could have slept on the beach...

i remember being sad
about the pigeons
the passenger pigeons
who are gone now
all their little souls
wingless and running
in a place
that they don't understand

_________________________________

poems are pebbles
stones that i find throughout the day
and put in my pocket
hot stones
cold stones
sharp stones
and soft stones, too
stones without souls
and stones who are happy
frustrated stones
mongolian throat singing stones
misunderstood stones
and stoned stones
my pockets are very heavy
and my hands don't fit
because there is
too much beauty
in there.

lovely

I think it has been about a week since I blogged last. It feels like this quarter is in reverse, and all of my work has to be done at the beginning as opposed to the end. But I have loved every minute of it.

I only wanted to comment on the color of the sky today. It is blue. Which should come as no surprise. But it is different in San Diego. It isn't just "blue" or "kinda blue with some clouds". There are absolutely no clouds, and it stretches out above you like some great upside down Caribbean Sea. I almost expect to see upside-down flying fish and upside down pirate ships go sailing by.

Today in a word: lovely.

how to properly un-curse a bottle of wine

It was supposed to have been for a special occasion. I'm not superstitious, but I am. So here goes:

Putting things into motion...
A month or so ago, I picked out a nice bottle of wine, in anticipation of perhaps imbibing of it with someone specific. I realized as soon as I touched it that it was cursed, but I couldn't bring myself to not buy it... There was some sort of little monster in the bottle, and our conversation went like this:

Wine monster: Look at me! I'm really drinkable and you know I go well with chocolate and black and white movies! Hehehehehe!

Me: I like your label.

Wine monster: Take me home! What if she wants to come over tonight! You'll neeeeeed me!

Me: I'm not even sure she wants to come over.

Wine monster: Oh, she is so into you. She digs you. You know it.

Me: But maybe it was just one of those things?

At this point the Wine monster begins singing "It was just one of those things" and the old lady buying brandy gives me a funny look. I put the wine in the basket. It feels wrong.

Wine monster: Oooohhhhh yeah. She is so yours.

Me: Shut up.

I take the wine home. It sits on the shelf. And sits on the shelf. And gives me a hard time about everything. The date it was intended for never happens, and every night the wine monster sings me old songs... "just one of those things" "can't get started" "I don't stand a ghost of a chance with you", songs like that. So I stick him someplace where I can't hear him: under the bathroom sink.

The un-cursing
It is annoying to have a wine monster under your bathroom sink. Especially one that is suddenly going through a show tunes phase. Sondheim in the shower. Andrew Lloyd Weber while your brushing your teeth. So I decide it's time to un-curse this mother. So there were a few things I had to do.

Step 1: the people
It is impossible to un-curse a bottle of wine by yourself. Many have tried and many have failed. You just end up transferring the curse from the wine to your self. So you have to select a party with whom to drink. This is something that is intuitive. The people drinking the wine are divvying up the curse, weakening it by taking on a portion of it. It's like the reverse of inoculation. Inverse inoculation intoxication.

Step 2: the place
It was going to be my living room. I had no doubt about that. We put on some Dylan, because the wine monster didn't seem particularly fond of good music.

Step 3: the preparation
We were already a little bit drunk. Sort of like when old time doctors would give their patients a shot of whiskey before cutting of an appendage.

And then... you drink. The key to the drinking is that you have to enjoy it. It can't be sad or melancholy or bitter or jealous or anything like that. Drink, and enjoy, and the curse can't touch you.

So now, the next day, I am left wondering how well the curse is lifted. I have a little bit of a headache (understandable) and I have been humming "When You're a Jet" all morning. I'll check in with the others to see how they fared, but I think we may have been successful in our un-cursing.

...just one of those bells that now and then rings...

sweet disaster (some old poems)

you should / drop your unhappiness / like stones / upon the earth

consciousness / pounds / us all

with her hair up / she gave me a look / traveled from my fingertips / through my bones / up my spine / to the back of my brain / chooses to rest / on my lips

the old news of it all / a diner / a full moon / it could have rained / and that would have made it different / the wreck of the ella fitzgerald

chet baker / fell out of a window in amsterdam / at the same time / that i fell / in love / but not really / it was only the sound of something like love / a harmon mute / some old song

you know i like you / when i write you poems

at least / it is tomorrow morning / and not last night

unrequited / requited / unrequited

rules of the all-night write

it is coming up, it has been awhile, and it is needed. here are the rules:

1. you think it, you write it. no filters. all colors.

2. coffee. black. french press.

3. all of your loves and monsters will guide you through places you've never been. open your eyes and look around, and write with all of your senses. Taste things that you think you should feel and see things that you think you should hear.

4. don't stop. music helps. if you get stuck, let a song push you in a random direction. if you do stop, make sure its only for a short dancing break.

5. read it out loud. speak it, then write it, then speak it again. you can be narcissistic, its ok.

6. sunlight.

Things I realized today...

The two theatre history classes I have every Tuesday and Thursday are, in fact, so similar that they could really be one class. I have a sneaking suspicion that, while one deals with African-American plays and the other with Asian-American plays, that 90% of our lectures/class discussions are going to be damn near identical.

I would rather be writing and watching baseball tonight than working at the theatre. On this particular evening, those things just feel more important to me.

The blog is heartbroken, but not me. And it stands to be mentioned that the only way to un-break a heart is to discover that it was never really fractured in the first place.

A frog is a poem. With long skinny stanzas that are designed for leaping and a tongue built for catching punctuation from the sky.

I am an impostor of a Californian.

the strange case of the man who went to the theatre...

So, its panic time whenever I hear something unusual coming over the speakers in the lobby or house manager's office. For instance, the entire cast of The Women is made up of women (15 of them, playing 33 roles), so I should never hear a man's voice during the show. Last night, the cue'd up a ringing phone, and I hear a deep voice:
"Heeeeello? Mummble mubbble."
A few seconds later:
"Mummmmmble mumbumble..."
And then, simultaneously, an usher and two patrons are in the lobby with horrified looks on their faces. Over the radio, the SM calls me up and tells me that something strange is going on in the house. I am told three things: A patron is talking. A patron is touching other patrons. Something about a stabbing. I radio security. I go in the theatre. Halfway down the aisle, there is some sort fo commotion. I get down there to make sure no one is hurt. It doesn't take me long to figure out that the man talking to the actresses from row H is smashing drunk. AND I get the feeling that he is a rather dramatic chap when sober. Here we go (keep in mind that there is a show going on thirty feet away, so I'm trying to keep this as low-key as possible):
Me: Is anybody hurt?
Lady: That guy is crazy. He's drunk.
Me Is everyone ok?
Drunk man: Yesssss.
Lady: He grabbed us, but we're ok.
(Ok. No stabbing. Whew.)
Me: Let me move you ladies to different seats.
Lady: Are you going to put us in the back row?
(I reseat the two ladies from his row.)
Me: Excuse me sir, you're going to have to follow me to the lobby.
Drunk Man: No. I'm not...
Me: Yes, you are. We need to get you out-
Drunk Man: NO!
(At this point, security has entered, and about a dozen patrons have turned around and are glaring at the drunk man, telling him to shut up. He's getting angry.)
Irene (Security): Ok. Sir, we're going to take you out to the lobby.
(I sit next to him and he looks at me with a lot of anger.)
Drunk Man: I'm not going anywhere with HIM.
(Ok. I'm going to leave this up to Irene... for now. She gets him to be quieter, but he still won't follow her out. She waves to me and another security guard. The three of us literally have to carry him out of the theatre, as he decides to resist us completely. Jesus Christ, he is heavy.)

The Lobby
We drop him on the floor just outside of the theatre door, which is not sound proof. He won't move, he just lies there. He suddenly bursts into tears. Turns out he is suicidal. So now we have a drunk, weeping, suicidal, flamboyantly gay man on the floor of our lobby. Our security people and a very understanding patron (I thinks he was a nurse) talk to him, and hold his hand until the police arrive. I am writing this sort of tongue in cheek, but at the moment we were all feeling for the guy. Apparently he'd just been dumped, and his credit card debt was piling up. We've all felt those frustrations, but this guy had completely snapped. When the police got there, we all breathed a sigh of relief. A few minutes later, a younger man shows up, wondering where his friend went. Turns out they came to the theatre together, but the younger man, recognizing his friend's drunkness, had left the show to get the car so that they could leave. He was asking if I could retrieve his friend's bag, which he had left in the theatre, so the police wouldn't arrest him. So I went and got the "bag" which was actually a designer purse.

It was a strange, strange night. Sometimes I think that they don't pay me enough.

tribute bands: worst idea ever

We are a culture obsessed with recapturing the past. Perhaps the best evidence of this is found in the pages of local 'scene' magazines, where schedules of small music clubs are packed with bands like Led Zep-again, the Fab Faux, and Mini-kiss. The last one is kind of an exception, since it is made up entirely of little people.
My point is this: every time I see a tribute band (usually on tv, like 'Rain: The Beatles Experience') I spend the entire time thinking "Wow. I wish this was the actual band and not some creepy and slightly out of tune tribute band." Do I have a problem living in the moment? Or have I just realized and accepted that the 'moment' passed with the original band?
I don't mind cover bands, provided that they play covers from several other bands, and maybe mix in a few of their own tunes.

Attican, continued

I could have kept on walking, head down, like I had done so many times before. Wasn\'t giving him a dollar enough? I didn't have time for stories. But it was what he said next, as I stepped off the curb and into the street, that made me stop, turn around, and catch a corner of some strange light reflecting from his eyes. it was a cloudy day, rainy, but I swear it was the sun. Like the wind coming across the bay, his voice rippled my mind, and for a moment I heard the whole universe:

Most people don't know, he's still alive. That was it. I don't get chills very often. A true love I passed in the crosswalk on one busy day downtown, come back to give me her secrets. A clear day in the middle of winter, mountains on both sides drowned in deep snow. These are the things that give me chills. And now, this. Most people don't know, he's still alive. He had me. His eyes were stormy, now, green and humid. His voice-wind rustled the needles of the old pines, trees long gone and replaced by streetlights. And now, as best I can remember, the story he told me:

It wasn't so long ago when everyone knew that Attican, who had grown to be a big old troll, lived happily here near the water. Many things that are alarming now were not alarming then. I need to tell you a little bit about trolls first, so that you understand. Creatures have reasons for existing. Some are simple. Worms feed Robins. Robins tell us when Spring has come. Sometimes purposes are forgotten. Creatures disappear, and we never do know how magical they might have been. So, the purpose of a troll is to answer questions. They lived long lives, you see, and grew up very slowly. A troll child stayed a child much longer than a human. And trolls never stop growing. Imagine all of the things a troll child could learn! And as they grew, a troll would embark on several journeys, to all the corners of the earth, and return with stories and secrets and recipes. They became the best chefs in the world. Any alarm caused by their appearance was quickly dampened by the amazing smells coming from their earthen homes. And people, being curious creatures, would follow their noses. And trolls, being kind-hearted, would invite them in for a dinner that would last deep into the night. And it was during these dinners, amidst oohs and aahhs and belches, that trolls began to answer questions...

a little tired this morning...

...thanks to Sir Lancelot. His mom is not home this weekend, which apparently makes him even more neurotic than usual. He is one of those cats who meows constantly, but doesn't really want attention. He only shuts up if you talk to him, or if you have nice long hair for him to play with. I was in no mood to chat with him all night, and my hair is apparently not up to his usual standards. I tried putting him in my roommates room with the door closed. A few minutes later, I heard this "thump. thump! THUMP!". My best guess is that he was literally throwing himself at the door, probably head first. So I resigned myself to my fate, took two shots of jack, and put on the Golden Compass audiobook. I dozed off once or twice, and missed some of my favorite parts, but i woke up just before the end, so that was pretty great. Nothing like the fate of Roger hanging in the balance at 6:45 am. I'm going to have to try to solve the cat problem tonight...

Under the bridge, you can hide from the rain

Certain things need to be believed in to exist. Like trolls. They are only there if you believe in them. And even then, in the case of trolls, it takes many, many people to actually bring them to life. But nobody knows what they are like when they come to life, because it has been many, many years since the last troll breathed his last breath. His name was Attican, and he is frozen beneath a tall, noisy bridge leading into a big, bustling city. Most of the young, hip people in this city zoom over Attican every day without every knowing he is there, and they laugh whenever the old, drunk man on the corner holds out his cup and asks them if they\'d like to hear a story about a troll. The old, drunk man is very, very old, and not drunk at all. His hair is grey, and braided, and reaches towards the ground like the roots of a magic tree. His jacket was green when it was new, and it had brass buttons the shined when the sun found its way through the maze of the Pacific clouds. But like the land itself, his jacket greyed and patches fell away, and it sagged as he filled its many pockets with bits and pieces of history. Things he deemed important, like a colorful stone or a mouse who needed rescuing from an angry chef\'s trap. And it is the most wonderful thing in the world to look into the old man\'s pockets. And for each pocket, he will tell you a story. And for each story, he will open up a door in your mind, behind which you will find something truly amazing.

So it was a rainy Tuesday, the day that I stopped at the corner and dropped a dollar in the old man\'s cup. Maybe I stayed a moment longer than I should have, or maybe he sensed that I needed to hear something specific. In either case, I had begun to turn away when I heard his voice, and the rattling of the stories in his pockets. \"This is the story of Attican, the last troll, who lives under the bridge...\"

 

Okapibama

We've entered the realm of dirty politics. I think the best way to handle this is to have made your mind up a couple of weeks ago, before the candidates had a chance to knock each other around. I don't like the way McCain/Palin are baiting Obama into insulting them, and then acting high and mighty. I don't mind that Obama is defending himself and his campaign, but McCain is a spin-master on par with that evil wizard from Lord of the Rings (Saruman?). You can put lipstick on Wormtongue...

In other news: They seem to have found some Okapis living in the wilds of the Congo. Very cool, considering we didn't know if there were any surviving outside of zoos.
Here is the article.

exit poll, part I

the reading was awesome. i mean, i felt very selfish, and then self-conscious, but it was a really neat experience for me. more later....

Iowan Drama Society, part II

what would it take to make Iowa like Disneyland? and i don't mean by building rides and selling enormously delicious corn dogs. i mean, is it possible to get as excited about going to Iowa as you would be about going to Disneyland?

i have a new play reading tonight, and i am excited and a little nervous. i really like the play, but hey, i wrote it. thats like saying "sure, i do like that funny looking freckled kid with the big glasses. after all, he is my kid." tonight is when i find out what other people think of my kid. i kind of hope he grows up to play some sort of instrument in marching band, and dates a pretty but awkward girl until the day after their high school graduation, when they discover that their puppy love has grown beyond them, and they spend the summer wild and broken-hearted before leaving for college. now that i think of it, maybe he is the one who gets excited about going to Iowa? makes sense to me.

'them there eyes' comes on in the coffee shop and makes me think of someone. a very specific someone.

the battle of pregnant second daughters

I am interested in Sarah Palin's speech tonight, for a number of reasons. John McCain has succeeded in creating a media circus surrounding an event that up until his VP pick announcement, was a non-event. Things that will be on my mind while watching:

Is Palin being used? What better way to counteract the historical nature of Obama's campaign then by nominating Palin? McCain knows that people love to see history being made in front of their eyes. It is exciting. It is different. Without Palin, he didn't stand a chance. Now voters get to choose between radical historical moments: Obama and an old white guy or An old(er) white guy and Sarah Palin.

But you have to remember that campaign managers and "consultants" are ruthless. Doesn't anyone else feel like Palin's image is being used? A number of things have been popping up in my mind: Obama is young, vigorous, and attractive. He has a young, healthy family. Where is the youth and beauty in the McCain campaign? As of this week, it is squarely on the shoulders of Sarah Palin.

Joe Biden has been a suprisingly successful choice for Obama. He has a comfortable image, as far as politicians are concerned. He's white, upper-middle-aged, with a great smile and frosty hair. Almost Bill Clinton-esque. He provides a certain amount of comfort to the change promised by Obama. He's like a big old political catfish, and he's been swimming in the bayou for a long, long time. So what does McCain do? He goes fishing using Sarah Palin as bait. And within a week, he gets a hit: headlines that blast Biden for calling Palin "good-looking". (nevermind that it was out of context) What a brilliantly underhanded way to portray him as your run of the mill sexist politician, and to remind the American public that maybe the "change" promised by Obama isn't really "change" at all, but a re-packaging of everything we've seen from Dems in the past. McCain did a wonderful job of making America wonder if Biden would cheat on his wife with Sarah Palin. This is politics.

Experience. McCain has pounded Obama for his "lack of experience". Which I think is laughable. Energy and vigor, intelligence and inspiration, these are the things that can make a difference. I also happen to believe that Obama's non-Washington experience is what makes him special as a candidate... being multi-cultural, having built up grass-roots organizations, that is what makes him special. But this post is about Palin. Does McCain figure that his girth of experience somehow levels Palin's lack thereof? Need I remind him that if he dies while in office, he's leaving the country in the hands of the VP. So what has Palin done? She has been a great Governor of Alaska. Which is our biggest state, but also one of the sparsest populated and quirkiest. That being said, George W. Bush probably had less experience than Palin when he was elected, and he managed to become the worst president in history. So at least I am convinced that Sarah Palin would run this country more efficiently than our current prez. So as far as experience goes, I equate it to a succesful mayor of a mid-sized Midwestern city suddenly finding themselves mayor of New York.

The pregnant daughter. As far as I am concerned, it is a non-issue. People get pregnant all the time. None of us would be here if people didn't get pregnant. And the daughter seems to be making responsible decisions regarding the situation. But I get fed up with the GOP pounding us with "this is really a non-issue. Its none of anyone's business. Forget about it." If Joe Biden had a pregnant teenage daughter, don't you think Republicans would be having a field day? They'd be lined up to take shots at the irresponsible youth of a liberal nation. If nothing else, the pregnancy of Palin's daughter should serve as a platform of pro-life (Palin) v. pro-choice (Obama). Biden is sort of iffy on the issue.

So what I am basically looking at tonight is something that convinces me that Palin is not being put up there to even out the attractiveness of the campaign. I do think that she is a better VP pick than the Dems have put up the past two elections. I just don't think that adding her to the equation gives McCain enough umph to top Obama. But tonight could go a long way towards convincing Americans either way.

an army of teachers...

I'm supposed to be making sure that my newly-minted play makes enough sense so that the actors aren't tripping over exposed spelling errors and un-deleted non-sensical monologues, but I decided I wanted to blog first.

I know this is back to school time, and students everywhere are groaning and trying to squeeze a few more precious drops of freedom out of the pulpy orange of summer. But I am reminded of something else, something I never really though about when I was growing up: the army of teachers who are gearing up, spending their own money on books and crayons and kleenex, reading Catcher In The Rye for the two-hundreth time, and decorating their classrooms with the help of husbands and children. They create safe spaces for young people. They are the dream-enablers of our world.

So to my sister, my friends, and every teacher I have ever had, from kindergarten to college, thank you!

Waiting for Ayn Rand

Ayn Rand must be the most-owned and least-read author of all-time. I have to admit that there is an old, beat-up copy of Atlas Shrugged living amongst a stack of old, beat-up paperbacks on my bedroom floor. I used to keep it on my bookshelf, but grew tired of the guilt I would feel every time I saw it. It cried out to me, “Fraud! You aren't a real reader- here I am, a masterpiece of everything literary, wallowing weary and unread, sandwiched between dog-eared copies of Stephen King and out-of-print Sci-fi collections!” So I moved it to the stack on the floor, where it now holds up copies of all the books I don't want to put on my shelf. Books like Love Story (“...true love means never having to say you're sorry...” That book was way off the mark.) and Screenplay by Syd Field. But this weekend, some hope for Atlas: a friend and I determined that there will be a moment in every person's life when he or she knows that it is time to begin. Be it Atlas Shrugged or The Fountainhead, you will deem yourself worthy of Ayn Rand, and you will take the plunge. Basically, she's like the quirky, smart, cute girl who works at the university library... you've fallen madly in love with her over the past three years, and your only conversations have gone like this:

You: Um...

Her: Do you have your card?

(You hand her your library card. She scans it. She frowns.)

Her: You have a fine.

You: Yeah, I know-

Her: Three-dollars and fifty-cents.

(Awkward pause. You dig through your bag for two quarters. Her glasses are on the bridge of her nose. She takes them off and lets them hang around her neck. She looks you in the eye. You want to tell her that she is beautiful, that you want to take her to the Library of Congress and make love to her amongst endless halls of priceless documents. You say nothing.)

Her: You know, someone else might have needed that book.

(Snaps her glasses back on her nose. Turns to do her filing. You watch her for a moment, and then decide that it might not be worth it. At least not today.)

And it has taken you three years to get that far. But what you do know, deep down inside, is this: that one day, she will keep her glasses off, and lean over the counter, kiss you on the cheek, and whisper in your ear, “Who is John Galt?” And that it will be something that you would never give up, not for the entire collection of the Library of Congress.

coffee talk and a recipe

i love watching the people in my neighborhood walk past my coffee shop... it is never boring and almost always rewards me in some sort of character-creation sort of way. A typical morning:

The early cup of coffee is most often accompanied by the early-risers of uptown. Inside the coffee shop suited men and women park their prius's in the red and look nervous if it takes to long to get their iced soy triple vanilla lattes. the "working class" in this neighborhood consists of people my age, usually graduated from college, who park their vespas on the curb and opt for the less-sweet drinks that are packed with caffeine. (did you know that they can actually add caffeine to coffee?) And then you have people like me, who work at night and come stumbling in unshaven in jeans and super-hero t-shirts, for a cup of black coffee and free wi-fi. I am amazed by the homeless people around this part of town. I have this urge to give them my ipod, thinking that maybe 10,000 blues songs will help them get through the day.

And now, to change the topic completely. I've been telling people about this recipe a lot lately, so I might as well share it here.

Jyoti-Bihanga Neatloaf

Neatloaf - served in Sri Chinmoy enterprise restuarants (Ananda Fuara and others around the U.S. and abroad)

4 eggs
2/3 envelope Lipton Onion Soup Mix (the whole packet measures 1/4 cup, so use slightly less or use the whole packet if you like the onion soup mix taste) - for vegetarian version substitute dry soup mix without beef bouillion
1/3 LB low-fat ricotta cheese
1/3 LB firm tofu (mashed into small pieces)
1/4 cup vegetable oil of choice
1/3 cup onions
1/2 cup cooked brown rice
1/2 tsp. oregano
1/2 tsp. basil
1/4 tsp. rosemary (fresh is good)
4 cups (dry measured) Special K (note: this approximately equals 4 oz or 113 grams of the cereal by weight)
1 1/2 tbsp. garlic
FOR THE SAUCE:
1/2 cup ketchup
1/8 cup Dijon mustard
1/4 cup molasses
1/8 cup to 1/4 cup apple cider vinegar (to taste)
Pinch cayenne ground pepper (to taste)

Preheat oven to 300 degrees F.

Sauté onions and garlic.

Beat eggs in a bowl, and then add all other ingredients except the Special K. Mix well and then add the Special K last. Put in pan that is sprayed with cooking oil.

Bake for 1 hour. Pour sauce over loaf after 1 hour, and bake for 10 more minutes.

And if anyone doesn't want to make it, but wants to eat it, I am up for a trip to Jyoti-Bihanga anytime.

some things i want

I want things that are real. Like rocks and tree bark.

I want a girl who wears overalls in the middle of the city.

I want to record an album of lullabyes, old dark Irish folk songs about unrequited love and hangings, sung sweetly and quietly and a little out of tune.

I want my house to smell like fresh ground coffee beans.

Is that too much to want? I mean, really?

Obama? Yes.

My computer battery is low and I have some work to get done today. But I just couldn't go the morning without saying something about Barack Obama. Last night was magical. It was unifying. Suddenly, I felt like being an American. That hasn't happened for almost a decade. I mean, I basically grew up despising what being an American meant. But last night, I saw a glimpse of truth and compassion that just hasn't existed in an American President since... well, probably since Lincoln.

Will write more later, after I find some power juice for my dialogue dictation machine.

ten things i think

The ending of His Dark Materials is far superior to the ending of Harry Potter. It isn't even close.

Louis Armstrong singing Let's Fall In Love is pretty much the best thing ever.

Sushi is not something that anybody should be afraid of!

Mornings are made to be caffeinated.

If I ever have a pet Llama, I will name it Dali.

Leaf blowers should be illegal to operate before 2 pm.

Barack Obama will make a far better President than John McCain. The ability to inspire and to lead is something that has been lacking in our government, and while McCain might be more experienced , he doesn't inspire me one bit.

Somebody should invent a silent vacuum cleaner.

Scott Bakula does not age. It has something to do with all of that quantum leaping that he did in the 80's.

Love is a four letter word.

need to know the lingo.

My older sister is a scrap-booker. She is crazy about it. Rabid. Insane. We were on our way to Disneyland (yeah!) and we stopped at Chick-fil-a. There was an article framed on the wall about how excited the local strip mall was that Chick-fil-a had opened. I totally understand, at one point my now-married-ex and I used to drive 40 miles round-trip at least once a week just to get a chicken biscuit. Anyway, she sees this article, and one tiny line says something like:
Sue Johnson, assistant manager at a scrap-booking store, says her staff is excited about the new Chick-fil-a. "We've been watching them build it, and we can't wait to get some nuggets!"
My sisters reaction: "OH MY GOD. THERE IS A SCRAPBOOK STORE WITHIN SIGHT OF THIS CHICK-FIL-A." Uh-oh. I just want to eat my chicken sandwich and get to Disneyland before the Indiana Jones line starts to wrap around the Jungle Cruise. Well, that wasn't gonna happen. While we did know that there was a SB store nearby, we didn't know where, only that they could see the Chick-fil-a from the store. So we drove around the strip mall (okay, it wasn't just a strip mall. This is So-Cal, where strip malls are the size of Midwestern towns.) But hey, she WAS on vacation, so I just let it slide, and we drove around looking for the place. Seems that Barb has a built-in radar that can detect any scrapping activity within a mile or so, and we found the place rather quickly. She was even an expedient shopper (I think the promise of Big Thunder Mountain had something to do with this) I was a little dismayed that she bought 10 sheets of paper, but she seemed to think that it was the most incredible paper ever made. I have to admit, it was pretty, and it would look great with some die-cut lettering and maybe a cute picture of a baby or a puppy. Anyway, I visit Barb's blog often (here it is) but I am often baffelled by the scrap-booking lingo. She often encourages her friends to play along with "challenges" that she posts. Here is an example, from today's post:

Play along if you can. . . there's a RAK involved.

Basically, all you have to do is make a mini that answers these 10 questions:
What is in your refrigerator?
What is your accessory of choice?
What or who are you crushing on right now?
What is your favorite childhood memory?
Who is your BFF?
What are 3 words that describe you best?
Who do you miss the most?
What are you learning right now?
What is your favorite smell?
What is your most "valuable" possession?

Now, I have no idea what any of this means, but I really want to take part. I mean, she is my sister and it is fun to keep in touch with her. RAK? Really Awkward Kid (which I'm assuming that many scrap bookers probably were.) Or maybe Resplendently Awesome Kibbutz? Ok, I'm just going to ignore that. "All you have to do is make a mini..." ALL I have to do? What the hell is a mini? The only mini's I am familiar with are Ipods and skirts. And I don't have the faintest idea how to manufacture either of those, nor how to get them to answer those 10 questions. But... I need not worry. Because Barb herself has completed the task in an astoundingly short amount of time (HOW DOES SHE DO THAT!?) and the results are visible on her page... I see now that a mini is some sort of small book that involves aformentioned paper, pictures, and die-cut letters. Hers looks amazing, while mine would surely resemble an Eric Carlyle book that as left out in the rain and then run over by a garbage truck. So I'm doing answering her challenge in a way that suits me better. For each question, I've written a haiku... here you go:

loaf of bread with mold
a single leaf of lettuce
makes a fuzz sandwich.

shove into my ears
the music of bruce springsteen
someday i'll go deaf

i can't really say
because you never do know
who might read your blog

alone in the woods
where they build big houses now
explore my kingdom

he lives in boston
and likes to beat on the drums
my big-footed friend

imaginative
unfuckingbelievable
compassionately

blue eyes like mine
she lives in the place I'm from
my sister, which one?

how to make new friends
make them read the stuff I write
what is a Buddhist?

February nights
Jacaranda trees in bloom
the smell of purple

a quilt made for me
it begins to fall apart
from drying my tears

There you have it. My RAK Mini response to Barb's Challenge.

LeRoi Moore

I found out today that LeRoi Moore died- which makes me very sad, since I had spent many happy hours listening to Dave Matthews Band, and being a sax player myself I always felt a special connection with him. I was hoping that he would recover from his accident in time to play with DMB in San Diego this summer.

If I have one defining memory of LeRoi's music, it would have to be a version of Long Black Veil that he played alone with Dave during the encore at one of their Gorge shows. There was something about the way his tenor saxophone matched up with the mood of the song. It was dark, there was some smoke in the air, and the whole place just took on this mood... like we were all living within the song. I got chills, and I still do just thinking about it. A close second would be his flute solo at the top of Say Goodbye. The guy was amazing, and the world is a less musical place without him.

The most interesting girl in the world, or Devrie Peters, Where Have You Gone?

Isn't life filled with people that you knew once, but not any more? Your best friend from third grade, the old man who used to live next to your grandparents, that girl (or guy) you fell in love with for two weeks last year before discovering that he/she despised caffeinated beverages (and smelled a little like smoked salmon). We must have a filing cabinet of sorts in our brains, with head shots and stat sheets for every person we've ever met. I've got a "top drawer" in my cabinet, reserved for people who make my head spin, people who I wouldn't mind spending a friday night with, or driving for weeks in an old VW bus across the American Southwest in search of... something. You know that scene from the Muppet Movie, after they've met Dr. Teeth and the Electric Mayhem, and they pile into that awesome bus and just start driving? That is how I imagine my journey with my top drawer. Then again, that whole movie is basically a blueprint for how to live a happy, fulfilling life.

So I've been filling in the gaps in my top drawer... people who I "used to know" and who have left some sort of void in my life by me "no longer knowing" them. The internet and facebook are great for this. Anyway, the lovely lady for whom this post is titled is the perfect example of a long-lost top drawer-er. And I've found her! And you know what? It took her no longer than two or three minutes and two or three mouse clicks to get me laughing harder than I have in months. Really, no kidding. As amazing as Dev is, her blog is even more amazing. (chickenspandex, and yes, it is just as funny even if you don't know her)

Another way of looking at the filing cabinet of life: Bokononism

short update

ok. the human body is pretty amazing. check this out: miracle baby

speaking of miracles, we found a dog that a friend had lost this morning. all weekend long we searched high and low for the adorable beagle puppy named Hudson. he bolted into an area with a bunch of canyons and a bunch of coyotes. we weren't so sure we were going to find him. this morning, someone else did, and he is now home safe and sound. whew.

thats all i've got for ya. whew.

coffee + internet = blog post

I have nothing to write about.

Well, other than confessing that before I go and see Shakespeare, I do need to read the plays and reference them in Issac Asimov's nifty guide to Shakespeare (check it out here). Otherwise I am liable to totally space out... I mean, come on. I was raised on Thundercats and Clifford the Big Red Dog. Wasn't one of those kids who read Hamlet when I was twelve.

My superhero t-shirt collection is growing. I have specific criteria: the shirts need to feel old (soft, worn) and they need to feature old-school portrayals of genuine heroes. In short, they need to look like I've had them since the 8th grade. And a few of them I actually have.

I bought coffee three times today. Mostly so I could use the internet. I mean, it is free, but I feel like a codger if I go there and sit down and start checking my facebook without buying something. Plus, it gives me a chance to say hi to the pretty barista. Thats all I say, because I am shy. But maybe, someday, I'll write her a poem and hide it in the coffee beans.

poetry

a lot of people tell me that they don't like poetry. i don't know what they mean. there is poetry everywhere. music, especially. everyone has a favorite song writer. thats poetry. the problem is that when most people think of poetry, they think of greeting cards and long-winded collections of 19th century dead white europeans.

playwriting and poetry writing are close cousins. the advantage that the playwright holds over the poet is this: his or her words are going to be read out loud, they are expected to be read out loud. and by people who feel a strong desire to deliver some sort of message with them. in fact, playwriting is nothing more than poetry in disguise. especially with someone like tennessee williams. i wish his plays were more uplifting, in the end, but no one can deny the magic of locking into one of his monologues and just disappearing into understanding his character's emotions.

a short poem

life has rough edges
it is sewn together
by hand stitches and bargain-store thread

i watched her cut the pieces,
carefully but without hesitation
and was amazed by the way she matched the colors
and the stories that they told.

Iowan Drama Society

I'm writing a play that takes place in Clear Lake, Iowa. I've been listening to Buddy Holly non-stop because his ghost makes an appearance in the play (or does it?)

I'm also doing some research on crazy tourist attractions in the midwest. I've always been fascinated by things like this. Probably because when I was a kid, we actually went out of our way to see things like this. Road trips with me are a nightmare, especially if you don't care about giant fiberglass animals or the a parcel of land once owned by Wyatt Earp.

In any case, this feeling of Americana/nostalgia/innocence play a role in the story I am trying to tell. A couple of kids (20-something) from California are forced to spend a night in Iowa. Sounds boring, right? We'll see what happens.

On another note, I'm going to see the Brewers play the Padres today, tomorrow, and Thursday. I'll get to see Jeff Suppan, CC Sabathia, and Ben Sheets pitch. They are 68-51, and they haven't had a record that good since I was in between being zero and one year-old. And speaking of babies, I was tricked into holding one last night. It was cute, but it was crying. It went like this:

Baby (wrapped up in a cute afghan): waaaaaaah
Dad: Oh, everything is ok little guy.
Baby: waaaaaaaaaaaah
Dad (to Ashley): He doesn't like Shakespeare.
Ashley scowls at me.
Baby: WaaaaaaAAAAaaaahhhh
Dad: I really need to get his mom.
Ashley: I'm sorry, sir, you can't take that... baby... back inside. (transl: Shut that thing up. You're stupid for bringing him to the theatre.)
Baby: WaaaaaaAAAAAAaaaaa
Dad: Well... could you hold him for a second?
Ashley: No, sorry. (Do I look like a babysitter?)
Ashley scowls at me again. She goes inside.
Baby: WWWWWWWAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH
Dad (to me): Would you hold him for a second? He really needs his mom.
Me: Ummmm... do you really want me to?
Baby: WAAA WAAAA WAAAA
Me: Well, if its ok with you-
Dad: Here.
The babe goes into my arms. I don't really know where to grab it. I mean, its a little bigger than a football, so I just hold on tight and remember not to drop it on its head. For a split second I worry that mom and dad might run away to Mexico and leave little baby with me. Ashley comes out of the house. Scowls at me and the baby. She has a soft spot, but its not for babies. I only held the kid for maybe a minute when mom and dad came out of the house. I kinda felt like I was just getting to know him. And I actually felt like I had accomplished something. I had, for about a minute, successfully kept the little guy alive. He was crying the whole time, but I returned him to mom in no worse condition than when I received him.

A note: I smelled funny the rest of the night. And he spit up a little on my tie. But I now have no doubt that I can someday successfully fulfill the duties of parenthood.

Stealing Rolling Stones

So I didn't invade my ex's wedding leading an army of sword-wielding shakespearean actors. That means I have my anger issues in check. Which brings me to today's topic: The Buddhist Precepts. If there is one thing I've learned while "studying" Buddhism, it is that there are about ten thousand versions of how it should be taught. Lots of guys with names I can't pronounce think that they know how you should go about meditating, thinking, and acting. And they each have their own take on the precepts. A list of about ten (or thousands, in some sects), it looks an awful lot like another list of ten that we are all way to familiar with. Anyway, here they are (as I understand them):

1. Don't kill. People, of course. But take it a step further. Unless you are going to eat it, don't kill it.

2. Don't steal. Ever since the advent of mp3s, this has been a tough one. My take is this: my downloading a Rolling Stones album illegally does actually have an adverse effect on the universe. I haven't figure out what it is yet, but I believe that it does. Have to work on this one...

3. Don't desire too much. This is the sex one. But it goes further than that. Sex isn't the only pleasure whose desire can cause problems. Food, drugs, new clothes, Rolling Stones albums. Desire leads us too far into the future, and away from the happiness that is here and now.

4. Don't lie. Huh. Easy enough, right? So why is lying bad? You tell a bum that you're sorry, but you don't have a quarter, even though you can both hear the change jingling in your pocket. Its not about the quarter (but you should give it to him), its about the relationship between you and the bum, you and yourself, you and the universe.

5. Don't cloud your mind with intoxicants. This one has always been confusing. So many people seek a sort of enlightenment using drugs, and if enlightenment is also the goal of Buddhists, then the two should go hand in hand, right? No way, Jose. You might think that to be wasted or stoned or on a crazy trip is to be enlightened, but it is a cheap, quick, and unearned enlightenment (and therefore not enlightenment at all.) Ain't nothin' thats worth nothin' if it didn't take good, hard work to achieve. And poppin' a tablet or lighting a bong ain't hard work.

6. Don't criticize others. Be gentle and friendly and honest. But remember that any pain you cause with your words and actions is actually pain you are inflicting upon yourself.

7. Don't be too proud of yourself, and don't be an ass to others. You are everything, and everything is nothing. If that isn't humbling, I don't kow what is.

8. Don't covet. Don't be stuck in the past or the future. Goes hand in hand with #3.

9. Don't give way to anger. This one is tough. I remember one day when I was driving downtown with my girlfriend. (My ex, now.) We were going to buy paintbrushes. Peaceful enough, right? I couldn't find the art store. It was hot out. I was getting frustrated. I got cut-off. I yelled an obscenity and punched my horn. For a moment, my girlfriend saw me purely angry. She called me out on it, and my anger grew. By the time we got to the store, we weren't speaking. By the time we got home, I had ruined both of our days. My anger from being minorly inconvienenced on the road had grown into a beastly thing that had certainly affected my universe, and my girlfriend's as well. It might have even had a hand in our eventual break-up. Ok, so we've all felt that kind of anger before. How can you possibly control it? The key is to understand that it is ok to think the anger, but you have to let it go before it become a true emotion, before you begin to actually feel it. Try it next time you get cut off in traffic. There is a moment, just after the incident occurs, when you actually get to decide which path to take. Anger will do everything it can to pull you down its dark, sharp, ugly path. But it is your choice. Make the right one, and the universe will instantly become a better place.

10. We are all the same. You, me, President Bush, Mick Jagger, Osama bin Laden, Billy Graham, Bono, Tom Cruise, your Aunt Peggy, and everyong else you can think of. There is nothing that makes any of us special, and at the same time we are all magnificent and irreplaceable. The bum you didn't give a quarter to is as close to you as your lover.

Whew. Longer than I thought it would be. If you made it this far, thats awesome. If you are interested, thats even better. If not, thats ok, too. But I wanted to make one more point: there is no such thing as sinning in Buddhism. If you break a precept, thats ok. Try harder next time. They aren't easy (if they were, the world would be a much different place.) It is much easier, more pleasureable, and in the short, sort term, it feels more rewarding to break the precepts. But just try, for one day, to follow them all. See what happens. Sit down and think about it for twenty minutes at the end of the day. I absolutely guarantee that you will feel wonderful.

Discovering Yael Naim

I'm in love with her music- Sometimes I'm not even sure what language she is singing in (it sounds like a cross between Yiddish and French?) but it sure is lovely to listen to.

I put her video up on my facebook, it is today's required viewing.

Just the fact that she has a song called "Endless Song of Happiness" makes me endlessly happy.

In other news: I've started working whole-heartedly on a project called "can neil young save us now?"... which is essentially a show (hopefully created by a group) that tells stories inspired by and using neil young's music. If you're interested, I set up a facebook group for it!

I'm conversely enjoying and not enjoying finding ways to use up my time... I'm sure everyone can understand that statement. :)

Newly re-committed to blogging...

So where have I been?

A lot has happened in between posts, but I'll just give you the bits and pieces.

-ex-girlfriend and I are still broken up. some back and forth but mostly just old heart-strings sounding familiar chords.

-been dating, and found something still thumping in my heart. still heart-broken, though.

-saw the new Batman movie. was slightly put-off by his implementation of his bat-eared patriot act. the joker was incredible. hilarious and frightening at the same time. wish we could see more of him.

- returned to my roots. wisconsin is as beautiful as ever. reconnected with so many old friends,and very very happy about that.

I just re-read "Hardcore Zen" by Brad Warner. It is simply amazing how many things this book made me think about; I've been meditating every day, and so far it has been an interesting adventure. This is something that I would like to continue doing, and I'd like to find a teacher in San Diego to help me out.

If I've learned anything in the past three months, it is this:

Your mind and body tell you many things, but above all they tell you the truth. Listen to them.

Thats it for now...

its like falling in love, but the complete opposite

A few words about monsters:

They are everywhere. The occupy every corner of our lives. They live in our walk-in closets and under the rows of overturned coffee mugs on our kitchen shelves. They are big and they are small, but I have a suspicion that the smaller ones are the nastiest. They are the fastest, the best at hiding, the hardest to find. They can hide for years, with little need for food or water. The shell of a sunflower seed will do, and a drop of water from a leaking pipe.

Our parents label the most obvious monsters for us:

Pedophiles
Kidnappers
People who drive to fast through the neighborhood
Bigfoot

that sort of thing.

They don't tell us about:

Coffee
Sweat shops
Military Industrialism
Heartbreak

among others. But that last one, heartbreak, is what this blog is all about.

Breaking up with your girlfriend and living in a trailer in her yard.

This is not a self-help blog. There is no structure here, and no reason anybody should listen to my advice. I have not, after all, found a way to compose, maintain, and live in a succesful healthy relationship. Yet. But maybe something, somewhere within, will make sense to you. And even if it is just one chapter, one paragraph, even one sentence, then this whole thing will have been worth writing.

My girlfriend and I. Broke up. C'est la vie.

But wait-

It really is a longer and more beautiful story than that. A story full of everything you would expect, and some things that you would not. Maybe you will understand some of it, and maybe there are parts that will make you shake your head, your fists, and shout “What the fuck!” at nobody in particular. But I'm not going to just write it down. It's here, the story of our love, but its buried and bundled and coded and mixed up. Because that is what love is, when you leave the pot on the flame. Evaporation of everything but its most basic elements. Which aren't very basic at all.

I'm bummed out, but I also realize that it is suddenly possible to act out any number of verses of Bob Dylan songs, and that excites me greatly. Also excited about finding a girlfriend who drinks coffee. And maybe a writer. We could spend nights without electricity, in front of a fire, writing furiously and then making love on the floor, waking in the morning to the ancient romantic glow of embers .

The trailer is small but incredibly comfortable, like a womb. Whenever I get depressed, I just pretend that I am on some incredibly long journey through space, and that my space comrades have died trying to repair some part or another, and that Earth was as far behind as it had ever been for any other man. What could be more depressing than that? I mean, at least in my situation I can roll out of bed and drive to Jack in the Box for a malt and some fries.