Like Butter Play Toast

The specter of revolution stalks the Arab/Persian world. Activist friends are energized by protests in Wisconsin. Older activists like ex-CIA officer Ray McGovern directly confront Hillary Clinton for her hypocrisy over Egypt, getting dragged off by security as Hillary droned on, stage smile fixed, not missing a beat. Ferment, action, courage, hope. How deep does it run? How long will it last? I'm all for it -- jam the imperial gears, rattle the cage. But now I'm watching college girls walk past my apartment window.

The motel phase has settled into sublet living. I'm in an old house on the Michigan campus, right in the middle of sorority row. It's a professor's place, a French-African woman who returned to Paris to have her baby. African art lines the walls, emitting positive energy. Parking sucks, especially with the majority of cars owned by students. Otherwise I like it here. It reminds me a bit of Butler, with some Indiana University thrown in. But unlike those schools, I don't see myself partying with the kids. I'm the older guy at the top of the stairs. He's quiet and keeps to himself, but late at night there's mad laughter and shadow apparitions on the ceiling.

After a brief my-life-has-utterly-changed hiatus, The Project resumes. I'm lining up some stage time in LA, where I'll be in early-March, and may take a meeting or two. After that, more mics in NYC, a few in DC and perhaps elsewhere, depending on developments in flux. I'm also going to give readings. For the moment, I'm working on the book part of The Project, the first volume of what I expect to be a three volume set. This aggressively stirs up really dark shit, but after the last few months, I'm used to it. So if I'm absent from this space for more than a few days, you'll know why.

Bright spots exist. My son most prominently. The ex and I getting along is immensely helpful. The other day at the place where I get my hair cut, Christina, my stylist (she's no mere barber), said "Okay Dennis. You're next." The young guy she just finished turned, looked at me and asked, "Are you Dennis Perrin?"

Fuck. More papers? IRS? Homeland Security?

"Yes."

"Hey. I read your blog. You're a terrific writer."

"Thanks."

He wasn't crazy about the videos, though. Took too much of his time. But he loved my writing. "Really good stuff," he said leaving.

Christina beamed as I sat in her chair. "Wow! That's gotta feel good!"

It ain't bad.