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.