywhere, all around me, all of the time. Everyone thinks the country's fucked (the whole world might be), but the blame is always on someone else. In film production there is an identical phenomenom, whereby the crew blames production, production blames the actors... Has it always been this way?
My friend Tim Bratt, who worked as a criminal lawyer in San Francisco would tell me how ugly that scene is. It sounds as if everyone is lying: Cops plant evidence, defendants intimidate witnesses. There are parties who would attest that there is not a single legitimate conviction in the American penal system. Everyone of our institutions is in question: I've even noticed the Simpsons is becoming more strident as it attempts to hold a mirror up to America. I sense something of an urgency in the shows creators, to get across the message that things are not all right.

I believe that I manifest, through politics, every random factor of my life experience. I am like a party of one, looking to form a coalition. I've decided the best way to do this is at a municipal level. I'm a property owner, and I'm a California resident. I'm not going to go on a campaign to clean up the parks in Baghdad. I've decided to become a volunteer. I am entering the machine.

For myself, as far as all this Bush/war/orange-alert/homeland security stuff goes, I'm finding the best policy is to stay calm and stay informed. People on all sides of me are using words like jackboot and *Herr President* when refering to the commander-in-chief.
And I find myself wondering if they could be right. My instinct does not seem to suggest this. My hackles do not rise when I pull up to LAX and security stops to ask me if I'm bringing anything to the airport I shouldn't be.
"Because if you're not." She said winking. "I'll let you go."

I really am done rocking politics on filbert. It's all going to be about baseball now. After all, sports the only thing people can agree on in this county. It's the great American compromise.

But there's something underneath this truce which unsettles me.

I don't know if it was broadcast nationally, but there was an interesting feature on KPCC a day or two ago, about the future of the head-first slide in baseball.
It seems the Major leagues is looking into discouraging the practice, as it has the potential for season-ending injuries. The most common such injury is jammed fingers (owww!), but of course the player's eyes, nose, teeth, mandibles and orbitals are seriously imperiled when he hurls himself face first at the bag.
So why do they still do it? This was the question the reporters asked some guys who were running a youth baseball camp which had workshops on the face-first slide. The answer they gave seemed to keep with the notion that baseball is a metaphor for life: If you want something bad enough: Dive for it! If your finger gets busted along the way - so be it.
The guys who were giving the baserunning seminar where quick to point out that they are not neccesarily encouraging the head-first slide for the kids in the camp. Instead they want to teach them how to go about it safely (or at least the safest way possible). It was stressed that the most important factor in succesfully sliding face-first into the bag is confidence. The feet-first slide they pointed out, can oftentimes be adequate, but sometimes you have to be a little hungrier.

But on a more fundamental level, the trainer pointed out, the head first slide represents the true spirit of a champion. He mentioned players like Pete Rose and Len Dykstra; guys who weren't neccesarily born gifted with a graceful, athletic body. They're the guys who made the head-first slide famous, because they will put nothing ahead of scoring the run, and winning the game. These are the players who make up for their natural shortcomings with pure ferocity and will.
As far as Pete Rose goes, I always though *charlie hustle* was the best nickname in the history of baseball - and I still think basebal, above all other professional sports, manages to come up with the best nicknames. From "the bambino" to the "big unit", baseball players are the most folkloric figures in sport.

The guy who will risk broken bones in order to steal a base, according to the camp trainers, is the guy you want on your side.

WHAT IS THE SIGNIFICANCE OF GETTING LOCKED IN A RESTROOM during a party at someone's (one bedroom) house?

That's what I was asking myself, as I tried the old Victorian key for the 11th time. How stupid can you get right? As I hunched down before the old lockset, and made another attempt to find the mechanical sweetspot inside the box-lock. I could hear voices outside in the yard; laughter and music. A man and woman were in the kitchen, on the other side of the door which had designed to entrap me. They exchanged a few words and I could hear the distinct tinkle of beer bottles as the fridge door open and shut.
Though I'm fortunate to not suffer from claustrophobia, I was not unaware of the rising temperature in the little, unvented tile bathroom. It was the heat from my agitation, and my agitation was due to the potential for embarrassment - inherent in the situation.

It would be another fifteen minutes before I got out of there, which I only achieved by removing the hinge pins from the door - with a hammer and screwdriver passed to me through the window... The hostess, Lauren, walked up just as we were taking the door off of its hinges.
"What on earth is going on here?" She asked.

"Nothing much. Vince just got locked in the bathroom."

I went to see WINGED MIGRATION a couple of nights ago. For anyone who doesn't know, it's a poetic documentary film about migrating birds. I was very stirred by it, and on many different levels. In that respect it was like everything else these days.
The remarkable thing about the film is the proximity they achieved to the birds. The filmakers literaly accompamnied the birds in ultra-light aircraft, as they laboured on their migratory paths. I'd seen footage on TV of such unlikely flying comrades: Sometime in the last ten years, human-animal understanding advanced astonishingly. A thought flashed across my mind two-thirds of the way through the movie, that if given enough time people would one day be able to communicate with animals, as well as we communicate with one another. That's if the animals are not all dead first.
For myself I've learned so much about dogs since I adopted Baby, my sheperd/labrador dog. When i raised my last dog, in the late eighties, no one knew anything about separation anxiety - the fact that dogs should not be left alone. A guy I know here in L.A. has two timber wolves, which he strictly refers to as *hybrid dogs*; that meaning lupus/canus mongrels. From him I learned that there's a whole system of establishing dominance wolves, and mainaining it. It's a language, as much as any other. Now with the www, even seriously marginal people can have user-groups, share knowledge... It saves a lot of reinventing the wheel. Instead you can get right to the good stuff.
So this guy with the wolves was telling me that there are signs you have to understand, which indicate that the wolf is getting ready to step. One sign is lying in doorways; another clue is the animal beginning to pass through doorways ahead of you. It'll build up, and then you have to, as he explained to me; "Put him in an alpha roll."
O.K. Here we've got some weird dog/man militia, supermax, gangster stuff. Read on.

An alpha-roll is when you put the animal on his back, and pin all four of his legs, so that he cannot kick, scratch or roll-over. Then, you hold tuck his chin down towards his chest. Thus all his weapons are cancelled, and he's ready to be your bitch again. I actually do something similar with my dog, when he's being more of a butt-knuckle than usual.

I AM SO DONE WITH COMPACT DISCS

I'm really ready to get out of that loop. What a fucking sham those things are! Including hardware, I've probably spent $2500 on CD shit since the mid-90s, and half of them won't play without skipping. They're basically trash now.
I could rant about the music industry, the distributors... Even the damn artists.They're all pretty much the same in that if they're getting paid they don't give a fuck about the end-user. It's my problem for buying into it whole-heartedly. Vinyl is better. I've got antique vinyl i listen to regularly... I have old sides of which belonged to my pop.

I am going to get clean from CD technology. Fuck those guys.

Yesterday matt and I walked by the Silverlake music conservatory. It's a not for profit music center which Flea (chili peppers) founded a couple years ago. It's mission is to fund music lessons for neigbhourhood kids, as well as provide employment for music instructors in L.A.. It's $20 for a one hour lesson, and I'm told they have a great trumpet instructor. I could buy four trumpets for the cost of my piece of shit CD burner.

Gotta make the changes ourselves

I was reading this morning that Bush is coming out in support of the Assault Weapons ban - to the chagrin of the N.R.A., and much of his heartland constituency. The guy just keeps you guessing doesn't he? I actually have a pretty good understanding of the assault weapons ban, and I'm pretty mch in favor of it as well - I only wish I'd bought an AR-15 lower receiver before Dec. 31 2000.

I was flipping through the California handgun safety manual (skimming it really) and I was struck by how intelligent most of the laws concerning firearms purchase and handling are. This is in contrast with the views of most gun-freaks that I talk to, who see ANY control over the acquisition of weapons to be an affront to their constitutional rights...
Though I do see their position as well. There are individuals and groups in the gun control debate which want nothing more than the outright banning of all firearms in the hands of private Americans - and they go about it one frustrating and complicated law at a time. The 9th circuit court of appeals has recently ruled that individuals have NO RIGHT to keep and bear firearms. I wonder what they would do with freedom of expresiion and freedom of the press (pesky constitution!!!)

"The Right of Individuals to keep and bear arms shall not be infringed."

Where, in that sentence, is there any room for interpretation? I'm asking myself this, because I do support the assault weapons ban. It just seems so obvious. Know what defines an assault rifle? It's a semi-automatic rifle which has two or more of the following:

magazine fed receiver
pistol grip
flash suppressor
threaded barrel end

So you can still get some pretty bad-ass shit, and be correct under the assault weapons ban. The thing is, in 22 years living in the states, I've never seen a gun in the street. I hear them go off a lot, but no one has ever threatened me with one. The only instance in which I've seen a gun brandished in a threatening way was when I was in Brazil in 1998. A 16 year old kid walked up to our table in a bar, and leaned back in an exaggerated stretch. This caused his shirt to ride up on his stomach, which revealed a small automatic pistol in his waste-band. He then sat down at our table and preceded to smoke all our cigarettes. I will note that handguns are banned in Brazil.

In upholding the assault weapons ban, Bush is reaching out to women, inner-city poor... I don't know? Who else comes out strongly against assault weapons? I mean, besides everyone; who cares enough to campaign about it?
Michael Moore stumbled on the finding that there is no correlation between the amount guns in a society, and the amount of violence that ensues...
At least that was the crux of his argument that America's hyper-violence is a result of race-based fear. In BOWLING FOR COLUMBINE, Moore cited Canada as having more guns per person than the U.S.A. I found that statistic to be dubious, but I felt no great urge to double-check it (it's easier to grumble). Moore also failed to mention the massacre at University of Montreal, in which 14 people (all female) were killed by a self-styled Rambo named Marc Lepin.

I think the real value of a constitutional amendment which allows the average citizen to possess firearm, is that it trusts the individual with such a grave responsibility. Guns are serious, and learning to handle them, to understand them, and to make the correct decisions about their use - well, I guess it means were not just children, and the government is not just our parent. They work for us, not the other way around.

As Americans, are we ready to rise to ourcivic responsibilities in this great democratic society? Nah, I think we get a fucking F most of the time.

I think I will be writing a lot more about the problem of crime in Los Angeles.

Just now, listening to KPCC, I heard it announced that L.A. led the nation in homicides. I'm nort sure how they measure that kind of thing, becasue the title of *murder capital* seems to move around the country like a wild west show. East St. Louis, Detroit and New Orleans are usually the other contenders for the title.
What's troubling about it here is that no one really seems to care. Southern Californians will just buy bigger SUVs, and invest in ever greater security systems. No one has faith in the system. It's like they've already given up on the public life. Every debate about crime here descends into a polemic about race, class, root causes...

And the prediction is we are going to see it all get worse, as a result of the budget cutbacks, fewer cops, fewer treatment beds - Less in the way of resources over all. So that image of me the other night, watching someone get beat up in front of my house by a gang through the spyglass, holding a loaded gun, afraid to go outside... while a woman with a baby in her arms is screaming outside. What the fuck is wrong with people?

Taking a loaded gun out in public will get you sent to jail - not that I would anyway. So I'm sorry neigbhour, but I can't help you.

Do we enjoy too much freedom in this country? As Americans we are very quick to sign away those freedoms. If there are half a dozen hardcore gang guys chillin' and selling drugs in front of a liquor store, should the cops roll up and start hassling them? If you're a scumbag, are you entitled to constitutional protection? And if we treat every piece of shit killer like a sacred member of our great democracy, can we live with the consequences?

No. Society will split like an amoeba. Districts that don't have such issues will simply break off from the metropolis (L.A.) and become neat little incorporated cities like Glendale and Burbank. Hollywood tried to break off from Los Angeles last year, but L.A. wouldn't let them go. Hollywood is like the youngest child of a large fucked-up family, whose brothers and sisters have already moved out and made good on themselves.

As L.A.'s problems grow, Hollywood will keep trying to get out. Eventually all that will remain of the city of Los Angeles are the super-ghettos: Pico Union, South Central, Boyle Heights...

It's not a racist thing you know. The proponents of separation are very quick to point this out. Hey, we're diverse down here! We have all the trendy euphemisms of tolerance. I'm against the separation thing, because I think Los Angeles is a great city, but I'm aware of my growing alienation towards the so-called process here. It's a bunch of fucking political bullshit. And if Hollywood does break apart from L.A., I already know my that my house will fall into the new Hollywood. My street is actually the eastern border of the proposed new city. Across the street begins L.A., where my neigbhour got beat up two nights ago, while his wife screamed for help.

I CALLED THE COPS LAST NIGHT, which is a first for me in Los Angeles. I had hoped to do that less once I moved out of the Mission Dist. But this was really weird.

About 10:30pm, The dog awoke on the floor, and began to bark, albeit low and hesitatingly. At the same moment I heard voices from outside, across the street. Two or three men were talking - swearing, though it did nothave a threatening. They sounded more like bums on a late night street corner - having a dispute over??? The dog didn't seem too upset about it, but I peered for awhile out the window, only making out the faint movemeny of figures.
I'd gone into the back yard to feed Raf's cat *Li'l Mao*, when the voices from Sanborn St. suddenly were yelling - and swearing. I darted back into the house through the back door and hurried to the street side to try and see what was going on.
There were five or six figures crouched atop someone who was clearly being pinned on the ground. The actors I could make out were not bums arguing over a fifth of thunderbird: A couple of them were wearing flannels, and from the age I put it together they were gangsters.I looked frantically for the telephone, and finally got my hands on the cordless set, i was dialing 9-1-1 when a woman's voice started screaming - howling really - to "GET HIM OFF ME - GET HIM OFF ME." She was literally screaming for help.
My adrenaline was pumping and my hands shook. As I waited for the operator to pick up, I unlocked the closet in my bedroom and removed the 12ga. pump shotgun I keep there. With the phone in my righthand and the riotgun in my left, I walked back to the spyglass on the frontdoor and tried to describe what was taking place to the 9-1-1 operator. My mouth was dry... My eyes must have been dinnerplates.
Oddly the dog took no notice of any of this. That, or he simply opted out. I'm usually the one who brings courage to our relationship and adventures together p and I wasn't feeling any.
I talked on the phone, and a new dimension began to unfold in the street hassle out front. A brand new, silver PT Cruiser had pulled up, and was parking right across the street from where I'd originally scene the the gang holding someone down. One or two of the assailants broke away and walked up the hill towards Sunset. A couple was getting out of the Chrysler - the woman carrying a child in her arms, wrapped in a white blanket. To my disbelief the couple then preceded to engage - angrily - with the gang guys.
I was conveying all this to the 9-1-1 operator, when the woman with the kid yelled angrily - almost in a sob: "THIS IS MY FUCKING KID HERE YOU GUYS - YOU FUCKING ASSHOLES!!"
I could not see her boyfriend for an overgrown bush on the sidewalk in front of my place, but she was walking with the kid towards the apartment building on the corner. I was off the phone with the cops by that point, and it appeared that the assailants had left. I couldn't believe there was still no sight of the cops - no L.A.P.D. air unit... Just crickets and birds.
I leaned the shotgun next to the front door, and walked gingerly out to the driveway. The couple was still outside.
As I slowly made my way out to the driveway, I made a mental note to order some non-lethal rubber loads to keep in the gun's side-saddle. I realized in that moment there was no way I'd ever be able to shoot someone with 00 buck.

"Are you guys alright?" I yelled out to the couple with the baby across the street.
The guy looked over my way and shrugged his shoulders. He had peeled his T-shirt off - which struck me as odd.
"Yeah, we're - " He began
"NO, WE'RE NOT ALRIGHT!" The girl finished for him.

Just then a cop car came rolling up Fernwood, and I retreated back to the front porch.From there I watched as the couple interacted with the two officers for a few minutes: the guy appeared to be showing them a cut on his knuckle. Then he broke away, and climbed into a Humongous white 1985 Chev Suburban parked near the corner.
He started up the truck with a great VAROOM, as the headlights came on in the same motion. As a series of movements, it was very angry young man. The woman he was with, still clutching the baby in her arms, continued speaking to the cops.
Then, to my disbelief, the shirtless neigbhour, with his cut knuckles, preceded to back the Chevy up Fernwood St. at 40mph. The cops seemed to take no notice.

I think today I am going to try and find out what happened. I don't know if my neigbhorhood falls under Hollywood or Rampart Division, but suddenly I'm interested in finding out.

NEXT WEEK: THE GYPSY FAMILY ON THE CORNER OF FOUNTAIN ST.

One of my rare current-events blogs.

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

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

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

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

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

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

What kind of scoundrel is trying to silence me?

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

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

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

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

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






























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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Listening to the news on Sunday, March 23

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

At least the news helicopters have gone away.

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

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

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

Yesterday, January 19th was all about football.

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

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

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

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

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

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

That's a tough one.

MISSING CONTRAST

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

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

Straight Berlin

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

ALOGONQUIN 347

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

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

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

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

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

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

But there`s no crying in baseball.

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

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