I learned recently with sadness of the passing of a friend and one-time colleague whom I'd not seen since auld lang syne. Claire Morrisette, the co-founder of Monde a Bicyclette, was a champion of cyclists on the local level. And she carried that message as a sister to the call for global justice and an urgent intervention to save the planetary environment. As far as advancing cyclist's Rights, she taught me everything I know.
I landed a job at Monde a Bicyclette in the summer of 1992, the year I returned from South America. There was scarcely any work in Montreal then (I'm not sure there is now) so I was thrilled to make $200/week for an organization that advocated cycling in the city. This is where I met Bicycle Bob Silverman, the legendary old-school bicycle advocate, and of course Claire who had co-founded the organization with him. The two were more or less permanent members of it.
Le Monde a Bicyclette was a perfect organization in that it welcomed the ideas of everyone who attended the 9 am Monday meetings. All were welcome to come and pitch ideas which may improve the conditions for cyclists in Montreal. Lack of access to commuter rail was hot then, as were dangerous underpasses on which bikes had no space and risked being dragged to hell by an oblivious cube-van driver. The commuter rail agency capitulated to us, after theatrical protests at their stations with our bikes. It was really cute. And what a great cause. I believed in it then and I believe in it now.
Claire and Bob approached their work in Montreal transportation issues with a message of global evangelism. They were the first people I ever heard speak about global-warming. They loved volleyball above all other games becasue it had no star positions. The team rotates and everybody gets to serve. No quaterbacks thank you. They were into Cuba, and the idea of its rebirth as a velo-centric society such as the low countries are. These guys were velo-rutionairies.
There were twelve or so of us working at Monde a Bicyclette that summer. I was 22 at the time, just returned from a year in South America, and full of desire to do something meaningful. Claire taught us how to identify a social ill, or a problem in the municipal system (such as unfair conditions imposed on cyclists) and then it was about working out a way to get the government to do what we wanted. With twelve people working in concert on a particular problem, it was hard not to succeed. And if there was a set-back in one of our projects it would be carried forward to the next week's Monday coordination meeting. The individual who had brought the issue to the group would be carrier of it from week to week, responsible to update the group on progress or solicit new ideas and takes on how to solve the problem. It could be slow as the I.R.S. but just as irresistible. There's no way to stop a truly good idea.
Our cell at Mondo Bicyclette interacted and kept relationships with sister organizations in other towns. There was BIKES NOT BOMBS out of Boston. They were deep into velo-rution, doing bike outreach in Central America and poor communities around Boston. TRANSPORTATION ALTERRNATIVES carried the message in their cool New York City way, and we were down with them. We inter-related in the manner of homegrown resistance groups. So each team had auspcious traits unique to their town. And we were damn proud to be from Montreal. In a world of hot activists, we were as mellow as a ride through Parc Lafontaine in august. That was Claire Morrissette's influence as I see it now. She was a memorably gracious person, having something in her way of being that I see now as characteristically French. Among a lot of cycling activists who don't always have the greatest sense of style, Claire always looked good. She was a stylishly attractive lady. Hers was the manner of a humble virtuosa, detached and yet highly attentive to those around her. I remember clearly now the way in which she received people and heard them. I see now that she thought much more than she spoke.
Returning to Montreal this summer after so many years in the states, I am floored by the degree to which the city has embraced everything that Claire and Bicycle Bob advocated. Beyond bike racks and painted pathways, the government has gone a long way to figuring out the order of priority for ways of getting around the city. Montreal (arguably) is years ahead of New York, Boston and San Francisco, just by the numbers of riders, and the diversity of their ages and stations in life. It's decades ahead of Los Angeles and the cities of the south west. The day I picked up an old Globe And Mail and found Claire's obituary, it set off a kaleidoscopic shift in my seeing and a curing of the cement that is comprehension. We were so right. Claire was so right. Figure out your message and then stay on it, just like the bad guys do. Life is dream in which you're whacking baseballs over the fence.
Claire Morrisette was born on April 6, 1950, in Ste-Anne-de-Bellevue, Que. She died of breast cancer on July 20, 2007. She was 57. She is survived by her partner, Pierre Giasson, and by her siblings, Jean, Andree, Claude and Pierre. She also leaves five nieces. (Globe And Mail).
Friday, August 17, 2007
Wednesday, August 08, 2007
I wonder if there is a new architecture just waiting for city-dwellers to discover it. In every town I visit it seems the locals feel that they have the best urban environment possible. That could be true in the cottages of the Hollywood Hills, or the tenements of Chinatown, N.Y. Everyone seems to see the world around them as naturally occurring.
Take the example of Montreal. I'm here for the Summer, and I very much enjoy walking the alleys of the city to see the backs of the buildings and all the unregulated stuff people do there. There are motorcycle garages, and illegally renovated back sheds with flower boxes on their second story windows. This is the part of the city which has yet to be completely regulated as far as building appearance goes. Whereas on the building fronts you cannot make a significant alteration without going before a citizens committee which examines the historic relationship of the building to the environment. Or something like that. But they still let you do what you want as far as the alleys go, though the municipal architects and concerned citizens *watchdog* groups I believe are zeroing in on regulating what can be done to a building's caboose. Good, bad or indifferent.
I was saying to a good friend in the area, how I thought it would be exciting to see a new kind of building style emerge from the Mile-End neighborhood. It would be a form and living design which encouraged and facilitated certain activities, such as creative work or socializing with neighbors. Or it would embody whatever it was people aspired to in life, rather than one which simply dealt with life's problems. Having lived in Los Angeles for four years, I came to realize how much I valued and relied upon my garage. This is a very Californian aspiration, to have a garage - along with a ranch home or bungalow. And that particular style of dwelling I'd say is drawing ever more reproach from the environmentally conscious.
But putting that aside, I wonder if there is something to be taken from the example of California and the wonders that have come out of its garages? Surfboards, skateboards, apple computers, steadi-cams. There is just an amazing amount of really cool things that have come out of the backyard garage/workshop. And I'm not even bringing up bands.
But my Montreal friend was skeptical. We don't want that, she said. We don't want this place to be California. And she went on to explain how the Montreal triplex building, with the outdoor stairs, and the backyard and breezeways; was the best possible use of space to give the most people a certain quality of life. In other words, they have attained perfection. But what about workshop space, I asked. There's no place to rebuild your motorcycle suspension, or paint signs for a political rally. It's obvious to me that every indoor space in this part of Montreal is occupied. Space is critical to developing small, artisan industries, and those are the ones that grow into big, earth shaking companies. And Canada is such a big country. Hello suburbia!
My friend's real point about architecture in the city being unregulated, is that it would quickly fill up with custom homes for wealthy individuals. There would be even fewer people per square foot than now. It would be like L.A. in other words. Big garages for all the pimp cars. Hot tub on the roof. Maybe a Texas Hold-em room! But if the only alternative is Le Corbusier's school of urbanism as a utopian social project, well, I'll be out in the pool.
Take the example of Montreal. I'm here for the Summer, and I very much enjoy walking the alleys of the city to see the backs of the buildings and all the unregulated stuff people do there. There are motorcycle garages, and illegally renovated back sheds with flower boxes on their second story windows. This is the part of the city which has yet to be completely regulated as far as building appearance goes. Whereas on the building fronts you cannot make a significant alteration without going before a citizens committee which examines the historic relationship of the building to the environment. Or something like that. But they still let you do what you want as far as the alleys go, though the municipal architects and concerned citizens *watchdog* groups I believe are zeroing in on regulating what can be done to a building's caboose. Good, bad or indifferent.
I was saying to a good friend in the area, how I thought it would be exciting to see a new kind of building style emerge from the Mile-End neighborhood. It would be a form and living design which encouraged and facilitated certain activities, such as creative work or socializing with neighbors. Or it would embody whatever it was people aspired to in life, rather than one which simply dealt with life's problems. Having lived in Los Angeles for four years, I came to realize how much I valued and relied upon my garage. This is a very Californian aspiration, to have a garage - along with a ranch home or bungalow. And that particular style of dwelling I'd say is drawing ever more reproach from the environmentally conscious.
But putting that aside, I wonder if there is something to be taken from the example of California and the wonders that have come out of its garages? Surfboards, skateboards, apple computers, steadi-cams. There is just an amazing amount of really cool things that have come out of the backyard garage/workshop. And I'm not even bringing up bands.
But my Montreal friend was skeptical. We don't want that, she said. We don't want this place to be California. And she went on to explain how the Montreal triplex building, with the outdoor stairs, and the backyard and breezeways; was the best possible use of space to give the most people a certain quality of life. In other words, they have attained perfection. But what about workshop space, I asked. There's no place to rebuild your motorcycle suspension, or paint signs for a political rally. It's obvious to me that every indoor space in this part of Montreal is occupied. Space is critical to developing small, artisan industries, and those are the ones that grow into big, earth shaking companies. And Canada is such a big country. Hello suburbia!
My friend's real point about architecture in the city being unregulated, is that it would quickly fill up with custom homes for wealthy individuals. There would be even fewer people per square foot than now. It would be like L.A. in other words. Big garages for all the pimp cars. Hot tub on the roof. Maybe a Texas Hold-em room! But if the only alternative is Le Corbusier's school of urbanism as a utopian social project, well, I'll be out in the pool.
Friday, June 22, 2007
THE HEAT IS ON
here in the city of HELL ON WHEELS. Los Angeles is going to get hot in the summer of 07. And I can only watch and contemplate. The streets here are wild. Every inch of pavement is occupied by cars going to seemingly every other inch of L.A. Unlicenced vehicles are common and enjoy the anonymity of the balaclava. Cars are toys, weapons, prostheses and hearses.
It's hard to know where to start a discussion about transit in L.A. It is so unmanageable, as to be incorrigible. No one is in charge, or even thinking about the city's direction. The governors and mayors of Southern California cities just dispense budgets and manage relationships. And a massive city of gridlocked, single-occupant, sport utility vehicles burns up it's savings on gas and valet parking.
When it was only a question of 1970s smog affecting the health of Angelenos, they could accept it if they got to keep their cars. But now we know that the consequence of a city that depends of automobiles for even one mile trips to run errands. It's not morally correct. It has terrible consequences for the ecology of the planet. And it has quality of life costs for the people here who have to muddle through it.
The suburbs around greater Los Angeles are vast. From Valencia to Temecula, to Irvine and Anaheim and all the way up to Calabasas - developers are filling in every last canyon and draining the few stream that remain here. In their place are golf courses, strip malls and private communities. Every one drives their cars everywhere. I'm not aware of any check on this sytem of sprawl. But the developers who can offer a two-bedroom house in L.A. county for $400,000 will get water hookups out in the desert for the lawns of these spec-towns, served by Box stores. And all those cars are pouring onto already clogged freeways. California can't afford to build freeways at the rate developers throw up their Cosco mansions.
If someone in the L.A. city government would come out and say, we would like to see people ride bikes, skateboards and scooters. We want to see walkable communities and we will support them by responding to warnings about dangerous intersections for bikes and peds. But there is no response from the city when a pedestrian gets killed in a crosswalk. At most they will post a cop at the spot for a week to hand out tickets and make the city a little money. Until someone else gets smashed to pieces by a car. Then the cop comes back.
If there was the least boost from Mayor Villaraigosa, to talk about the kind of city want to build for the future. But there is nothing in the way of leadership. The L.A. city government *servants* ride around in Ford Expeditions with tinted glass, just like the gangsters who ride around in their domination wagons, looking for some reason to get into it with people, and then run them over or shoot them.
This sad phenomena will probably drag Los Angeles down economically. More and more the only affordable housing is in the counties 40 or 50 miles outside of LA city, and those commuting in will be bled out just paying for gas to run those government subsidized SUVs and trucks. It's the same form of cancer that is killing General Motors and Ford, the United States armed forces and the nation of Iraq. It is the greed of large corporations that have our government in their back pocket.
Wake up L.A. We're building our future in a hot, ungovernable third world city. Every time we fill up the car, we make a billionaire richer so he can buy more influence in Dick Cheney's office.
here in the city of HELL ON WHEELS. Los Angeles is going to get hot in the summer of 07. And I can only watch and contemplate. The streets here are wild. Every inch of pavement is occupied by cars going to seemingly every other inch of L.A. Unlicenced vehicles are common and enjoy the anonymity of the balaclava. Cars are toys, weapons, prostheses and hearses.
It's hard to know where to start a discussion about transit in L.A. It is so unmanageable, as to be incorrigible. No one is in charge, or even thinking about the city's direction. The governors and mayors of Southern California cities just dispense budgets and manage relationships. And a massive city of gridlocked, single-occupant, sport utility vehicles burns up it's savings on gas and valet parking.
When it was only a question of 1970s smog affecting the health of Angelenos, they could accept it if they got to keep their cars. But now we know that the consequence of a city that depends of automobiles for even one mile trips to run errands. It's not morally correct. It has terrible consequences for the ecology of the planet. And it has quality of life costs for the people here who have to muddle through it.
The suburbs around greater Los Angeles are vast. From Valencia to Temecula, to Irvine and Anaheim and all the way up to Calabasas - developers are filling in every last canyon and draining the few stream that remain here. In their place are golf courses, strip malls and private communities. Every one drives their cars everywhere. I'm not aware of any check on this sytem of sprawl. But the developers who can offer a two-bedroom house in L.A. county for $400,000 will get water hookups out in the desert for the lawns of these spec-towns, served by Box stores. And all those cars are pouring onto already clogged freeways. California can't afford to build freeways at the rate developers throw up their Cosco mansions.
If someone in the L.A. city government would come out and say, we would like to see people ride bikes, skateboards and scooters. We want to see walkable communities and we will support them by responding to warnings about dangerous intersections for bikes and peds. But there is no response from the city when a pedestrian gets killed in a crosswalk. At most they will post a cop at the spot for a week to hand out tickets and make the city a little money. Until someone else gets smashed to pieces by a car. Then the cop comes back.
If there was the least boost from Mayor Villaraigosa, to talk about the kind of city want to build for the future. But there is nothing in the way of leadership. The L.A. city government *servants* ride around in Ford Expeditions with tinted glass, just like the gangsters who ride around in their domination wagons, looking for some reason to get into it with people, and then run them over or shoot them.
This sad phenomena will probably drag Los Angeles down economically. More and more the only affordable housing is in the counties 40 or 50 miles outside of LA city, and those commuting in will be bled out just paying for gas to run those government subsidized SUVs and trucks. It's the same form of cancer that is killing General Motors and Ford, the United States armed forces and the nation of Iraq. It is the greed of large corporations that have our government in their back pocket.
Wake up L.A. We're building our future in a hot, ungovernable third world city. Every time we fill up the car, we make a billionaire richer so he can buy more influence in Dick Cheney's office.
Friday, March 16, 2007
A.W.O.L. The Unexcused Absence Of America’s Upper-classes From The Military And How It Hurts Our Country
Frank Schaeffer
I heard this author on NPR’s TO THE POINT this afternoon. He makes the case that America’s all-volunteer military has become a warrior-class. Schaeffer likened America’s relationship to the military like that of the Persian Empire, with imperial projects all over the known world.
Those who join the service will be the ones to define its character. The navy may be more liberal than the army, mainly because it is immovably based in coastal areas. San Diego and Seattle are examples of navy towns. And a couple of famous Democrat Presidents came out of navy careers. Kennedy and Carter both had their own ships. The navy is indeed more blue than the other branches of the service. The navy guys have probably been into tattoos longer.
The air force on the other hand is in Colorado Springs. I think that’s about as far as you can get from the oceans in America. I’m not sure if there’s a worthwhile comparison between the forces. I saw a TV special about the growing Evangelical presence among Air Force officers. The implication was that this was splintering the officer corps, and affecting commands and promotions. That gave me a small chill. Those guys are missile command.
What this got me thinking was that the military is reflecting more and more the views of the hardcore red-states. I’ve discussed this with friends and we ask the question over and over: How is it that the Republicans have the exclusive on defining patriotism? It’s like they’ve wired it so that when someone questions the war, or questions the President himself, it hurts the feelings of the people serving in the armed forces. I’ve been around some active duty marines recently and it’s my opinion that you can’t speak against the war in the presence of the uniform. It’s just not cool. I suppose the people who wanted this war understood that when they embarked on the project. The harder you try to pull back, the tighter it ratchets down. Operation fishhook.
The author concludes that we need a draft to restore the All American-ness of the armed forces. Very interesting...
Frank Schaeffer
I heard this author on NPR’s TO THE POINT this afternoon. He makes the case that America’s all-volunteer military has become a warrior-class. Schaeffer likened America’s relationship to the military like that of the Persian Empire, with imperial projects all over the known world.
Those who join the service will be the ones to define its character. The navy may be more liberal than the army, mainly because it is immovably based in coastal areas. San Diego and Seattle are examples of navy towns. And a couple of famous Democrat Presidents came out of navy careers. Kennedy and Carter both had their own ships. The navy is indeed more blue than the other branches of the service. The navy guys have probably been into tattoos longer.
The air force on the other hand is in Colorado Springs. I think that’s about as far as you can get from the oceans in America. I’m not sure if there’s a worthwhile comparison between the forces. I saw a TV special about the growing Evangelical presence among Air Force officers. The implication was that this was splintering the officer corps, and affecting commands and promotions. That gave me a small chill. Those guys are missile command.
What this got me thinking was that the military is reflecting more and more the views of the hardcore red-states. I’ve discussed this with friends and we ask the question over and over: How is it that the Republicans have the exclusive on defining patriotism? It’s like they’ve wired it so that when someone questions the war, or questions the President himself, it hurts the feelings of the people serving in the armed forces. I’ve been around some active duty marines recently and it’s my opinion that you can’t speak against the war in the presence of the uniform. It’s just not cool. I suppose the people who wanted this war understood that when they embarked on the project. The harder you try to pull back, the tighter it ratchets down. Operation fishhook.
The author concludes that we need a draft to restore the All American-ness of the armed forces. Very interesting...
Tuesday, February 20, 2007
I tried an unknown narcotic herb yesterday. At least it was unknown to me. I had only just walked into a friend's livingroom and sat down, when he and two other guys I barely know began to tell me about this stuff they'd all just tried. Salvia Darluria I think it was called. Noah, the kid from Canada pronounced it proudly and knowledgably. Like a lifelong herbalist tells some party-goers about his most interesting field discovery. Nodding his head very slowly and smiling inwardly.
I need to say now that I don't often take new, unknown drugs at the spur of the moment, such as at dinnertime on President's day. But Noah the weed-grower always had a handle on this stuff. He read High Times, he was hip to all kinds of strains of indoor cannabis from Vancouver and Oaksterdam. Noah said that this was a simple, herbal narcotic availible in tobacco shops. It comes in a little bag and looks like dark, shredded chewing tobacco leaves. When I agreed to try it, Noah made me a bong load of the strange stuff (salvia!), mixed with a bit of weed to give it body. I will remmeber for a long time how those black leaves turned orange as I sucked the oxygen and flames through them.
The bong gurgled GLUNK GLUNK GLUNK GLUNK.
With a lungful of mystery, I put the bong down on the table, and returned the stare the three chaps were giving me. It seemed they could barley conceal laughter. Noah handed me an electric lap steel guitar, and I put in on my lap. He put a jar in my left-hand. Play that thing man, he said. I still wasn't feeling the full onset of the buzz. What the hell could this be I thought. It's over-the-counter, sage based extract. I thought it couldn't possibly be stronger than RUSH. Headshops always have herbal replacemenst for sale. Bullshit I've always thought.
But my eyes felt like they were swelling. There was heat and outward pressure on my eyes. It wasn't unpleasant yet, I thought. But at the steady rate it's increasing, it's not going to be nice in a moment. imagined I must have looked like someone who got a hundred wasps stings on the eyes. Or maybe bad movie makeup, like Rocky V. But I could no longer see. I laughed nonetheless. Hey, I can't see man!
I was out for a while they tell me. I only remember coming back slowly to the present moment in time. This was the part I'll never ever forget.
These three guys are still sitting
across from me in the 1970s panelled livingroom,
but there is a hot white electric neon frame
around my view,
and the guys are arranged like
figures on a playing card.
And they're fucking all laughing at me.
They guy on my right is really big
he has thick red hair,
He looks like John Goodman,
and he's laughing exactly like Fred Flintstone.
He didn't fit in the scene.
And then I was pulled backwards. There was something tethered to the bottom of my brain, and it pulled me backwards in the chair like a spinning car on the carnival Zipper ride. In a rush of vertigo I was spun upside down, and another version of myself, and the whole setting of the room that looked like a court card flipped into its place. I was down below and there was another me sitting up there. A wave of panic came over me.
I don't like this.
And then I felt that heavy gravititional pull on my cortex, and the Zipper ride flipped the room around again. I was back on top, and the ersatz moment of reality was down below. Or was it? Which one of these is the one I belong in. Someone is fucking with me. I'm going to lose my place in the universe. Someone was lughing and I hated it.
We were shuffling through frames of time, so slowly that I could see the edge of the frame, like an optcial printer slowing down film footage and and pulling out to show the sprocket holes. I hated it. I wanted to get off the ride, but the ride operator didn't know that I was up at the top of the Zipper, and I was spinning round, from moment to moment, and I didn't know which one was the past and which was the presnt. I could see both at once and they were pretty much the same.
I could also say that the passing of moments resembled the plastic number leaves that flip downwards on analog clock radios. I came back really slow. I hated that pulling on the back of my head. Sean the red-haired guy was still laughing at nme, or so it seemed. I felt embarassed and fuming angry, like a kid who is embarassed to be woken up from a nap with everyone watching and laughing. WHO ARE YOU? I shouted at Sean.
IGOTTA GO I said, and I got up to go outside. My clothes were so hot. I went for the door, even though I no longer believed that it was the same old world outside. Everything was a clockradio that could change with a click, and the dropping of a leaf. The guys stopped me from leaving. Noah came and said, you don't want to do that. He stood in front of the door. I was not at all insistent. I had little will. Plenty of dementia.
When I recovred myself half an hour later and was laughing with guys about the strange experinece, they all agreed that I had a difficult comeback from it. I had taken a massive hit, mixed with pot. But it was worth it. I don't think I'll do it again though. From when I checked out with the swollen eyes, until that eskimo roll on the alarm clock of time space continuum, I was powerless to understand what was happening around me. And it took a long time to get everything reset again.
I need to say now that I don't often take new, unknown drugs at the spur of the moment, such as at dinnertime on President's day. But Noah the weed-grower always had a handle on this stuff. He read High Times, he was hip to all kinds of strains of indoor cannabis from Vancouver and Oaksterdam. Noah said that this was a simple, herbal narcotic availible in tobacco shops. It comes in a little bag and looks like dark, shredded chewing tobacco leaves. When I agreed to try it, Noah made me a bong load of the strange stuff (salvia!), mixed with a bit of weed to give it body. I will remmeber for a long time how those black leaves turned orange as I sucked the oxygen and flames through them.
The bong gurgled GLUNK GLUNK GLUNK GLUNK.
With a lungful of mystery, I put the bong down on the table, and returned the stare the three chaps were giving me. It seemed they could barley conceal laughter. Noah handed me an electric lap steel guitar, and I put in on my lap. He put a jar in my left-hand. Play that thing man, he said. I still wasn't feeling the full onset of the buzz. What the hell could this be I thought. It's over-the-counter, sage based extract. I thought it couldn't possibly be stronger than RUSH. Headshops always have herbal replacemenst for sale. Bullshit I've always thought.
But my eyes felt like they were swelling. There was heat and outward pressure on my eyes. It wasn't unpleasant yet, I thought. But at the steady rate it's increasing, it's not going to be nice in a moment. imagined I must have looked like someone who got a hundred wasps stings on the eyes. Or maybe bad movie makeup, like Rocky V. But I could no longer see. I laughed nonetheless. Hey, I can't see man!
I was out for a while they tell me. I only remember coming back slowly to the present moment in time. This was the part I'll never ever forget.
These three guys are still sitting
across from me in the 1970s panelled livingroom,
but there is a hot white electric neon frame
around my view,
and the guys are arranged like
figures on a playing card.
And they're fucking all laughing at me.
They guy on my right is really big
he has thick red hair,
He looks like John Goodman,
and he's laughing exactly like Fred Flintstone.
He didn't fit in the scene.
And then I was pulled backwards. There was something tethered to the bottom of my brain, and it pulled me backwards in the chair like a spinning car on the carnival Zipper ride. In a rush of vertigo I was spun upside down, and another version of myself, and the whole setting of the room that looked like a court card flipped into its place. I was down below and there was another me sitting up there. A wave of panic came over me.
I don't like this.
And then I felt that heavy gravititional pull on my cortex, and the Zipper ride flipped the room around again. I was back on top, and the ersatz moment of reality was down below. Or was it? Which one of these is the one I belong in. Someone is fucking with me. I'm going to lose my place in the universe. Someone was lughing and I hated it.
We were shuffling through frames of time, so slowly that I could see the edge of the frame, like an optcial printer slowing down film footage and and pulling out to show the sprocket holes. I hated it. I wanted to get off the ride, but the ride operator didn't know that I was up at the top of the Zipper, and I was spinning round, from moment to moment, and I didn't know which one was the past and which was the presnt. I could see both at once and they were pretty much the same.
I could also say that the passing of moments resembled the plastic number leaves that flip downwards on analog clock radios. I came back really slow. I hated that pulling on the back of my head. Sean the red-haired guy was still laughing at nme, or so it seemed. I felt embarassed and fuming angry, like a kid who is embarassed to be woken up from a nap with everyone watching and laughing. WHO ARE YOU? I shouted at Sean.
IGOTTA GO I said, and I got up to go outside. My clothes were so hot. I went for the door, even though I no longer believed that it was the same old world outside. Everything was a clockradio that could change with a click, and the dropping of a leaf. The guys stopped me from leaving. Noah came and said, you don't want to do that. He stood in front of the door. I was not at all insistent. I had little will. Plenty of dementia.
When I recovred myself half an hour later and was laughing with guys about the strange experinece, they all agreed that I had a difficult comeback from it. I had taken a massive hit, mixed with pot. But it was worth it. I don't think I'll do it again though. From when I checked out with the swollen eyes, until that eskimo roll on the alarm clock of time space continuum, I was powerless to understand what was happening around me. And it took a long time to get everything reset again.
Thursday, February 01, 2007
What the HELL was that? Two days ago President Bush makes an unexpected visit to the floor of the NYSE.
And he gets a hero's welcome. Those guys clapped for ten minutes straight. They clapped and cheered the Texas simpleton like he was F.D.R.
Do they know something we don't know?
The NYSE is to our American culture what the Oracle at Delphi must have been for the Athenians. Those guys in suits applauding Bush are the priests of our civilization. The tickers and trading boards are chicken guts which these charlatans read. The market is their voice of God.
And the market seems to like Bush. The market likes war. The market likes go-getters. Those stock traders applauded Bush like they understood his manuevers better than any of us ever will.
Democracy is pretty much finished. There is just the oracle at Wall Street. The temple of American wealth.
How about a pay-raise for American fighting forces in Iraq? If the Iraqi oil act is going to yield the kinds of profits that oil companies are planning on, then American enlisted troops should be getting one million dollars each per year. What are we paying them now? To walk on point and start firefights with committed insurgents who have NOTHING to lose? What do they get - $50,000/year? You could make more as a P.A. here in Hollywood. Let's give them a piece of the action.
Cause I mean what are they fighting for? For American security? NOT.
Are they fighting for Iraqi democracy and mid-east peace? O God no! Anybody who thinks that, at this stage, is a sorry fool.
And he gets a hero's welcome. Those guys clapped for ten minutes straight. They clapped and cheered the Texas simpleton like he was F.D.R.
Do they know something we don't know?
The NYSE is to our American culture what the Oracle at Delphi must have been for the Athenians. Those guys in suits applauding Bush are the priests of our civilization. The tickers and trading boards are chicken guts which these charlatans read. The market is their voice of God.
And the market seems to like Bush. The market likes war. The market likes go-getters. Those stock traders applauded Bush like they understood his manuevers better than any of us ever will.
Democracy is pretty much finished. There is just the oracle at Wall Street. The temple of American wealth.
How about a pay-raise for American fighting forces in Iraq? If the Iraqi oil act is going to yield the kinds of profits that oil companies are planning on, then American enlisted troops should be getting one million dollars each per year. What are we paying them now? To walk on point and start firefights with committed insurgents who have NOTHING to lose? What do they get - $50,000/year? You could make more as a P.A. here in Hollywood. Let's give them a piece of the action.
Cause I mean what are they fighting for? For American security? NOT.
Are they fighting for Iraqi democracy and mid-east peace? O God no! Anybody who thinks that, at this stage, is a sorry fool.
Monday, January 29, 2007
The city looks better when I feel better. It's good to socialize you know. Stick out a hand to the guy who's alone. Hey man, what's up? This is especially true when you're with a big rollicking group. That's the best time to include other people in it. By other people I mean passers-by. It becomes a show. I see the tension in people everyday. It's right there locked in struggle with the part that wants to go beyond - everything that's ever been done before.
It's all about making an entrance. You have to come busting in. Once I heard it described as the center-stage moment. (tap the micrphone - hey, hey is this thing on?)
My friend has got this car. It's probably the most badass car in all of Los Angeles. A primer-black 1948 Buick. No door handles. No hood. Just the frightful looking old time radiator, a five foot long, painted-red valve cover on the engine. This black rockabilly sled has two shiny rebuilt *Stromberg 97s* carbuerators. The engine layout is so weird and old-fashioned he has to use a 6 volt forklift battery. Just walking up to the engine smells like a barn in Mississippi. The windshield wipers are gone and the stems are capped with chromed bullets.
The most striking detail is the wheels. Big, perfectly *whitepride* whitewalls, on red wheels with silver dogdish hubcaps. Those red, white and silver shoes look like spats on a clown. A clown who has a Tommy-gun and a cigar. Johnny, the owner of the beast, told me how he burned the springs with a blowtorch, settling them so the frame almost rests on the ground. When he drives it across a deep L.A. street wash, the rusty steel structure slams into the asphalt, scarring it. Just imagine the sound of a 1949 Buick banging off the pavement. It's an artful soundscape. Everybody laughs when they see it. Little boys with Davey Crockett hats shout hey ma, Ma! Look at that guy's car!
Inside the interior saloon of the sled, rust has sleeplessly eaten the entire floor. There are shiny steel plates tack-welded to the few steel points left on the fire wall. I can sort of see light down there, on the pavement. The emerald-green glimmer of broken glass. The three-on-the-tree column shift has an eight-ball on the end - of course. This car tops out speed-wise at 50mph. It sounds like a tugboat. When Johnny parks the car in Beverly Hills, in front of Doctor Phil's house, he flips down the visor on my side so that the licence plate shows. I ask why he has it set up like this.
"You can't have a reflective licence plate on the front of a car like this. It looks gay. The back is bad enough."
Just riding in the Buick with Johnny over to Doctor Phil's place showed me that I must have a 40s car. I'll keep my '71 so that I have something newish for when that need arises.
It's all about making an entrance. You have to come busting in. Once I heard it described as the center-stage moment. (tap the micrphone - hey, hey
My friend has got this car. It's probably the most badass car in all of Los Angeles. A primer-black 1948 Buick. No door handles. No hood. Just the frightful looking old time radiator, a five foot long, painted-red valve cover on the engine. This black rockabilly sled has two shiny rebuilt *Stromberg 97s* carbuerators. The engine layout is so weird and old-fashioned he has to use a 6 volt forklift battery. Just walking up to the engine smells like a barn in Mississippi. The windshield wipers are gone and the stems are capped with chromed bullets.
The most striking detail is the wheels. Big, perfectly *whitepride* whitewalls, on red wheels with silver dogdish hubcaps. Those red, white and silver shoes look like spats on a clown. A clown who has a Tommy-gun and a cigar. Johnny, the owner of the beast, told me how he burned the springs with a blowtorch, settling them so the frame almost rests on the ground. When he drives it across a deep L.A. street wash, the rusty steel structure slams into the asphalt, scarring it. Just imagine the sound of a 1949 Buick banging off the pavement. It's an artful soundscape. Everybody laughs when they see it. Little boys with Davey Crockett hats shout hey ma, Ma! Look at that guy's car!
Inside the interior saloon of the sled, rust has sleeplessly eaten the entire floor. There are shiny steel plates tack-welded to the few steel points left on the fire wall. I can sort of see light down there, on the pavement. The emerald-green glimmer of broken glass. The three-on-the-tree column shift has an eight-ball on the end - of course. This car tops out speed-wise at 50mph. It sounds like a tugboat. When Johnny parks the car in Beverly Hills, in front of Doctor Phil's house, he flips down the visor on my side so that the licence plate shows. I ask why he has it set up like this.
"You can't have a reflective licence plate on the front of a car like this. It looks gay. The back is bad enough."
Just riding in the Buick with Johnny over to Doctor Phil's place showed me that I must have a 40s car. I'll keep my '71 so that I have something newish for when that need arises.
Saturday, January 06, 2007
Sens. McCain and Lieberman were on C-SPAN last night, talking to the press over their impressions (or were they conclusions?) on the war in Iraq. I wondered how much of the expressions they bore were reflecting deep anxiety about the Iraq project. Both senators verbally expressed confidence in a victory over the enemy, and more so they spoke emotionally of the bravery and sacroifice and honor of our troops serving over there.
I had to ask myself what the real purpose of the two senator's bi-partisan trip to Iraq had been. They reported meeting with top brass over there. They said that they'd got the lay of the land. Their conclusion was that more American troops were needed to secure Baghdad and Al Anbar Province. They believed that Iraq was still winnable, but that winning was contingent on sending more GIs over.
I thought to myself what a bummer 2007 must be appearing for those people. For the marines and soldiers. But according to Sens. Lieberman and McCain, and to use McCain's exact words, folowing the status quo and not committing greater forces to Iraq, will surely end in defeat. In other words we're losing. There's some scary honesty.
And in the unlikely event that the whole enterprise in Iraq ends in defeat, either by failure to committ more troops, or if it was never winnable in the first plac, McCain resssures us that it will not be the end of civilization as we know it. It will be bad, but I think he's trying to say it won't result in nuclear annihilation. We're not quite at the book of revelations yet.
If the U.S. gets thrown out of Iraq, as we were in Vietnam, it is likely we will see the middle east redrawn on Sunni-Shiite lines. The borders drawn up at the end of WWI will be redefined. The moderates won't have a chance. Maybe Iran will come out as a nuclear super-power. But then Israel would be unlikely to allow that. And Israel has buttons and levers it can manipulate to get the states to do anything. The American people will never know who was behind the curtain. They'll say that the world is safer without Saddam Hussein. What's done is done, now it's about supporting the troops. Supporting the troops. That means don't question the administrtion. Don't ask why we got into this in the first place.
I had to ask myself what the real purpose of the two senator's bi-partisan trip to Iraq had been. They reported meeting with top brass over there. They said that they'd got the lay of the land. Their conclusion was that more American troops were needed to secure Baghdad and Al Anbar Province. They believed that Iraq was still winnable, but that winning was contingent on sending more GIs over.
I thought to myself what a bummer 2007 must be appearing for those people. For the marines and soldiers. But according to Sens. Lieberman and McCain, and to use McCain's exact words, folowing the status quo and not committing greater forces to Iraq, will surely end in defeat. In other words we're losing. There's some scary honesty.
And in the unlikely event that the whole enterprise in Iraq ends in defeat, either by failure to committ more troops, or if it was never winnable in the first plac, McCain resssures us that it will not be the end of civilization as we know it. It will be bad, but I think he's trying to say it won't result in nuclear annihilation. We're not quite at the book of revelations yet.
If the U.S. gets thrown out of Iraq, as we were in Vietnam, it is likely we will see the middle east redrawn on Sunni-Shiite lines. The borders drawn up at the end of WWI will be redefined. The moderates won't have a chance. Maybe Iran will come out as a nuclear super-power. But then Israel would be unlikely to allow that. And Israel has buttons and levers it can manipulate to get the states to do anything. The American people will never know who was behind the curtain. They'll say that the world is safer without Saddam Hussein. What's done is done, now it's about supporting the troops. Supporting the troops. That means don't question the administrtion. Don't ask why we got into this in the first place.
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