Dennis Perrin

Live From My Mind

2012-02-01T02:27:00.003-05:00

Here's an impressionistic primer on, yes, you guessed it, Fridays. Hoping to school some of Splitsider's youth about the show's brief impact. Even better is the love I've received from several Fridays veterans, including producer John Moffitt. Making them happy makes me ecstatic. Sometimes writing can be a good thing.

Do The CREEP

2012-01-25T08:48:00.013-05:00

Watched All The President's Men last night with someone who hadn't seen it. It'd been ages for me, so the film felt fresh as well. Not only is ATPM a time capsule in style and subject matter (remember investigative journalism?), it reinforces how imperial corruption has sharpened.

"Jeez, that Nixon was a piece of work."

"He was a brutal, paranoid fuck," I replied. "Sad thing is, Obama's worse."

Oh man is he ever. Difference is, Obama's smoother. No self-pitying rants from him. Obama makes you feel good about awful things. If you're predisposed to it, that is.

The past four years will do little to dampen liberal spirits. They're already revved up, intent to keep fascist Republicans out of the White House. That no Repub running can match Obama's authoritarian record is beside the point. If anything, it deepens liberal love for Their President. As the year slogs on, this mindset will intensify. By election day, the only way decent Americans can forestall a Nazi putsch is to give Obama another term.

Again, it's a great system for those who own it.

Liberal propaganda is already piling up. On Facebook, claims about the Democrats' progressive nature appear hourly, the most brazen (so far) insisting that Liberals Are Cool. To support this theory, a checklist of liberal social achievements appears. Victories for workers' compensation. Protection for seniors. Civil and voting rights. Reproductive freedom.

Impressive. Thing is, that Great Leap Forward hit the wall with George McGovern's defeat in 1972. Since then, it's been a rightward retreat.

Under Carter, Clinton, and now Obama, the clock has been steadily set back. Policies that would make Nixon blush with excitement have been championed and enshrined by liberal heroes. Small wonder why Obama supporters reach through time to justify their present acquiescence.

Obama's expansion of Bush/Cheney police state measures isn't as sexy as Medicare, though there are those who'll defend surveillance and endless war as well. Recall liberal orgasms over the Bin Laden hit, or defenses for the Just War in Libya. Whatever it takes to elect Democrats. Our sole hope for survival.

Didn't catch the State of the Union speech (or SOTU, which to my weary, dyslexic eyes resembles STFU). What's the attraction? Arrogance and pretense are rubbed in our faces. Adults who buy into this bullshit, or worse, believe it has something to do with them, are tragic souls.

If you're paid to watch and regurgitate SOTU talking points, that's one thing. But to feel that it's your "democratic duty" to watch a president boast and lie as the corporate-owned Congress claps along, all I can say is "Netflix."

Noam Chomsky said that Watergate demonstrated how the system polices itself. Woodward and Bernstein weren't all that interested in COINTELPRO, the FBI's program of surveillance and disruption of dissident groups and figures. They probed Nixon's spying on the Democratic National Committee, an action that stepped on numerous elite toes. Nixon and his henchmen overreached with that operation and paid the political price.

Lesson: Don't fuck with those with serious political power. It's a reason why the Reagan gang got away with Iran/contra. Or Bush/Cheney with the Iraq war. Or Obama with the NDAA. I doubt that Romney or Gingrich will be elected; but if one of them is, he has a lot of ground to cover.

Still, I enjoyed watching the pre-Internet research dramatized in All The President's Men. Imagine, actually poring through books! Lots of them! With hundreds of pages! Jotting down notes and quotes with pen and paper! Countless hours of intensive mental labor!

Who among the eager young devotes that kind of effort to expose today's political criminals? I know of a few with the desire. And of course there's WikiLeaks, or what's left of it. In this age of streamlined corruption, digging deep while keeping pace is the current struggle -- if you'll excuse the retro-jargon.

Get Sprung

2012-01-18T11:20:00.020-05:00

Many liberals I've known hate that DC's National Airport is named after Ronald Reagan. He was a warmonger! A reactionary! He traded arms for hostages! Shame on National for honoring his name!

I usually counter with, What about Dulles? I've never heard a liberal denounce that airport's name.

John Foster Dulles was a Republican Secretary of State who helped plan anti-democratic coups in Iran and Guatemala. He and brother Allen had business ties with Nazi companies. The best you can say about Dulles is that he opposed nuking Japan. But since most liberals defend Truman's atomic assault, Dulles' opposition should count against him.

Nary a peep. Same goes for Kennedy Airport and the Kennedy Center. Reciting JFK's crimes is pointless since millions do not view him as a criminal. But the point remains. So why the fuss about Reagan and not Kennedy? Of course we know the answer. But every so often obvious questions should be asked, just to retain what sanity is left.

In all my visits to DC, I'd never been to the Kennedy Center. When a friend offered a ticket for an evening of music celebrating the Tunisian Revolution, I said sure. It's been a long time since I've dressed up and gone out; plus, I'd finally see the hallowed place. As a new resident of the District, it seemed almost mandatory.

I was curious to see how the Arab Spring would be depicted. US elites were caught off guard by the uprisings, backing their friends and clients until that proved untenable. Then poof! They were for democracy. Expressed lavish support for political freedom. The standard bait and switch.

In reality our owners oppose popular Arab rule, as there is tremendous hostility to their imperial interests. Libya was a test case with an already demonized foe, using the Arab Spring as cover for NATO intervention. The Western concept of Spring is more explosive than dissent from below, a season the Iraqis continue to endure.

Overall, the Kennedy Center was underwhelming, a frozen reminder of "modern" architectural tastes from the late-60s/early-70s. I was taken with the giant JFK head in the lobby. For all the cracks about North Korean Leader worship, we do a fine job of canonizing our plaster saints, or in this case, bronze martyr.

People milled around the head, admiring its scope and inspirational likeness. But I thought, if you're going to deify JFK, do you really want to emphasize his head?

Near the head was a bar, a more fitting tribute to the Kennedys. The concert was about to begin. I slammed a Stella Artois and entered the theater with my friend. The audience bristled with excitement. There had been rumors that the Obamas would appear, maybe the Bidens. We were mercifully spared that. Still, the crowd felt psyched. Maybe this wouldn't be so bad after all.

Then came the speeches. The Arab Spring was rightfully hailed, followed by imperial ass-licking. I knew this was probable. We're in DC, after all. But it went on and on. How the US has traditionally encouraged democracy in the Arab world. How our shining example of unfettered freedom inspired those in the streets. A State Department flunky, whose name I didn't catch, spoke on Hillary Clinton's behalf, praising Madam Secretary's love of liberty.

People nodded affirmatively. Applauded here and there. It all made sense to them. To me, it seemed a perfect moment for a personal tour of the building.

As I left the theater, I saw the bartender putting away his bottles. If I was going to sit through two more hours of what I'd just seen, a stiff drink was needed.

"Absolut on the rocks, please."

"I'm sorry sir. The bar is closed."

"Okay. How about a beer instead?"

"Sorry sir."

"There's a bottle right here! Come on, man. Charge what you want."

"Sir, please step away from the bar, or I'll have to call security."

Now I was truly glad that Obama and Biden didn't show. Imagine having this exchange with Secret Service agents around.

Rebuffed, I walked throughout the Center. I liked it better without people, a large stark space from lost time. As with so much else in DC, the Center's size and symbolism convey imperial confidence.

This especially made sense with Kennedy, whose presidency marked the high point of US power and wealth. Those days are long gone, the Center an anachronism. To have it crumbling and covered in vines would at least give it some character.

When I re-entered the theater, the speeches were winding down. I took my seat as a video promoting Tunisia's tourist industry came on. It reminded me of the Mount Airy Lodge commercials from the 80s, promoting a Poconos resort for stressed out New Yorkers. Swimming pools. Saunas. Golf courses. Fine dining. Five star hotels. Yep, it looks like the average Tunisian finally has it made. Thanks to us, naturally.

At long last, the concert began. Composed by Jaloul Ayed, Minister of Finance in Tunisia's interim government, the symphony celebrated Hannibal Barca's military campaigns. Playbill described Hannibal as having "a great capacity for ruthless endurance in battle, as well as an equally charming personality."

That's a tough combo to pull off when using elephants to crush enemies. Someone of that stature deserves a stirring symphony. Unfortunately, Ayed fell centuries short.

Not that it was a bad symphony. Hell, I would've preferred a bad symphony, introduced by Leonard Pinth-Garnell whom I would never walk out on. Hannibal was simply a boring symphony. Obvious. Thumping (the elephants?). Brash. More John Williams than Mozart.

The audience didn't appear crazy about it either. People checked watches. Stole quick glances at their iPhones. Like Joseph Cotten in Citizen Kane, I twirled my program, killing time. As Hannibal dragged on, people began to leave. But we stayed to the cymbal crashing end.

In the cab line outside, commentary was tepid and brief, if polite. Hannibal didn't conquer this crowd. A portly white guy ahead of us got into a cab and was immediately kicked out by the driver. Apparently, he didn't want to go to the white guy's address. So the white guy accused him of bias against Black people.

The driver erupted. Loudly demanded respect. Screamed for someone else to get into his cab. He looked at me. I begged off. This made him angrier. Finally an older couple appeased him. They settled in as he kept yelling, his cab racing out of the lot.

I didn't catch the driver's nationality, but he's clearly adapting to American patterns. Maybe the speech makers inside were right. Sometimes it hurts to be so envied.

Remember Blogs?

2012-01-14T13:40:00.009-05:00

If you haven't noticed, I'm on a bit of a site hiatus. Working on other things. Moving about with more travel in the near future. Plus, I haven't felt like writing extensively about the present scene. Hard to believe, I know. But surprise is the spice of any fulfilling life.

Fresh posts will appear soon (and there's always my Twitter feed). One involves an evening at the Kennedy Center honoring the Arab Spring. Well, that's what the program said. What I endured was something entirely other.

Porter Wagoner best sums up my current mood. Remember, it was he who introduced Dolly Parton to the world. So he had some knowledge of life's darker secrets.

One Of Us

2012-01-04T09:32:00.010-05:00

It begins yet again. Actually, it never ends. We are throttled by elections, primaries, fund raising, attack ads, appeals to cheap nationalism and tribal hatred. A conga line of energetic mediocrities, to lift Gore Vidal's timeless description, deign to manage us for their employers.

We're told how lucky we are. How blessed. Envied by countries with freer elections. Americans gorge on envy. Our national lifeblood. Advertising relies on envy to sell shit. So why not inject it into our politics, such as it is?

I know -- this is obvious. We've been down this tangled path too many times to count. But at least this time around, there's ferment from below. Occupy is off the front burners, but remains lit.

This election is the perfect space to occupy. How it's done, to what end, is still developing. My sole hope (that battered, abused word) is that Occupy isn't swallowed by Obama and the Dems. There's a risk of that happening. Obama still casts a seductive spell on many liberals. A sexy savage mule.

I wonder if Obama's staff are amazed by how much they've gotten away with. Success usually breeds arrogance, especially at the presidential level. Obama's signing of the National Defense Authorization Act closed 2011 with a perfect Fuck You to his supporters -- to the extent that his supporters oppose police state legislation. Or bother to notice.

No, most liberals are busy portraying the Repubs as a unique menace to all that is Good and Pure about our nation. The GOP certainly makes it easy for them.

But as primary season drags on, money, not ideology, will decide the matter. And that looks more and more like Mitt Romney. For all the booga-booga about Gingrich, Perry and Santorum, liberals truly fear a Romney nomination.

Like Obama, Romney is a reliable corporatist, pledged to endless war, indefinite detention, expanding surveillance. Romney's advisers helped Obama frame his healthcare "reform." How do you demonize an Obama collaborator? We'll soon see.

Liberals can be creative in tight spots. Romney's Mormonism must be tempting, but it's a limited target. I suspect liberals will play the Patriot Card. Obama the Osama slayer. The quiet storm that topples dictators. That sort of thing.

I don't envy those employed to follow and report on this twisted charade. Which probably makes me a bad American. Well, they certainly know where to find me.

Past Of Completion

2011-12-28T05:50:00.010-05:00

They all got heavier. Heavy with fear. Heavy with sadness. Bloated by bad food and drink.

Each had reasons. Solid reasons. Genetics. Fate. Age.

His was more complicated. Or compromised. Or whatever he chose to tell himself in early morning dark.

Awake the voices clashed. An awful din. Asleep the vistas burst aflame, crashing like cheap props.

Asleep he embraced all scenarios. These were limited tales, bent into fractured shapes.

He couldn't fly. Couldn't float. Possessed no special powers. Death was constant, laughing.

Nothing cruel. Simply fact. How every story ends.

Deserted buildings. Broken glass. Soiled fabric. Torn scattered limbs. Dust of neglect clouding dying suns.

Run along beaches of blood. Rock towers rise, block escape. Music falls, fades.

It's familiar. Warm. Loved ones smile in the distance. The closest furthest away.

He knows better than to run beyond his reach. At times he'll make a break. Climb the rocks. Drag the sand. Create false openings.

Slammed against rubble. Breath sucked from lungs. Clothes stripped and burned.

Faceless women appear. Offer wet promises. Part of his punishment. Ignore them, the ache is profound. Devour them, his regret is complete.

Four AM sirens under his window. Guzzle what's left of the wine. Light up, inhale, cough out blue smoke.

The day is over before dawn. The rest is just killing time. Murder by the hour.

Sexy Yule Log

2011-12-21T09:33:00.003-05:00

Spending Christmas in NYC this year. First time since my kids were little. Now they're grown and wise to the cynical manipulations of the holiday market. But I still believe. In Santa? No. In Dusty Towne.

Letter To A Lost Friend

2011-12-16T11:45:00.006-05:00

Christopher --

I hoped it wouldn't come to this. Writing to you after you've died. As you know, I've reached out to you since a mutual friend told me of your illness. Ceased my attacks and critiques. Not that I changed my mind about your pro-war position, but my feelings ran deeper than partisan rifts.

We never met again. Friends said it was because you were in treatment. Weak. Unable to talk. I know that's true. But maybe you simply didn't want to see me. I understand. All I desired was to look you in the eyes one last time and say thanks. So this will have to suffice.

I have more memories of you than you did of me, the proper balance, given our relationship. When you read my initial attempts to write political criticism, you were honest but encouraging. Made minor corrections while highlighting lines you liked. I can't tell you what that meant to me. When young writers seek my advice or input, I remember your generosity and offer them my own. I still hew to your belief that first thoughts are not best thoughts. That the best stuff must be dug out. You were right.

My favorite memories stem from those long nights and weekends in your and Carol's apartment. If I seemed star struck, I was. I couldn't believe you took me as seriously as you did. The two of us sitting at that long dining room table next to the kitchen. Me trying to match you drink for drink. Rookie hubris. You made it seem effortless, wreathed in Rothman smoke, longish hair tousled. We'd talk through the early hours, you more than me. I was happy to listen and learn.

There were the C-SPAN gigs. Twice you took me along, early morning, when neither of us had any sleep. In a DC cab as the sun came up. You'd click on your debate switch and your eyes became electric. Your energy was boundless. When I appeared on C-SPAN, I tried following your example. Disaster. Massive hangover on national TV. It still hurts to watch that tape. I think you kept me up that night to test my endurance. To see if I could hang. I made it. Barely.

You opened doors for me. Recommended me to Jonathan Larsen at the Village Voice when the Press Clips column was vacant. I felt I wasn't ready for that stage, but you did. Larsen went with Doug Ireland instead. No matter. There were other jobs.

You got me into Mother Jones. Your endorsement put me in the New York Perspectives editor's chair. That was vital to my education. It's where I really learned to write. It was through you that Tariq Ali and Colin Robinson read my work. Tariq later published Savage Mules. Belated thanks for that.

So many moments swim through my mind. Our physical feats competition on your building's rooftop. You teaching me how to properly cook salmon in your kitchen. The day we spent together at the 1992 Democratic Convention in New York. You introduced me to Norman Mailer and Norris Church, saying "And of course you know Dennis Perrin." We hung out with Dick Cavett and Ron Reagan, Jr. Made fun of Charles Krauthammer who sat in front of us in Madison Square Garden. We hit the reporters' bar and talked about how awful Bill Clinton was going to be.

We then went to HBO Studios where you were to debate John Podhoretz on Comedy Central. It was a live show. You said "fuck" several times. Moderator Al Franken told you to stop. You replied, "I thought I was allowed to say whatever the fuck I wanted!" The segment ended early. The night was just beginning.

When I pissed off Noam Chomsky, sharing with you something he wrote to me privately, you spoke to Noam and straightened it out. I was thoughtless. You were selfless. You helped me many times like that. When I asked for a blurb for Mr. Mike, you didn't hesitate. When we saw each other at readings or signings, you always hugged and kissed me, cigarette ash falling on my shoulder. "So good to see you, dear boy! Care for a drink?" I never refused.

I'm sorry we fell out. That was never my intention. I simply didn't understand your reasoning. It felt false to me. When I reminded you of forgotten statements that undermined your pro-invasion arguments, you didn't deny them. You just got shitty with me. Pulled rank.

When I wrote Obit for a Former Contrarian in 2003, you reacted as if I stuck a shiv in your gut. You emailed me from Kuwait, demanding that I confess to planting the story in New York Post's Page Six. I told you the truth. I didn't. But you wouldn't believe me. From there it grew worse.

You later feigned little knowledge of me. The same tactic that Sidney Blumenthal used on you. Why not? It works. But mutual friends told me different stories. One wanted to set up a debate between us. Carol thought it was a good idea. You were horrified by the suggestion. Spoke of my betrayal. You never got over that Obit piece. Thing is, that piece is filled with love and respect for you. Severe criticism, too, but couched in whatever affection I had left.

You were wrong, old friend. You endorsed and pushed for all manner of imperial violence. Your glee over Fallujah blew my mind. After all you had written, roasting imperial toads with scathing wit, you were in the end no different than them.

Yes, I wrote harshly about this. To you personally, on my blog and at Huffington Post. For a moment I considered taking it all down, out of respect for your passing. But the old Christopher would blanch at that. And he would be right.

In your collection For The Sake of Argument, you wrote this to me: "For Dennis -- close reader, meticulous viewer, who answers back to the consensus. With warm fraternal greetings, Christopher." In No One Left to Lie To, you penned, "Dennis is a good man. C.H."

I'd like to think that somewhere inside of you, these sentiments remained. I'll never know. But many positive sentiments about you remain in me. Some friends have mocked me for this, but they didn't know you as I did.

So long, Christopher. I'll never forget you.

Bert Schneider

2011-12-14T11:30:00.016-05:00

Anyone who shoved Vietnam up Bob Hope's ass on an international stage is okay by me.

When Hearts and Minds won the Academy Award for Best Documentary in 1975, co-producer Bert Schneider dispensed with standard showbiz thanks. Instead, he read a telegram from the head of Vietnam's Provisional Revolutionary Government delegation to the Paris peace talks.

Dinh Ba Thi conveyed "greetings of friendship to all American people," eliciting applause, boos and hisses. Francis Ford Coppola thought this was a beautiful gesture, especially in the wake of massive US violence in Vietnam. But Bob Hope was incensed and had Frank Sinatra read a statement deploring Schneider's behavior.

Hope had been Hollywood's biggest war booster. His annual Christmas specials from Southeast Asia tried to paint Vietnam in 1940s colors. But each year, Hope's message grew dimmer. His early upbeat commentary became sullen, resigned. To have some hippie producer celebrate American defeat while waving an Oscar was too much for Hope. He shot back, but history muffled its effect.

That was perhaps Bert Schneider's final victory. Up to Hearts and Minds, Schneider was New Hollywood's main engine. He, Bob Rafelson and Steve Blauner (BBS) produced Easy Rider, Five Easy Pieces, The Last Picture Show, Drive, He Said, and The King of Marvin Gardens. After producing Terrence Malick's Days of Heaven in 1978, Schneider faded from view.

The revolution in American film that he helped foster succumbed to mall movies directed by Spielberg and Lucas. But for such a brief window, Schneider got a lot through.

Schneider not only saw potential in underground narratives, he created the space for their development. He found an audience hungry for relevant films, open to experimentation in mood and structure. Business was conducted in weed-scented air. But when Schneider pulled rank, he did so decisively and without apology.

He gave Dennis Hopper tremendous freedom to direct Easy Rider. As Hopper flirted with a four-hour bike film, violently resisting any changes, Schneider stepped in and cut Easy Rider down to a releasable length. Hopper protested, yet there was nothing he could do. Hopper's then-wife Brooke Hayward observed, "Bert was the heroic savior of that movie. Without him, there would never have been an Easy Rider."

Heroics aside, Schneider could be loathsome. According to Peter Biskind's Easy Riders, Raging Bulls (and its accompanying documentary), Schneider was a drug-fueled egomaniac, given to rants and emotional abuse. There was nothing revolutionary about his success.

Alhough he mocked his capitalist status, gave money to the Black Panthers, helped hide Huey Newton and Abbie Hoffman from the FBI, Schneider remained in his prime a Hollywood power broker. Since his father, Abraham, ran Columbia Pictures, Schneider was familiar with the role.

For me, it was Schneider and Rafelson's creation of The Monkees that still resonates. (Paul Mazursky claimed authorship of The Monkees, saying that Schneider and Rafelson stole credit for the idea from him and partner Larry Tucker. But, aren't ideas like butterflies free?)

Yes, The Monkees were Beatles knock-offs. True, some of their music stretched bubble gum to the snapping point. Yet Raybert, Schneider and Rafelson's production company, assaulted mid-60s television with jump cuts, social satire, long hair, and loud music. They fused French New Wave with documentary pacing, live action cartoon energy with media self-awareness. It may look tame now, but The Monkees rattled TV conventions. It wasn't like any other show.

In their second and final season, The Monkees dropped the laugh track, pushed their sound into new areas, setting in motion their destruction. This literally came to a Head in 1968, as Schneider and Rafelson, with help from Jack Nicholson, deconstructed The Monkees as a money-making distraction. Shallow, corporate, lacking in weight.

"You say we're manufactured/To that we all agree/So make your choice and we'll rejoice/In never being free" sang Davy Jones, just before the infamous footage of Nguyễn Ngọc Loan shooting a Vietcong suspect in the head. A girl's scream is heard, but it's in reaction to The Monkees taking the stage, not to the barbarism just shown.

You'd be hard pressed to find any manufactured teen brand since that juxtaposed war crimes with pop diversion. But then, none of them were produced by Bert Schneider. Imagine the film he'd make for Justin Bieber.

Sugar Pop

2011-12-08T07:10:00.004-05:00

Been traveling a lot of late. Nothing exotic. Post-divorce responsibilities and settling into a new city. Have some heavier posts in mind as I slip into the holidays. Until then, there's always my Twitter feed and Nancy Sinatra.

Nazional Pastimes

2011-12-05T12:30:00.006-05:00

Sports gazers are bitching again about the BCS. As expected, LSU will play Alabama for college football's national championship. That Alabama already lost to LSU this season and didn't win its conference made no difference.

The Crimson Tide is a bankable brand. A known commodity. Oklahoma State, which has an identical record as Alabama and did win its conference, had no shot. Even if OSU had gone undefeated, there would be numerous voters who'd still pick Alabama over the Cowboys.

In a season marred by the Penn State rape scandal, SEC favoritism is the least of college football's worries. It seemed odd that Penn State kept playing after its franchise coach was fired, its school president forced to resign. But too much money would be lost, so the harshest penalty has been to banish the 9-3 Nittany Lions to the TicketCity Bowl in Dallas.

Come next season, maybe fans will believe that it was all a bad dream, an aberration, and we can get back to pouring money into corporate sports as the Constitution provides.

I was never crazy about college football. But at least the BCS is open about its avarice, the building of super conferences an honest expression of current power arrangements. The punch line -- that it's all about student athletes -- ceased being funny ages ago. It's still trotted out, but few bother to notice much less react.

Pro football is losing me as well. Cynics may point to the Jets' subpar season as the cause, but this is a long time coming. Ultra-violence is part of it, though for years this didn't bother me much. You can't enjoy the NFL without brain-rattling hits.

Mostly it's the nationalist/militarist tie-ins. The assumption that NFL fans naturally support imperial war and the pomp that sells it. This has grown worse every year, culminating in a Nuremberg rally called the Super Bowl.

The punch line -- that it's all about supporting the troops -- ceased being funny ages ago. It's still trotted out, but millions continue to love and applaud it.

The Occupy movement has clearly softened me. A generation that rejects violence in favor of justice fucks with one's football jones. That is, unless the Jets somehow make it to Nuremberg Indy. One more rally before renouncing the Reich, or Madonna at halftime if the game's a rout.

No Higher Calling

2011-11-28T11:04:00.027-05:00

Seeking support from the gun lobby, Mitt Romney performs a ventriloquist act with Bucky the Elk whose tag line "Blow me away!" has become a campaign favorite.

In a rare moment of public honesty, Rick Perry assumes the position he takes when raising money from corporate donors.

Perry tries to prove he's a better American than Romney by placing his hand higher over his heart.

Who's the black private businessman that's a sex machine to all the chicks? CAIN! You're damn right.

Michele Bachmann demonstrates how she would cut federal spending by pretending to eat a Subway tuna melt.

Newt Gingrich regales followers by showing the sleight of hand he used when fleecing his constituents.

You see this cat Cain is a bad mother -- SHUT YOUR MOUTH! But I'm talkin' about Cain!

Citing his experience as Ambassador to China, Jon Huntsman says that the Chinese will never overtake America because they are shorter than us.

Huntsman hopes to win over religious conservatives by telling Michele Bachmann that he too could see the Second Coming of Christ.

He's a complicated man, but no one understands him but his women. HERMAN CAIN!

Addressing concerns that he might be anti-Israel, Ron Paul shows his love of Jewish culture with a tribute to comedian Jackie Mason.

Not to be outdone, Vice President Biden and Israeli president Shimon Peres celebrated their alliance by performing "Do You Love Me?" from Fiddler On The Roof.

Speaking to reporters about a possible second term, President Obama showed how he plans to deal with foreign leaders who get in his way.

It's A Hell Of A Town

2011-11-21T14:01:00.017-05:00

The following is made possible by Fox Labs International. Makers of Mean Green, the world's first environmentally-safe pepper spray. Incinerates human eyes without harming the planet. Finally, organic fascism in an aerosol can!

These kids have energy. Positive energy. Unpretentious. Guileless.

It's in their eyes and postures. In the way they communicate. Earnest but not silly. After spending back-to-back days in Zuccotti Park, I see why elites are hysterical. A generation no one noticed is peacefully pushing back. And based on my time in NYC and DC, these kids aren't stopping any time soon.

The violent vibe comes from the cops. They surround the park, batons in hand, pepper spray ready, one order away from again clamping down. Many of these cops are NFL big. One wonders what enhancements they use to bulk up. Their expressions are hostile. To enter the park, you must walk past a line of them as they closely peruse you. And these are just the uniformed cops. Who knows how many plainclothes are milling about.

For all of its symbolic power, Zuccotti Park is the tip of a potential national upheaval. Kids across the country are Occupying. As we saw at UC Davis, they're putting their bodies on the line, learning to defend themselves without violence.

You have to be truly cynical to doubt the courage of kids willing to be pepper sprayed at pointblank range by a uniformed thug. To mock a collective strategy that put cops on their heels without a single rock thrown.

Something good is happening. It's too early for specifics, but a general definition is taking shape. Again, age and experience warn me against optimism. But I do want them to win something. To inject their determination into the larger culture. We sure as fuck can use it.

Meantime, New York's finest march in lockstep. NYC cops have always been a law unto themselves. But since 9/11 they've added many new toys and tactics to their Robo arsenal.

The city feels increasingly authoritarian. Preventing terror is the official excuse. Yet the monsters paraded are usually drips. The latest threat touted, Jose Pimentel, supposedly an Al-Qaeda sympathizer and would-be bomb maker, is meant to make New Yorkers thank Michael Bloomberg and Raymond Kelly for saving their lives.

For a captured terrorist mastermind, Pimentel's resume is pretty thin. Kelly concedes that Pimentel is a "lone wolf," which mutes the intended effect. Even the Feds had no interest in him. But the issue isn't self-defense -- it's systemic reinforcement.

In order to justify police state methods and laws, we have to see those deemed dangerous. Pimentel's rumpled appearance, brown skin, and unemployed status will scare those willing to be scared. But given the police apparatus that Pimentel was allegedly going to attack, his "threat" was at best negligible.

As ridiculous as Pimentel seems, his image feeds something darker. Rudy Giuliani gave Manhattan to the rich. Bloomberg is solidifying that control while expanding into other boroughs.

Protecting the city's One Percent is a well-stocked army of blue. Their stop-and-frisk policies, stopping non-white people on the street and searching them with no evidence or warrant, has become commonplace. That the vast majority are found to be innocent means little. Making people afraid is the goal. Reminding them who owns the city.

Sunday morning, I spent an hour in Penn Station for my train back to DC. It had been ages since I was last there, and the changes were alarming. Cops in flack jackets with detection dogs, stopping people at random, searching their luggage and pockets while the dogs sniffed at the edges.

A video celebrating this practice continually played in the waiting area. Over and over we were told to submit, obey and not talk unless spoken to. This was for our "protection." Any "suspicious" behavior would lead to arrest.

According to the NYPD, there have been 14 terror threats to the city since 9/11. A generous baker's dozen over a decade. How serious any of it was is open to speculation, but those aren't IRA-hitting-London numbers.

I'm sure that someone somewhere wants desperately to blow up something in NYC. Yet the cops aren't uprooting complex networks. If they were, we'd never hear the end of it (and their budgets would boom). This explains why suspects like Pimentel are made to be bigger than they are. And I'm guessing he wasn't arrested while waiting to board Amtrak's Northeast Regional.

The revealing thing is, Jose Pimentel doesn't frighten city elites. The non-violent kids in Zuccotti Park do. All that firepower aimed at young people linking arms, chanting, discussing, singing, looking to remake their world. So, who is it we must really fear?

Lucky Jim

2011-11-14T12:57:00.008-05:00

Few memoirs make me wistful about my life, but James Wolcott's did. I wasn't sure I could love NYC more than I do, but Jim deepened my affection.

Lucking Out: My Life Getting Down and Semi-Dirty in Seventies New York is an exploding time capsule, a torrent of images that can overwhelm you, even if you get the countless references. It's also an elegy to a lost literate time, when words could cut through rock and reshape landscapes.

It helps to have your story bracketed by Norman Mailer and Pauline Kael. Mailer put young Jim in a position to realize his potential. Kael gave Jim guided tours as his talent took form.

Kael figures most prominently in Lucking Out. The bohemian film critic who crashed the New Yorker had a serious effect on Jim. Kael not only inspired his criticism, she showed him the professional ropes, grooming Jim for the career he has since enjoyed.

His love and respect for her is evident and touching. In lesser hands, these memories might become maudlin. But Jim finds the right balance. At times he and Kael resemble a two-reel comedy team, a broken city serving as their Hal Roach lot. They trade wisecracks while walking into the horizon, engulfed by graffiti and sirens.

It's tempting, in this glass tower age, to romanticize Seventies New York. Yet Jim shows it wasn't all glorious grunge. The city was dirty, mean, cheap. Teen hookers on the West Side; bat-wielding gay bashers; Times Square's porn squalor before Disney's invasion. As crass as modern Manhattan has become, I know few denizens who'd return to the days when you literally ran for your life.

But it was in the danger zones where new forms flourished. From the broken glass and wasted lives of the Bowery emerged a music scene rivaled only by Forties be-bop (and later Eighties hip hop). Jim was on the ground floor, watching it cook.

Much has been written about CBGB's and the birth of punk. Documentaries share identical soundbites. The vinyl is worn. Jim injects fresh juice into the mix. His early embrace of Patti Smith remains a point of pride. His analysis of Television reminds us of how eclectic CBGB's truly was.

Ramones, Talking Heads, Dead Boys, and The Cramps also appear, with the B-52s making a cameo. Each band possessed a singular voice and style, born of necessity and lack of pressing commercialism. Outside, NYC was wild. Indoors, CBGB's matched its mood.

Jim's relative temperance kept his mind clear to record the proceedings. He's the anti-Lester Bangs, whom Jim not only knew, but once shared a love interest. Bangs' chemical appetite fueled his appreciations, which are fun to read, but are often bogged down by emotional overkill.

Jim surveyed the same terrain with a more forensic eye. Bangs may have moved at the speed of punk, yet it's Jim who precisely captured the moment. He evokes the smell, the sweat, the frenzied desire to create that defined CBGB's. It makes you hope that somewhere a bunch of weirdo kids are creating scenes of their own. In the corners. Far from the florescent glare.

Two chief emotions hit me while reading Lucking Out. One, Jim's open love of language. I first read him in the Village Voice. His book reviews for Esquire in the early-80s showed me what words can do. Sentences from his Vanity Fair column remain with me.

Lucking Out is the culmination of these various periods. Everything Jim has is laid out in this book. At least it seems that way. If he has additional stories, deeper memories, then I trust he's resting up for another round. As full as Lucking Out is, you sense that there's so much more he's not sharing. But that's the memoirist's privilege. We're at his retro mercy.

Lucking Out also stoked memories of my early NYC days. I was in junior high/high school when Jim roamed deserted streets. To me, New York was That Girl and The Odd Couple. Taxi Driver silenced those laugh tracks. Woody Allen forced me to improve my vocabulary. SNL inspired me to write urban comedy.

When I told my family I was moving to New York, they were stunned, convinced I'd be mugged and dead within a month. Had they seen the first building and neighborhood I lived in, their fears would've been justified.

Jim's memories of pre-gentrified Manhattan pretty much match my own. New York was still dangerous in 1982. There were neighborhoods you simply didn't walk through. Central Park after dark was for thrill seekers and lunatics. The subway looked as it did in films like The Warriors and Fame. But the alternative scene was more or less gone.

There was Ann Magnuson's Club 57, where I first performed in the city. There was Danceteria and the Pyramid Club. But the original bloom faded to hard core punk and early techno noise. Reagan era values spread, creating what became known as yuppies. I dated one. Weirdly enough, that was my initial scene. I fell into a crowd of rich white kids devoted to money and cocaine. I didn't stay long, but I saw where the city and country were headed.

Perhaps it was inevitable. How long would the rich allow their borough to rot and collapse? Especially when all that cheap housing could yield mega-real estate profits. At least there was a time when their indifference allowed for beautiful mutations.

James Wolcott cut his teeth among the mutants. Lucky him.

America's Game

2011-11-10T09:13:00.006-05:00

The Penn State rape scandal is mind blowing. In a culture of noise, idiocy, and violence, this might be somewhat muted, especially for younger people. But don't let that fog your eyes -- the Penn State story is big and bad. Very bad.

We're not just dealing with a twisted pedophile here. We see how deeply corporate sports corrupts those who profit from it. Penn State's program, under coaching legend Joe Paterno, was supposedly one of college football's jewels. They did things the Right Way. Paterno provided steady, inspired leadership. "Success With Honor" was their motto. Beneath it all, the raping of boys was allowed.

I've read some tortured defenses of Paterno on various sports sites, saying that he fulfilled his legal requirement by reporting to his superiors. But reporting what? Sexual misconduct of some kind in Penn State's sports facilities. Maybe Paterno didn't know how horrible it was. Maybe his source, Mike McQueary, current assistant coach, then a graduate assistant, didn't make it graphic enough for him. But something serious happened. Yet nothing was done.

If you receive information about sexual assault, regardless of how it's presented, and you're in a unique position of authority, does filing a simple report cover it? Paterno obviously thought so. His job was to win national championships, not police the showers for felonies. But if Joe Paterno wanted action taken, he'd doubtless get it. Again, it came down to, Not My Department, Not My Problem.

That it took the university to fire Paterno further proves his cluelessness. Saying that he'd retire at the end of this season was arrogance based on privilege. Think about it: in the midst of the biggest scandal in college sports, based on the rape of children, Paterno thought the next step was to prepare for Nebraska's defense. You can use his age, 84, as an excuse; but if Paterno's that out of it, then he shouldn't be coaching in the first place.

Of course, Paterno's not the only one culpable. McQueary did nothing. Athletic director Tim Curley and a vice president Gary Schultz did nothing. Former Paterno assistant Jerry Sandusky apparently did something, as he is now charged with molesting eight boys over 15 years. Sandusky claims he's innocent. He'll have his day in court. But what must truly shock Sandusky is how Penn State's football apparatus failed to protect him for life. It's like you don't know who your friends are anymore.

Money is the only reason why Penn State football isn't shelved until further notice. How can those kids be allowed to play with this hanging over their helmets? The Penn State uniform is tarnished. And not in a traditional sense. Recruiting scandals are one thing. Paying players under the table is now expected. Covering for a serial rapist is new rancid ground.

Clearly, I picked the wrong time to write American Fan.

Soon

2011-11-06T10:57:00.007-05:00

Hey. Been in Michigan with my son. About to return to my new home in DC. Will be back soon with delicate takes on our beautiful society. Until then, here's a head's up on my next gig, courtesy of Barry Crimmins. More on this later. Aloha.

Walls Stripped Bare

2011-11-01T10:58:00.001-04:00

Sitting in carved out ruins. I once lived among them. Ages ago. Drank, laughed, fucked, fought here. Busted my back, broke my fingers here. Saw children grow. Watched love leave.

How many lives have we lost? Sense memory points to a few, but most go missing. Dead moments emerge in scent and taste. Crumble. Fade.

The present is merciless. It has all the advantages. Knows every pressure point. Fighting it is foolish. You wear yourself out, then it smashes your face. Another moment you'll eventually forget.

I wonder if I really knew her. Photos offer no justice. I look as lost as time. She looked better. Smiled more easily. I couldn't relax. I doubt she could either, but she hid it better. Sometimes I went by her photos instead of her touch. Softer focus. Longer fuse.

There were fights. Real go-rounds. I learned from my parents and related adults. Back when people hit each other without getting arrested. Back when screaming and cursing were expected.

She didn't have my training and it showed. An area where I felt in control. But she developed some moves. Used them well. She was the only woman other than my mother to punch me. A warm sting. Like old times.

I knew her as well as I could. Ghosts surrounded her. Fear choked me off. It's remarkable how well we got along when we did. Yet storms always loomed. A question of time before the next downpour.

No matter how awful it got, I desired her. The crazier, the hotter. There were other feelings, sure. But the arousal I found in punishment remains strongest.

Now it's gone. Empty shelves that once held my books. Another man's shirt on a chair. Different food in the fridge. An overall energy shift.

The neighborhood is as boring and provincial as ever. That I won't miss. Photos cover the rest. When the kids were young. Before the gray grew in. When the life we shared was all we knew. Smiles among the flames.

(Image by Kumi Yamashita)

Freedom Fire Zones

2011-10-27T11:40:00.013-04:00

Oakland's finest flipped with brutal flair. To be expected. The Occupy movement tests our owners' patience. Occupiers not only dig in for a long haul, awareness and desires expanding, they're making the political system look bad.

Official tears shed for Arab demonstrators now seem cynical. Well, to those who took it seriously. Double standards are an American constant. Endorsed by God. Consecrated by the Founders.

Whichever Oakland cop shot Scott Olsen in the head with a "police projectile" didn't help matters. A 24-year-old Marine vet who served two tours in Iraq joined Occupy and got a fractured skull and swollen brain for his trouble.

Olsen lies in critical condition, courtesy of an American police officer, not an Iraqi insurgent. Bad PR for the One Percent. Not that they can't move past it. If you can beautify Pat Tillman's demise, Olsen should be a cinch. To the degree that anyone of any importance cares.

Our owners and their mouthpieces clearly want Occupy to wither and die ASAP. Fun's fun, but this democracy crap is getting dragged out. Some liberal scribes profess admiration for Occupy, explaining the kids to their peers. Yet hostility is the reigning reaction.

What happens should Occupy continue as Obama is renominated? Do the Democrats make a last-ditch effort to corral them? Or does Obama go Hubert Humphrey, lecturing protesters about civility, manners, and duty? That Obama is running as a war incumbent offers a clue, but events are in serious flux. His handlers may prove inventive, though I doubt it. Power is its own campaign pitch.

At least Humphrey had New Deal ties, regardless of his pro-war stance. Obama has zero connection to social justice. His expansion of police state surveillance puts Nixon to shame. His reliance on drone assaults and targeted assassination makes George W. Bush resemble the frat boy caricature that long nourished liberal detractors.

Still, most liberals I hear and read pledge some kind of allegiance to Obama. Many don't see the disjunction of sympathizing with Occupy while touting Obama for reelection. Obama relied on the One Percent the first time around. He's even deeper with that crowd now. The picture is plain. The rest is projection and partisan interpretation.

Some Obama supporters I've spoken to have dropped all pretense about HOPE and CHANGE. Their New Obama is an Alpha Leader, a skilled assassin, a savage mule. Don't fuck with Barack! The dissolution of progressive fantasies about Obama has been steady and in places swift. His true face revealed. Loyalists are left with either denial or embracement. This accounts for their hostile, defensive tone.

It also means that, like former lib fave John McCain, Mitt Romney will be painted as a Tea Party fascist forcing women to have unwanted babies, when not lynching Black people on weekends. That Mitt and Barack are corporatists serving the same interests confuses those who require more dramatic scenarios.

Not since the Gore/Bush -- Cheney/Lieberman "debates" has a possible pairing epitomized our fixed system. I used to think it was an elite way of saying Fuck You. But again, this assumes that elites give a shit about how we view their world.

Scott Olsen's injury shows whose interests he served in Iraq. I'm sure he once considered it a patriotic duty, a form of Homeland defense. His joining Iraq Veterans Against the War denotes a change in perspective. His joining the Occupy movement demonstrates engagement with genuine democratic forces.

Keith Shannon, a fellow Iraq vet, said, “Scott was marching with the 99% because he felt corporations and banks had too much control over our government, and that they weren’t being held accountable for their role in the economic downturn, which caused so many people to lose their jobs and their homes."

When you march with the 99%, you've tipped your hand. You are, as Chomsky once noted, the domestic enemy. Tear gas, rubber bullets, truncheons, and sonic cannons (field tested on Iraqis) are your citizen badges.

The One Percent are in it for the duration. Matching their tenacity without succumbing to their brutality remains an ongoing, vital test.

A Creeping Wreck

2011-10-21T10:14:00.010-04:00

There are times when a political commentator gig seems worse than useless. This is one.

Take Qaddafi. His execution stokes typical American manias, most prominently self-righteousness and revisionism. Resisting the main torrent is exhausting and distracting enough. Making counterarguments in the face of flying bullshit requires patience and strength, two qualities largely absent in our discourse.

I couldn't do it -- well, I could, but man, what a waste of energy.

Perhaps it's a younger person's game. I enjoyed tweaking blowhards back in the day. It was fun. The confused expressions I'd receive made me laugh. Calling John McLaughlin a loud shill to his face, on his show, into his cameras remains a satisfying moment. McLaughlin stumbled over his text for a beat. I don't think anyone had spoken to him like that. He froze me out for the rest of the show, snubbed me afterward and never invited me back. Like I gave a shit.

There were many others. Mostly on panels. I felt I had nothing to lose. I also thought I was telling the truth. As close as I could get, anyway. I was considered extreme, unserious, crazy, conspiratorial. Reactionaries sputtered when I trashed Reagan and Bush. Liberals shouted when I trashed the Clintons and even John McCain (who once was a liberal hero). None of it bothered me. It became a challenge. Nothing serious, but a form of exercise nonetheless.

I can't imagine doing it now. The information system is stacked against alternative views. You need to be either a masochist or egotist to engage it. And to what end? Average people don't watch political chat shows. The educated class is too indoctrinated to consider heretical arguments. Professional clowns are there to make noise and wave flags. Political lunacy is so mainstream that someone like me would sound like the real lunatic. Potentially fun, yes; but again, only if I were younger.

The Qaddafi death circus lacks the heat of Bin Laden's murder rave. But some sizzle exists. Tyrant though he was, Qaddafi was nothing like the global monster portrayed in popular fiction. It's comic how inflated his reputation became. The real story, where Qaddafi essentially danced to the neoliberal tune, serves no official interest.

Like so many before him, Qaddafi was an imperial speed bag. To be pummeled when needed. Qaddafi helped in his own demise. His personal flamboyance owed more to Siegfried and Roy than Mussolini. His violations of human rights were rewarded and played down until he had to be Hitler again. Then he was the worst ruler on the planet. Beyond civilized norms. A mad dog loose among peaceful nations. There's only one way that narrative ends. As we've seen.

A nagging concern must be, Who do we get to replace Qaddafi? Not in geopolitical terms, but as a propaganda savage. Syria's Assad seems like the next target, though that would be a tougher production.

Despite official hostility, Syria and Israel have sought to normalize relations. Overthrowing Assad's regime would lead to regional instability, something I doubt Israel desires. But who the fuck knows. Once crazy is released, it quickly morphs into something deadlier. Especially when it's continually fed.

Qaddafi's straitjacket doesn't quite fit Iran's Ahmadinejad, yet tailoring continues. The most recent effort, a Master Plan employing Mexican drug cartels to whack a Saudi ambassador, was inspired. I'm not sure who the target audience for that was, but its creators committed to the premise.

It was reminiscent of the Soviet MiG scare in Nicaragua. More closely, the fabled Libyan hit squads that roamed Washington, DC, somehow undetected, but armed and ready for action. (This was dramatized in the popular science film, Back To The Future.) When does Iran ditch its surrogates and sends its own hit squads stateside? I'm sure we'll be the first to know.

Rinse Cycle

2011-10-19T12:32:00.005-04:00

Two dykes scream then kiss. A beautiful sight. Not as voyeurism, but as a healing example. Follow the dykes. We'll live better.

Younger women feel colder to me. Granted, they're not looking my way. If they were, I wouldn't look back. I've had enough freaks in my life. Still, they seem glazed. Stares, pouts, postures. Skin tight but false.

Perhaps it's dimensional. Some Nijinsky cubist barrier. Anonymity allows for perusal. But they're worlds away.

Women my age remind me of my age. Can't complain. We share the same tongue. Cultural baggage. Our separate wing of the madhouse.

I find many of them beautiful. They made the transition. Others are like me -- vain, insecure, overcompensating. I should like them but don't. We're mutual imposters.

Drinking dims the glare somewhat. You alight but most often crash. A dull thud. Boring as porn.

My ancestors hit it hard. As have I. Their legacy's in my gut. Our minds grilled over time.

I see them in darker corners. Blended shadow smiles. They are less daring in retrospect. Late laughter drinks pissed away.

I've entered their time. Quieter than I imagined, but comfortable enough. This will change. We don't exit mellowly. Wild eyes, kicks, punches at air. Tension explodes near the grave.

It has nothing to do with toughness. We simply grab what we can on the way out. One more touch. A final taste. Everything expended before nothing consumes us. An unspoken joke cutting clean.

There are worse fates. I've read about a few.

The Long Run

2011-10-15T13:40:00.019-04:00

The Matrix is a system, Neo. That system is our enemy. But when you're inside, you look around, what do you see? Businessmen, teachers, lawyers, carpenters. The very minds of the people we are trying to save.

But until we do, these people are still a part of that system, and that makes them our enemy. You have to understand, most of these people are not ready to be unplugged. And many of them are so inured, so hopelessly dependent on the system, that they will fight to protect it.

Like Arthur Jensen's the-world-is-a-corporation speech in Network, Morpheus' observation was prophetic. Increasing numbers of people question the system that owns us. Some are tentative, curious. Others want direct confrontation. Most desire relief from uncertainty. It's still early and in flux. But it's happening.

Reaction has been predictable. Right wing megaphones drone about socialist threats. Commentators condescend, even when trying to "get" what the kids are doing.

On Bill Maher's Real Time, P.J. O'Rourke, who's played a conservative curmudgeon since his late-20s, finally acted his age, denouncing Wall Street protesters as unwashed bongo drummers who need haircuts. Former SNL cast member Victoria Jackson peppered protesters with inane questions -- a wince-inducing Michael Moore impression.

Overall, the consensus is: How much longer does this go on? When will these people go away?

I wonder about that, too. And I support the Occupiers. It helps that the protests attract military personnel, union workers, average people fed up with the status quo. This can only widen and deepen resistance. But where does it lead? What's the next stage?

Naturally, the Democrats try to usher protesters into their tent, co-optation their prized tactic. So far this has failed. Obama represents the owners, forcing his apologists to strain reality on the run. As the election nears, a good number of those bashing Wall Street will vote for its favored candidate.

Someone like Rick Perry will make this easier to swallow. But if Mitt Romney gets the nod, attempts to separate Obama from his GOP reflection may prove comic indeed (especially after the news that Romney's advisers helped Obama craft his health care "reform"). The key is that current momentum isn't lost amid partisan noise.

As many of my political friends have noted, it's stirring to see anti-corporate arguments becoming mainstream. For those who spent decades shouting from the margins, this upturn in consciousness made it all worthwhile.

And this is just in the States. Global awareness and action grows by the hour. Elites are nervous, but remain secure. There are countless millions who accept the system as it is, or feel too powerless to confront it. The latter have examples to inspire and follow. The former spin excuses for those indifferent to their lives. These people may be the hardest to reach.

Friend Jon Schwarz found tragic comedy in this. The 53 Percenters claim comfort in the Matrix. Inevitable. Thinking beyond immediate conditions takes effort when you're boxed in. Acting on desire instead of obedience requires leaps most people fear to make. Changing the world isn't easy. Or safe. Or necessarily probable. But the current system guarantees alienation and downward mobility.

The 53 Percenters acknowledge this, yet celebrate it as a virtue. To unplug is to realize that the spectacle is a lie. Welcome to the real world.

Little Time Bombs

2011-10-11T15:27:00.007-04:00

The ocean offers some answers. Cool water. Swirling sand. Big splashes against rocks. Salty mist. Growing up in Indiana made oceans exotic. I still feel childlike when walking a beach. Venice is a touch chaotic, its boardwalk vaudeville for tourists. But a glance at tall palms soothes me. Head clear. Mind at rest.

Sure as fuck beats that Ann Arbor hotel room. My three week bender about did me in. Hanging on to a life that no longer exists.

My son released me. Penned a letter telling me to go. His basic raising is done. He wants to move to the next stage. This includes his dad getting back into the world. So here I am, getting back into it.

Don't know if I'll ever move to LA, but I could do well here. There are plenty of spaces for me to read in and perform. Gave another reading at Ron Lynch's Tomorrow! Saturday night. Not as vibrant as the last time. Reading a parody of 9/11 manias pretty much silenced the audience. A few chuckles, but mostly stares. Friends told me that the crowd was rapt. Maybe so. I couldn't see past the front row. Read into the harsh stage lights. Dove directly into the seats.

Everyone that night worked the audience. What Barry Crimmins calls re-inflating a leaking beach ball. What's different than most rooms was Ron's reaction. He kept it smart. Didn't surrender to cheap bits. Brought the audience to him. It helped to have Chris Walsh and The Doorknockers on hand. There's no fourth, fifth or sixth wall when these guys perform. Whenever I'm around this kind of energy, I believe in comedy again.

After the show, Chris, Doorknocker Davey Johnson and I had a nice chat about the humor biz. Both are thoughtful, precise. Chris is especially analytical. Onstage he slices metal. Offstage, he's soft spoken. He and brother David are regulars at Upright Citizens Brigade, among other outlets. They are well-regarded in the LA scene. Not an ounce of cynicism or jadedness. Their performances are infectious, odd, funny. Where they'll end up is anyone's guess. But they'll emerge at some point. Sooner than later.

Not that LA is completely inspiring. The entertainment machine is everywhere. You hear its hum when talking to its employees. My friend Eric knows that sound well. A former comic book writer turned screen scribe and script doctor, Eric has stories. Entertaining, horrifying stories. Nothing that would surprise you. Still, it's amazing what people in the business are capable of. What they'll do without blinking.

Over lunch, I said to Eric that at least Hollywood doesn't bomb and occupy other countries. "Not yet," he replied.

Eric reminds me of my old friend Mark. When in LA in my twenties, Mark showed me Hollywood's fringe. Old theaters. Deserted movie lots. Locations where legends worked. Mark's deep knowledge of film history gave these places life.

Eric's similar. After lunch, he pointed in directions where Laurel and Hardy and Buster Keaton filmed. Knew exact locations for each project. Of course then Hollywood was more of a cow town. Laurel and Hardy filmed amid suburbanites driving or walking past their cameras. You can still see those ghosts in shorts like Hog Wild. Going about their business. Walking past giants they didn't see.

Think I'll go walk in their wake. If I spot two guys in baggy pants and derby hats falling off a roof, I'll know to keep walking. Mustn't ruin a take. We all have our places.

Wall Street Story: A Brief History

2011-10-05T11:37:00.004-04:00

Early traders dealt in limited commodities, so any emerging market was seized upon. A bull market in ocean floor bacteria led to this trading frenzy, establishing the term "liquid asset."

But the smart players sought fresh opportunities. Young J.P. Morgan discovered dry land, envisioning factories and regal summer homes, ushering in The Gill Dead Age.

As increasing areas of dry land became industrialized, a new breed of traders and investors evolved. The American Dream had arrived.

Yet mega-profits led to complacency, blinding investors to possible dangers on the horizon.

After the crash, the economy stagnated for centuries, luring traders into money pits where many lost more than their shirts.

Eventually, the economy stabilized, releasing the innovative energy of American business leaders.

Some protested what they viewed as corporate "theft," but posed no threat to the status quo.

Mergers and consolidations streamlined the workforce, imposing fiscal discipline that attracted new investors.

Today, traders engage new challenges, making us the envy of the modern world.

Caught In A Riptide

2011-10-04T11:09:00.005-04:00

Looks like young Alvy Singer was right.

Three scientists, Saul Perlmutter, Brian Schmidt, and Adam Riess, won the Nobel Prize in physics for confirming young Alvy's fear: the universe is expanding at an accelerated rate. According to their research, everything that is known will be covered in ice. As Charles Blue of the American Institute of Physics put it, the universe will become "a very, very large, but very cold and lonely place."

I thought that was already the case. The upside is that reruns of The Big Bang Theory will not contaminate alien cultures. Stay positive kids!

If the universe eventually does explode like Monty Python's Mr. Creosote, we should find comfort in the here and now. Well, maybe shelter. Some kind of covering. Ideally with a hard surface. Because those who own this planet are ripe for counterattack.

As increasing numbers of people wake up to and resist political and economic tyranny, our owners will get increasingly antsy. And nervous people with power tend to be very dangerous. They'll try to contain and rollback resistance with minimum force -- for budgetary reasons, mainly. But when they feel their privilege being threatened, watch out. They will not go down without a fight. We have the numbers. They have the weapons.

This is not meant as discouragement. I like the upbeat tone from the growing Occupy movement. It's essential. Just remember that however festive you feel, boots are set to crush your flowers. There will be defeats. Set backs. Elites didn't create militarized police to write tickets. Class war from above is still being waged. Slowing it while exposing it to others is the present task.

Or so says this old man. Movements can have effects. The Central American solidarity movement had many successes, despite the slaughter in that region. It certainly helped prevent a US invasion of Nicaragua. It helped make the Iran/contra scandal happen. Reagan's presidency took a hit, though the state regained its balance. Now we're going after the entire economic system. A much bigger job. But a necessary one.

Like the universe, human energy expands. We know which direction bankers want it to go. Let's keep them from reaching the breaking point.

AND: I'm planning to check out Occupy DC's action this Thursday. More later.

Edge Of No Escape

2011-09-29T11:32:00.008-04:00

A well-read citizen is an informed citizen. I used to believe that. Being self-educated, I read everything I could. This really began in the Army. My base library was amazingly well-stocked. Diverse. I first read Paul Krassner there. A local punk clothing shop carried the Village Voice. That's when I discovered Alexander Cockburn and James Wolcott.

I even read The Militant, the SWP's main organ. Their headlines -- US HANDS OFF NICARAGUA! -- seemed ballsy to someone raised in a conservative environment. I balanced this by reading the Indianapolis Star, at that time one of the most reactionary papers in the country. I created a character, David Standifer, who wrote letters attacking the Star from the extreme right. Not only were these published, they often were the featured letter.

When I worked for FAIR, my reading accelerated. Four major papers daily. All the news magazines weekly. Liberal opinion mags. Most of the right wing, including Human Events and Policy Review.

Plus, I practically camped out at the New York Pubic Library's periodical wing on 40th Street. Read The New Freeman from the 30's. Partisan Review from the 40's. National Review from the 50's. The Nation from the 60's. Commentary from the 70's. Ramparts. New Republic. Mencken's American Mercury. I soaked it all in.

Now I wonder why. Most political commentary is insulting. The level of writing an embarrassment. The Web is responsible for much of this. Instant access to any audience has made people lazy, careless, sloppy. Semi-formed thoughts clog the tubes. Ignorance is a sign of authenticity. And this from those who make or try to make a living as pundits/experts. Comment threads are a sorrier story.

I've ranted about this before. Yet I still read them. I know that a vast number of Americans are uninformed, but their comments continually surprise me. I suppose we all need an area where surprise still occurs. Especially as we age. For me, at least for now, online comment threads serve that purpose.

Examples abound. Anything to do with war, race, or sex guarantees mad opinions. Immigration issues bring out the fascists. Politics are largely partisan. Boring tit-for-tats. People argue as if there are two distinct political realities. And only two. Larger pictures tend to confuse or anger them. But you'd think that unemployment and poverty would generate a sense of common concern.

HA!

The news story is sad enough. But look at the comments. The lunacy is generally reactionary-based. Defenses of Obama and Bill Clinton appear. Mostly wishful thinking and nostalgic gloss. But it's the self-professed patriots who bellow loudest.

This should please our owners. They wage class war on us, and people attack each other. Blame the powerless for their problems. Depoliticizing the populace has paid off -- for the One Percent. All those years busting unions, shifting labor to overseas sweat shops, and underfunding pubic education worked. Corporate ownership of the media makes it all seem perfectly natural. Only a nut would attack our envied way of life.

This is why Occupy Wall Street is important. People are pushing back. Madison wasn't an anomaly: it was the opening bell. How far this goes is unknown. Our rulers are banking on continued ignorance and disinterest to stem this active tide. That may well happen. But it won't work for long. More and more people are going under. Survival is a basic instinct. The question is, how much fight do we have in us?

ALSO: Friends Liza Featherstone and Doug Henwood ponder Occupation as well.

Time Never Tells

2011-09-27T11:50:00.004-04:00

Wall Street remains occupied. By capital. The dissident children were easily, roughly swept aside. Their hearts are in a good place. Their bodies a minor nuisance. They'll stream back to prove their resolve. And they'll get pepper sprayed and beaten down again. And again. However many times it takes. Capital is patient. But it does have limits.

I admire these kids. They're off their asses. Agitating. Arguing. Providing a living example. There's passion and feeling in their dissent. They're willing to be punished. It's easy to mock them, but how many of you would take their place? Primarily when the cops attack?

Corporate media dismisses them. The New York Times is especially snide and condescending. The Times and others of their class despise democracy. Demonstrations count only in official enemy states. At home, it's unnecessary. Petulant. Naive.

How serious can these kids really be? They use laptops and iPhones to communicate and spread their message. If they were truly radical, they'd use cardboard megaphones. Hand signs. Smoke signals. Using The Man's technology is hypocritical.

Our owners fear any rustling from below. They'll throw whatever they have at those unsatisfied with our paradise. There are signs that the Wall Street protests will expand nationally. If so, get ready for serious shit slinging.

Yet I have doubts. The class war from above demoralizes as much as it incites. Countless people have surrendered. Faded from view. To demonstrate or occupy corporate turf doesn't seem like a wise option. You'll get beaten and arrested. For what? Making mortgage payments is tough enough.

This part of Michigan was once militant. From organized labor to student agitation. Now there's nothing. Shop after shop goes under. Strip malls abandoned. Legalized loan shark parlors spread. Dollar stores hang on. Parking lots riots of weeds. Roads in serious disrepair. Those with jobs feel lucky to be employed. Everyone else is on their own. A general resignation prevails. Life limps by.

After 12 years in Michigan, I'm finally moving on. Back to the east coast. To DC. One kid's an adult and living on her own. My son is well into high school. I'm no longer married. The only work I can get here is janitorial. Part time. And I'm done with that world. It bettered me. Humbled me. Made me understand. But it's over. The Belly of the Beast awaits.

I'll fill in the blanks soon. Until then, much love. And if you can help, you know the drill. Peach out.

Soul Bellow

2011-09-23T18:34:00.003-04:00

God that's awful. Apologies. Anyway, here's me reading at Ron Lynch's Tomorrow show in LA. March 12, 2011. David Higgins co-hosted. Both had impeccable manners. Bless 'em.

Tweedle Dope

2011-09-21T10:59:00.002-04:00

Hi all. Working on the usual things. I plan to post more about various topics. Depends on objective reality and my level of pain and/or interest. But you need not wait for a post to see what's on my mind. If you don't already, please follow my Twitter feed for daily affirmations. It's kinda 140 via 4/20. Or 80 proof.

Daily Prayer

2011-09-20T08:00:00.004-04:00

Best way to cultivate
satirists --
shower them in awards
pamper them with praise
celebrate their insights.

When a system based
on sensation and lies,
justifying theft
celebrating death
elevating fools
tells you that you've
stripped it bare
made it bleed,
say goodnight.

You're tucked in
safe warm snug
until the next clown
arrives.

Make as much
money as you
can before you
receive your
Mark Twain award.

And always
keep 'em laughing.

Deadly As Life

2011-09-18T09:36:00.008-04:00

Her screams finally stopped. Nothing dire from the sound of it. Maybe sex. Stubbed toe. Anger. Not that I would or could protest. In this joint, minding your business is the safest option.

The guy she's with hacks a lot. Deep bass coughs. They make a grumbling racket. Booms on the floor. Hitting walls. Slamming doors.

If they were permanent, we'd have a problem. But like me they're passing through. Transitory. You can trash these rooms and never leave a mark. New day, new ghosts.

Mornings before dawn, cop or ambulance lights flash in the lot. Some people are always in trouble. Many end up here.

I wonder when my turn will come. When my liver bursts. My heart explodes. My isolation drives me to destructive stupidity. Stay here long enough and your number gets called. A deli of pain. Rotting meat under dim yellow light.

I should be grateful. I have time to finish this manuscript. Too much fucking time. Every hour of work, the fear roars back. My life's been defined by fear. The emotion I know best.

Tracing its origins is difficult. Impossible to find a starting point. My teen parents were afraid before I was sentient. As their first born, I inherited their fear. Made it mine. We've run around and away from each other ever since.

I better understand my parents through this project, yet feel further away. Anger is now empathy. Hatred mere sadness. No blame. No grudge. Little remorse. Forgiveness helps. Letting go even more.

Late night hotel silence. Scent of desperate people. Scrawl, drink, smoke. Dig so far into your mind that another reality emerges. Being broke strips away useless noise. But failure frees you only so much.

All that is left is me. Aging, emotional, frantic. Tender, too. But not crazy. I've seen crazy point blank. Been attacked by it. In the madhouse. As a teen. I've used the word carelessly, but know its true range. Crazy is for those who don't know what crazy is.

Fear remains the vital nerve. I've wrestled with it. Broken parts of it down. Turned some of it to my brief advantage. Fear haunts and fuels this project. Until I finish this, everything else is pantomime.

Back to the notebooks. Maybe someday you'll read them.

Remembering

2011-09-12T17:54:00.013-04:00

Walked down my suburban street, looking for suspicious activity. The government warned about possible terror threats, and I believed them. The government wouldn't lie about something so dangerous. Especially on 9/11: Year 10. That would be callous. Manipulative. Our crusade can't afford such distractions. So I kept my eyes peeled.

Most homes complied with the patriotic code. Flags at half-staff. Star spangled ribbon magnets on SUVs and minivans. One home's front door was open. I saw two young kids watching the Twin Towers burn and collapse over and over again.

Good. They probably weren't born when Freedom fell under attack, so drilling those images into their tender minds is important. When they turn 18 and join the military, they'll know what they're avenging.

Then I came to the Trouble House. I never liked this place. I don't like the way they mow their lawn. I don't like their curtains. I don't like that boat in their driveway. They never use it. It just sits there.

Maybe they're waiting for a flood. Smart move, but they'll probably let the rest of us drown. Laugh between swigs of imported beer as we claw at the boat's basin. That's the kind of people they are. I haven't met or talked to them, so I could be wrong. But I rarely am, especially when it comes to national security.

Today they tipped their hand. Drunk on imported beer, contemptuous of Year 10, they flew their flag at full-staff. Old Glory riding high for all to see. The flag flapped confidently in the breeze, top of the pole as if it was top of the world. I was tempted to blame the flag, but reason intervened.

It wasn't the flag's fault. In its heart it knows it should be at half-staff, yet it couldn't help itself. Once a flag runs up a pole, instinct takes over. It must reach the top and flap away. Like a salmon trying to spawn while being eaten by a bear groggy from a conservationist's drug dart. That's nature.

No, the owners were to blame. I marched to their front door, knees high, arms waving. Rang the doorbell. The guy opened and stared at me.

"Yes?"

He wiped dark grease from his hands. What was he working on? It wasn't the boat. Never the boat. It was something else. Something with grease.

"Happy 9/11. May I have a word?"

He shrugged his shoulders. I guess in his world that meant yes. Or maybe it meant Get off my porch before I wipe grease on you. I gambled and bet it meant yes.

"Sir, do you know what today is?"

He smiled. "Sure. Sunday."

Oh, we were going to play that game. Okay, boat boy. Bring it.

"No sir. It's 9/11: Year 10."

"Of course. Yes. What a tragedy."

Clever. Very clever. But too clever. It's like he wanted to get caught.

"I noticed that your flag is at full-staff."

"Uh huh."

"Well, on 9/11, all flags must be at half-staff."

He seemed irked. His grease wiping intensified.

"I love my country. I love that flag. It flies at full-staff no matter what."

I braced for an attack. One thing I learned since 9/11 was to always be ready for an attack.

A moment or two passed. He was bluffing. Lucky for him. I got off my knees, pulled my shirt down from over my head and stopped sobbing.

"Look," he said, "I appreciate your concern. But this is my house. You fly your flag your way. I'll fly mine my way."

He closed the door.

I considered reporting him to Homeland Security, but they have enough potential terrorism to stop. This was strictly my move.

I pondered my alternatives. But pondering can lead to paralysis. That's another thing I learned from 9/11 -- don't think too much. At some point, action is required.

I found a chunk of broken concrete. Throw this through his front window and he'd learn that Freedom isn't free. Replacing that window would cost at least a few hundred bucks. But that lesson would be temporary. I needed to make a lasting statement.

I squeezed out most of the dump before he spotted me. Taking a shit on his boat showed that no one is safe. As he chased me down the street, I felt a surge of pride. Then I cut across the playground and jumped a fence, holding up my falling pants.

He never caught me. Destiny had something to do with it, but hiding in a drainage ditch until dark helped too.

Excuse Please

2011-09-07T11:03:00.002-04:00

For those who have chipped in, no need to read further. You've helped me stay afloat. Thank you. Now return to your crazy lives before I get mushy and start kissing on you.

For everyone else predisposed, any contribution to the effort is appreciated. I'm in rootless cosmopolitan mode. Living hotel room to hotel room. Cheap joints right out of Twin Peaks, but not Wild At Heart. I have a limit to certain David Lynch interiors. And if I see anyone who resembles Willem Dafoe, I'm sleeping in my car.

Anyway, thanks in advance. I have a few copies of my books I can sign and mail in return. Or I can give you a walk-on role in my newest effort. It's a period piece. When pants, lapels, and neckties widened. When Johnny Carson and Buddy Hackett grew their hair. Let PayPal be your time machine. I'll try to keep you away from family gatherings.

Killing Fields Forever

2011-09-06T07:32:00.014-04:00

"I love this country. I hate it. I get angry at it. I feel close to it. I'm charmed by it. I'm repelled by it."
Norman Mailer

"The one generalization which is true about America is that everything is true about it. It's impossible to say anything that isn't true, good or bad. Our enemies are right. Our friends are right."
Orson Welles

"I love America with a passion. But this is a dark, screwed-up place, and anyone who doesn't think so is criminally insane or retarded . . . America was never innocent."
James Ellroy

ESPN lit the first fire. Makes sense. Corporate sports are spectacle. Part of the spectacle is to sell obedience. To our betters. To the state. To the flag. The tenth anniversary of the 9/11 attacks encompasses this and more. Not that a heavy pitch is needed. Show the Towers crumbling and Americans are sold. Again and again.

ESPN has been running stories about sports as a healing balm. Discussions about its importance. Corporate diversion as medicine show. There's an element of truth to it. The best propaganda uses obvious truths. People crave inclusion. Desire love. Want to be on winning teams. The shock of 9/11 fed this need. Deepened it. Bent it in ways that remain evident.

Celebrations over Bin Laden's murder showed how bent many Americans remain since 9/11. If anything, we're uglier. Pettier. More desperate to prove our righteousness.

Killing Bin Laden had little to do with justice or revenge. It was about American primacy. The idea that a Muslim in a cave fucked with us rankled millions. What God-driven kick-ass nation tolerates this? That Bin Laden was wasting away meant nothing. We had to smear his blood on our foreheads to feel whole again.

But that was a false feeling. A nationalist crank high. Bin Laden's death didn't improve American reality. It was a media event. A state sacrifice. Watching people dance in the streets must have warmed our owners' hearts. Any release of popular hatred not aimed at them is a plus.

As horrific as 9/11 was, the class war that followed is much worse. Our owners don't need to fly planes into buildings to destroy lives. Just drain local economies and let them die. Physical, emotional, and psychic wreckage surround us. It's piling up. There are protests here and there, but nothing serious. Nothing that cuts into the fabric.

Poor people in a depressed area applauded a president who days before further strengthened corporate rule. Obama's re-election stunt in Detroit shows he'll face little populist resistance. Only those devoted to increased corporate power wish to see him go.

To say we are twisted is polite. We are fucked in the head. It's remarkable that our skulls aren't exploding.

Years ago I was asked what I thought of 9/11. Instant mass murder. Terror. Insanity. Sacrifice. Sadness. The obvious impressions. Then I said I was surprised it didn't happen earlier. We were long overdue for violent retaliation.

My questioner balked at this. America "deserved" to be attacked? No -- it was a simple matter of physics. Every action has an equal and opposite reaction. All the violence we've unleashed on the world was bound to come back to us. It was only a matter of time.

The crucial difference is that our better victims wouldn't think of such a thing. The Vietnamese and the Nicaraguans had plenty of justifications for attacking American turf. But they didn't. No car bombs. No hijacked planes. No burning, collapsing skyscrapers. It took clerical fascists to do that. Cousins of our "freedom fighting" friends from once upon a time. It's said that water seeks its own level. Blood is certainly no different.

Maybe Mohamed Atta and company didn't care about the attacks beyond their perceived martyrdom. But they pushed an American button that led to a decade of violence, torture, lies, corruption, theft, and numerous war crimes.

Our reaction proved them largely right about our hypocrisy. Our concern only for American lives. Like them, we seek religious meaning in massive suffering. The Twin Towers have become the national crucifix. A symbol of pretend innocence. A marker for future crusades.

The 9/11 terrorists fueled the needs of American sensation. A lasting contribution to our vocabulary. An indelible piece of our collective identity. Without them, there is no current us. That's the true legacy of that awful day.

Leisurely Check Out Time

2011-09-01T10:30:00.011-04:00

Looking at the bank I once cleaned. Three stories. Five nights a week for six months. A solo gig.

Banks are among the worst places to clean. Bathrooms especially. It's amazing how awful they can be. Piss on the floor. Shit smeared on the seat. Used toilet paper crammed in trash bins. Bloody tampons spilling out of dispensers. Soiled diapers. People on bank business really let it go. Maybe it's payback. Maybe they don't care.

This bank's bathrooms were pretty bad. The employee break room as well. Garbage shoved into overflowing cans. Soda and coffee splashed on the wall. Half-eaten fast food on the floor and counters. I usually started here. Get the worst out of the way. Cleaning this night after night coarsened me. I hated people I never met. I had yet to develop empathy for those just as trapped as me.

The tellers' area was a sea of crumpled paper. Their trash cans also spilled over. I had to segregate official garbage from crusty wrappers. Customer account numbers and balance statements went in a locked dumpster. A co-worker at another bank was fired for not doing this. Part of me pined for dismissal. But I had to help feed my kids. So I dutifully segregated.

It's night. The bank's lights are on. A lone pick up truck near the side entrance. Some poor soul is in there cleaning. An asshole perhaps. A drunk. Pill head. I've worked with them all. Some probably saw me as an asshole. Fair enough. But I never worked fucked up. I wanted to finish the job as quickly as possible. Once done, I'd take a few swigs from a pint. Sit on my car hood. Stare at the building like I'm staring at it now.

I'm tempted to walk over and peek inside. Just thinking about that place saddens me. My fingers stiff from years of mop handles and hauling trash. My arms bigger but sore every morning. Knees worn. My body reminds me what cleaning did to it. It has no interest in looking back. I lower the hotel room's shade. Pour myself a drink. Sit in the dark. Ponder what's next.

I haven't performed since March. Spent the summer writing. Digging, clawing, scratching it out. I'm not as far as I'd hoped. Some really good stuff. Fresh patterns of remembrance. But short of my stated goal. So the work continues. Wherever I happen to crash. Whenever I have the fuel to face myself.

I'd like to get back on stage soon. Just to riff. No bits or routines. A general premise then zoom. Off to the races.

A year of stage diving freed me. The tightness felt when I first returned gone. I'm even nostalgic for the Village Lantern. But only with Ray Combs as emcee. Ray's room crackled with various energies. It was never boring. Offensive, tasteless, amateurish, yes. But always interesting. Those were wild nights.

Louis C.K. recently featured the Lantern on his excellent FX show. Louie set the Lantern in deepest Brooklyn. His caustic friend, played by Doug Stanhope, drags Louie to where the "real" comics play.

That the Lantern is around the corner from the Comedy Cellar, Louie's home base, didn't diminish the segment. He accurately captured the Lantern's mood. Stray laughs. Loose deliveries. Scattered people murmuring throughout. It took me back to this Lantern set.

As I've said, this was a breakthrough for me. Save for the opening lines, everything was improvised. It was a rainy night. Small crowd. Every comic struggled. Even Ray.

I felt comfortable. In the flow. The ending joke surprised me. I have no idea where it came from. That's the beauty of improvisation -- a measure of your frantic mind. Well, mine anyway.

Even Numbers

2011-08-27T08:55:00.001-04:00

Twelfth Night canceled the rest of its run. One of its cast members was killed.

Henry phoned with the news. His cast mate Danny was driving in a storm. Had little road experience. Lost control and crashed. Dead at 17.

Henry was somber but stoic. He's never known someone who's died. And this kid was only two years older. He asked about how I've handled death.

Death's been around since my sister died in 1963. My best friend was killed by a drunk teen driver. Another friend was killed by a kid fucking around with a loaded handgun. My stepbrother's wife was murdered while pumping gas. There are the older relatives, of course. Grandparents. My Uncle Don. O'Donoghue's death stung me. Live and watch them peel away.

He asked about near-death experiences. I've only had one. Maybe one and a half. The semi-truck that nearly ripped me in two counts, I guess.

Henry was referring to the shotgun story. I was 20. At a wild party. A drunk acquaintance pulled me in his bedroom to see his new 12 gauge. He loaded it, laughing. Pointed it at my head. Said he was gonna kill me. Laughed some more. "Watch where you're waving that thing," I said.

I pushed the barrel aside. The gun fired. My left ear fuzzed out. I dropped to the floor. Bedroom window shattered. Neighbors yelled. Guys from the front room rushed in. One with a .38 drawn. I touched my face. Still intact. Intense ringing in my ear. The guy rolled on his bed. Rebel yelled. Smiled.

Henry laughs when I share this. Wonders why I hung out with such people. It was a long time ago, I say. Some of them went to prison. One guy I knew back then died about a year ago. Drug deal argument. Shotgun blast to his chest. I wasn't as friendly with him. He had cold crazy eyes. When told of his death, it made sense. Certain fates are inescapable.

Henry's youth isn't as chaotic as mine. I've helped ensure that. He'll face the harshness of life with better balance. Or so I hope.

Henry attended a memorial service last night with his mother. Nan explains further.

Bodies Obtained

2011-08-24T13:12:00.004-04:00

Stroll through the cheap wine aisle. Stare at cheaper refrigerated brands. Where's Cold Duck? Boone's Farm? Paul Masson? Orson Welles drunkenly endorsed Paul Masson. Genius reduced to wino shill. Showbiz and the second law of thermodynamics share many features. For Welles, cheap wine lubricated the process.

Feels like a large truck rolling in. A semi in the store. Bottles rattle. Walls shake. The floor rises like a wave. I'm jarred but keep my balance. The aisle lights go out. A few bottles fall and break. Some mild shaking then quiet.

Everyone looks at each other. Two women race down the aisle toward the exit. A security guard runs by. Store managers appear shocked. A few people joke about earthquakes. They don't think this is one. How can Washington DC have an earthquake? Must be something else. Terrorist attack? All are left guessing.

I've never been in an earthquake. But what else could this be? Cashiers offer shaky smiles. No one really knows how to act. It's almost like a Matrix program. I move past people frozen in place. Go outside. The sidewalk's jammed.

I'm near the federal government's epicenter. State buildings everywhere. Evacuation was swift. I cut through the throng. Everybody's trying to get a cell signal. Nothing. Their toys are useless. A lovely sight. They keep trying. Still nothing. Confused expressions. The beauty deepens.

Walk back to the neighborhood where I'm staying. Cars blast news stations. Pedestrians compare notes. An old brownstone lost some bricks. The only damage I see. The neighborhood appears unscathed. But people there are rattled.

One guy rails about the End Times. A father holds tight his baby girl. A young Black man in a white tank top yells, "I'm at peace! But I'm a freak!" Several older women pray. Worried looks all around.

The quake ripple wasn't that bad. Unexpected, but not earth shattering. There's no Potomac tsunami. No rubble. No fire in the streets. It doesn't take much to frighten Americans. Those with no political or economic power seem more vulnerable to fear.

There's a certain DC vibe that I've yet to fully discern. A weird tangible mix. Living in the shadow of the Capitol Building reinforces class divisions. Imperial reality is in your face.

Here come the sirens. Cops. Ambulances. Dark vans with flashing lights. Every form of authority thrust into action. Where they're going I don't know. Whom they're saving is a mystery.

I go upstairs to the apartment. A few knick knacks on the floor. Nothing serious. Gas and electricity fine. Fix a drink, go online. Everyone's talking earthquake. Libya's there too, but a secondary concern. America comes first. We always come first.

Beyond This Road

2011-08-22T08:11:00.007-04:00

Standing in the bagel shop line. I'm rumpled, groggy. Wearing a borrowed porkpie hat. Shades. Wrinkled t-shirt. Jeans. No briefs.

Feeling anxious. Life again in flux. At my age. Fuck.

The bagel makers look tired. Everybody does. In this part of the country, smiles are rare. The economy reeks. We go through the motions. Making bagels. Hauling trash. Fixing rusting cars. Keep busy. Appear engaged. Hope you don't lose what's left.

Approach the counter. Place my order. 10,000 Maniacs fall from the ceiling speakers. Like The Weather. Haven't heard this song in eras. I'm back at 70th and York. Leeching off an old Indy friend. Making $50 a week from an East Village paper. Mac and cheese and Miller Lite for dinner.

I was lost in a sociopath's fog. My brains and humor kept a roof overhead. Any dumber or slower and I'd have been on a grate.

An anxious time. Natalie Merchant eased some weight. Bobbed hair. Expansive features. Alluring dresses. Hippie abandon. I saw the Maniacs at The Ritz. August 7, 1987. Close enough to see Merchant breathe. She possessed me. I ignored my date. An older woman. She was pissed. I didn't care. Obnoxious but honest.

Fantasies about Merchant. I could make her laugh. I could play to her liberal politics. I would fuck her sweetly for hours. Watching her dance across the stage, it all seemed possible. The fog was that thick. Amazing that I got laid in the real world.

I was living vine-to-vine. Soon I would slip and crash. 10,000 Maniacs were part of my soundtrack. Hearing them again brings back that time.

Rush of blood to my face steams my shades. Tears fall. A crying crumpled mess. No one notices. There are sadder people than me.

Running lines with my son. Nan got him in a local production of Twelfth Night. He has a small part. Four scenes, decent dialogue. He works hard on his lines. A 15-year-old in a cast of adults. His first play is Shakespeare's. I never had those guts.

Nan and I attend dress rehearsal. An outdoor theater in a park. Mosquito heavy. The director sets the play in the late-60's. A Jimi. A Janis. A Wavy Gravy. Godspell goes Bard. If Orson Welles set Julius Caesar in fascist Europe, why not a flower power Twelfth Night? Shakespeare goes with anything.

The staging seems chaotic. Some scene transitions lag. Cues are missed. Several actors mumble lines. People on cells speak louder.

The talent is all over the place. Several have no business being on stage. A few shine. Show passion. They understand their roles. Delightful to watch. But overall, a very mixed bag.

Henry's a touch stiff at first. Then he warms to the moment. Nan and I drilled him on the need to project. Especially on an outdoor stage.

He remembers. Voice bounces off the bandshell out to the benches. His timing is pretty good. There's work to be done, edges sanded. But he's a kid. He has all the time his father once had. Already he's an improvement.

Nietzsche's Abyss

2011-08-16T10:09:00.009-04:00

Apparently, Rick Perry has been elected president. He's gutting the Constitution. Giving kickbacks to his fat cat backers. Forcing Jewish and Muslim children to pray to Jesus. Planning new wars. Turning us into a miserable global joke. He's worse than Bush. Vice President Bachmann is an added slander upon our good name.

How can Americans be so stupid -- again? Didn't they learn their lesson?

This is based on my Facebook and Twitter feeds. Perry's announcement has made liberal friends and acquaintances lose their minds. I haven't seen such frenzy since my Nader days. That the election is a year away means nothing. That anything can happen means even less. No: Perry's gonna get the nomination; and because Americans are backward and racist, he'll probably win and re-establish the Dark Ages.

Why? WHY!

Amid this fury, Barack Obama is still in office, serving our owners, tightening our noose. No liberal tumult for him. And that's how it should be, given this system. Keep the partisans in their separate cages. Let them demonize each other while elites steal from all.

The class war from above is so obscenely blatant that Warren Buffett calls for taxing the rich. He's clearly embarrassed by the spectacle. But Buffett's call will go unheeded. His peers are in no mood to sacrifice. Their political wings keep the money flowing upward. Who surrenders in a war that they're winning?

Liberal groups bemoan the class war, but do little to oppose it. For one thing, they're not opposed to capitalism -- though what we're enduring is beyond supply-and-demand definitions. Modern capital has its own language, its own currency, its own country. Liberal commentary rarely touches on this. They believe that modern capital can be bent in a progressive direction. By who or how is fuzzy. But it can be done. First, we need to elect better Democrats; and then etc. etc.

The main reason why liberals aren't engaging the class war is because they'd have to oppose Obama. Openly. Radically. And we know that's not going to happen. Hysteria over Perry and Bachmann proves that. Liberals have waited for the GOP circus to commence so they can finally erupt. Based on feeds and links I've read, they've been suppressing a lot.

Remember how progressives were going to hold Obama's feet to the fire? How they were going to apply populist pressure? We now see where that energy went -- into a holding account marked Summer 2011. And it wasn't being saved for Obama. The recent effort by liberal scribes to rescue and polish Hubert Humphrey's reputation shows where many progressive heads are at. They want to serve their betters. They want to be led. For all of his "mistakes" (forced upon him by Republicans who hate America), Obama remains their preferred shepherd.

Radicals like Alexander Cockburn think that a GOP victory in '12 might reignite social justice/antiwar activism. To some degree, sure. But Obama's presidency exposed how hollow the "antiwar" movement was during the Bush/Cheney years. Swayed by Obama's focus group-tested sermons, large numbers of protesters fell mute. They believed again in the system. Extension of Bush's policies by Obama failed to erode their HOPE. In many ways, it was strengthened.

Opposition to a Perry or Romney administration would be at best tactical. Liberals would be in a four-year holding pattern until they could support the Next Savior. President Franken? Why not? A comedian president would be a perfect fit. A looted and crumbling infrastructure should have a laughtrack, if only to muffle the cries of the screwed.

Random Acts Of Meaningless Violence

2011-08-14T12:04:00.006-04:00

Like so much else in southeastern Michigan, Borders Books is closing. Bargain placards promise big savings. Half the shelves are empty. What's left has been reshuffled and scattered. People pick at the bones, smiling. The place has a Target/Walmart vibe. All this effort put into words seemingly wasted.

The books appear sad to me. Even writers I don't like get my sympathy. Borders was a chain which in headier times I deplored. But to see it collapse like this is depressing.

Borders began in Ann Arbor, so it's fitting that it end here. Just after we moved here, I gave a reading for American Fan at the downtown store. Fan garnered good reviews, a nice mention from Robert Lipsyte in the New York Times, and a stirring endorsement from a local critic. My mixed feelings about Fan didn't matter. My publisher's indifference to Fan did, but I was able to squeeze out a couple of readings and radio interviews before the Murdoch hammer fell.

The Borders reading was sparsely attended. No one knew who I was nor cared. A few people strolled in as I performed the better passages. One guy identified himself as a Cubs fan. He took issue with something I said about Wrigley Field rituals (yes, I got heckled at a book reading). He was a living example of what I wrote about. I don't think he saw himself that way. He seemed too earnest. That was over a decade ago, and the Cubs still haven't won or gone to a World Series. Hope he's holding up.

Standing in the spot where I read. It's nearly empty. They're selling the bookcases too. Hell, you could rip up pieces of carpet and haggle a decent price for them. I walk back to my apartment. Cross the main campus. More and more kids. The old, ivy-covered buildings are as lost in time as me. Their presence makes you think of leather-bound books. Hushed reading rooms. Dusty sunlight on long oak tables. Some of that remains, but it's increasingly archaic.

Soon everything will be stored on discs, apps, blitts and blurds. Like on Star Trek. Not so bad, I suppose. Once holodeck technology is perfected, books will be finished. Who'll want to read when you can be a book's character?

I'd try Gore Vidal's Lincoln. Surely a man so revered and cited had numerous flaws and blind spots. What better way to learn this than by playing Vidal's revisionist Abe? I might change the program near the end. Have Lincoln fight John Wilkes Booth. He'd still die, but my version at least gives Lincoln a chance. Plus it's more exciting. The quick bullet to the head is so Sopranos.

Status Report

2011-08-10T10:46:00.003-04:00

Girls are streaming back to campus. You can't miss that living on sorority row. They're well dressed with the requisite toys. Mostly white and no doubt pampered. Michigan's not a cheap school to attend. A few across the street sun themselves in the afternoon. Tiny bikinis over young tight skin. I watch them now and then. But that's all. I have yet to reach Old Perv status. I'm saving that for my golden years.

This is my last week of sublet living. I've been in this apartment since February. Its tenant returns from Paris to teach these pampered kids. I have yet to find a suitable replacement. It's amazing what people try to rent to you. Many landlords seem whacked out. Property relations aren't terribly cordial. A few nice people, but the rest on edge.

One woman demanded to know all about me. I had to pass some morality test. I said I was a writer. She paused, then promised to phone back. She did but lied, saying that she just remembered renting the place to someone else. While I'd like to think it was my admission that sunk me, I'm sure it was my humor. Certain people you don't joke with. She was one.

Looks like I'll return to hotel living. Probably the same place I stayed when my marriage broke apart. A dive, but habitable and cheap. I don't need much. I've been through so many bouts with poverty that a survival sense kicks in. I can stretch pretty much anything -- clothes, food, booze, assorted sundries. I still have notebooks to fill, and low life gives me time to do that. I occasionally go crazy, stalk my space cackling, crying, shaking. Isolation bends the mind. God knows what I'll see when it breaks.

The English riots are a savage dream, at least from this distance. Blessedly, Americans are too disconnected to riot. An atomized mass tearing up the streets would be a nightmare. With no real populist movement to give resistance shape, we are left with individuals lost in chaos.

I saw a glimpse of this during the 2003 blackout. Drivers arguing in the absence of traffic lights. People fighting over bags of ice at gas stations. Several neighbors walled themselves off, refusing to pool limited resources. My next door neighbor threw a blackout party in his carport. A few of us attended. We drank beer and watched a preseason NFL game on a small TV hooked to his Jeep's battery. A nice reminder that not everyone is frightened.

As always, my PayPal guitar case is open to donations. I'll continue to post whatever crosses my mind, in between writing jags on the book. Confessionals, satire, reviews, prose poems, bizarro configurations -- I give you all I have. You may not want it, but I'm giving it anyway. I'm just that kind of guy.

Chaotic Masters

2011-08-07T12:50:00.013-04:00

Caesar's ape insurrection was stirring to see, but how does he turn a skirmish with the SFPD into world domination? Suggestions of a human pandemic help, yet it will take more than people coughing blood to flip reality in the simians' favor. No matter. Rise of the Planet of the Apes briefly lifted my spirits, then it was back among humans and another level of knuckle dragging.

Some reviewers compare the new Apes film to Spartacus, both of which feature slave revolts. Apes is more radical because it's contemporary. It targets Big Pharma, animal abuse and human arrogance, inviting viewers to cheer on their own destruction. This is particularly refreshing given the endless alien invasion movies where humans always fight for survival. In Apes, we're the violent aliens. Our occupation starts to crumble as greed and cruelty consume us. We have it coming.

At present we're getting mauled by our own kind. Species-wise, that is. Our attackers may as well be aliens, their wealth and power far beyond our timid reach. The rich have not only won, they are rubbing our noses in their shit.

Nowhere else in the developed world does this go unanswered, except in the United States. A few friends believe that the debt deal will stir people to action. Our owners pushed too far. Again, I'm all for it. The Arab uprisings are a guide (Israelis clog the streets, too, moved more by real estate values than the occupation), and they have fewer openings in which to act. We have no excuse.

Tea Partiers are a theatrical distraction, funded to make noise about American folklore. If they were serious about our economic straits, they'd be more critical of corporate capitalism and the bipartisan arrangement that keeps it in place.

Instead, they rave on about Obama the Socialist Muslim. They cite the Founders as timeless seers whose 18th century social notions fit a 21st century global economy. They blast runaway spending but say little about corporate/military influence. That they didn't erupt when Bush expanded the state exposes their hypocrisy. Tea Partiers are no threat to the status quo. They espouse some vile opinions, but then so do many Americans.

Liberals pout and are equally locked down. Far from organizing grassroots resistance, liberals leap into Dem arms, afraid of the scary GOP. As I've said, it's a beautiful system for those who own it.

Proles beg the corporate parties for shelter, protection, recognition, rewards. Any crumb that falls excites and keeps them docile. Each side uses the other to justify their acquiescence. An obvious point, yet how often is it expressed in mainstream discourse? By those who seek a steady pundit gig, I mean. And even if it was, how would this undermine elite control?

Rise of the Planet of the Apes may be a CGI fantasy, but it does convey one realistic truth: A time comes when cages must be broken. If this isn't the time, I don't know when is.

Dirty Feet

2011-08-03T10:37:00.011-04:00

The place is on the rural edge of town. Where suburbia stops and farm land begins. The address is hidden by weeds, the driveway worn tire patches in uncut grass. I pull in slowly, under 50 yards of low interlocking tree branches. Roll into an opening greeted by cars. Seven that I can see. All in various states of disrepair.

To the left is a rusting shed, door tied open with a power cord. A shirtless kid, maybe 20-21, has his hands in an old Cadillac's engine. A young woman, probably the same age, watches him, holding a grease-stained towel. The kid hears my car, grabs the towel, wipes his hands. He whispers to the woman who turns and glares. I keep my car running, unsure if this is the right address. The woman smiles and walks toward me.

She's very cute. Tank top, no bra. Short skirt. Blond braided pigtails. Face sweet but intense. She's seen things. Her pretty bare feet, green from the grass, send me back to Lawrence, Indiana. Mid-seventies. When most of my friends lived in trailer parks or rural houses.

In summer girls went barefoot. Wore cut-offs and halter tops. Had long wavy hair. Their sexuality open, unforced. They didn't pose, preen, make crude hand gestures. I eventually lost my virginity to one of these girls, then fucked one of her friends. Barefoot girls in grass still get me going.

I get out of my car. "Is this 2378 Jericho?" The woman nods yes. "I'm here to see the apartment."

Her eyes are blazing blue. Fierce dirty blond eyebrows. Tattoo of a flaming sword on her right bicep. "Sure. Follow me."

We walk past two rotting cars on blocks down a stone-lined path. Everything is overgrown. Vines cover parts of the house. Trees and bushes untrimmed. She leads me to a dirty white door that sticks a bit when opening. "You have the whole basement. Look around. I'll be upstairs."

First thing is the smell. Serious mildew. The air conditioner spits out tepid cool that stinks. Hand prints dot the hallway walls. Grease or dirt, I can't tell.

Enter the main living area. A literal pit. Trash everywhere. Dirty clothes and underwear strewn about. Dozens of empty bottles -- beer, wine, booze. Cobwebs in the high corners. Small mattress pushed against the back wall. NASCAR and Budweiser posters peeling from scotch tape. I don't see rodents, but given the location and the filth, they must be here.

What the fuck? Is she serious? This place needs a biohazard cleaning crew. The kitchen's even worse. Dirty tiles. Stained carpet. Water damage on the ceiling. The stench is overwhelming. Are these people insane? Who the hell would rent such a dump?

I walk back to the entrance. Smell of weed from upstairs. The woman laughs. Bottles are opened. I stop and ponder. Clearly, these people like to party. They're unashamed of their hedonism. I'm not the tidiest guy on earth, but I do have boundaries.

These people are off the charts. Something about that excites me. To let go so fully. To laugh, drink, and smoke in the face of it. Then there's the young woman. Seeing her daily would ease some anxiety. Or probably create more. The hillbilly girls of my youth sing to me. I see them in the yard, running around the dead cars.

No. I'm too old for this. Plus I need to write. I yell up the stairs, "Thanks for your time." The woman appears, beer in hand. I can almost see up her skirt. Her legs are amazing.

"Any questions?"

"Nope. It's just not for me. Thanks again."

She shrugs and disappears. More laughter as I leave.

The kid's still working on the Cadillac. I drive off, glance in the rearview mirror. The hillbilly girls run into the woods, back to their time. I pull onto the main road and look for a liquor store.

(Above image by Jan Goff-LaFontaine)

Assemble The Ways

2011-08-01T11:02:00.008-04:00

Writing in withering heat is an endurance test. My sublet has no air conditioning and resembles the box in Cool Hand Luke. Fans spread warm air around. Cold baths and showers briefly help, but soon the sauna returns. I sweat over notebooks, salty drops smudging my longhand. I wanted retro conditions so I really can't complain. Mencken dealt with summer heat by writing in his underwear. Ginsberg wrote nude, but I don't think it took heat to inspire him.

This book, or whatever it is, has become hand-to-hand combat. It's the oddest project I've ever tackled. It's also the deepest. Snapshots of a dead age. Images that spill into my dreams. Emotions not fully understood. Sadness and elation in the same breath.

I slog through it all, piecing together fragments, hoping to realize a whole. I thought writing about another person's life was taxing. Try exploring yours without romance or embellishment. No wonder so many writers simply make-up their "memoirs." It's a hell of a lot easier and more entertaining. Who really cares if you didn't have a threesome with Soviet gymnasts? Think big.

Meanwhile the brutal world passes by. Fascist violence in Norway. State-sponsored violence from Syria to Libya. Rupert Murdoch's criminal phone hacking network. And of course President Hope's inevitable attack on Social Security and Medicare.

It's redundant to note that only a Democrat could get away with this, yet it's all too true. That the liberal savior is overseeing the cuts must really sting his followers. I'm tempted to say they have it coming, but after Obama's debt deal with our owners' reactionary wing, we're all going to get it. Schadenfreude is pointless.

This won't stop liberals from voting again for Obama. Nothing would. Obama knows this and serves his real base. The slaves will come crawling, thinking that their votes will stave off ruin and plunder. All they're doing is ratifying further political attacks on themselves. The brighter slaves understand and rationalize. The dimmer slaves smile and beg for more. Our owners remain untouched, free to milk the system anytime they choose. Their press agents insist that we're the envy of the world. Many of us believe it or want to, crumbling infrastructure to the contrary.

Old family photos portray a shinier past, when American power and wealth was at its zenith. Big cars, new neighborhoods, expanding consumer confidence. I bitch about today's tech toys, but looking back to my childhood, there were countless toys to go around. People bought the bullshit because they were able to buy things. For people my age and older, the steady American decline has been quite amazing to witness. It doesn't seem real, but that's the privilege of living in an imperial country. Fantasy is always an option.

I'm guessing this is why so many kids are jaded and cruel. What do they have to look forward to? What's it like to be a teen or young adult in this era? I haven't the slightest and desire none. I still believe another world is possible, but this may be age talking. Who can focus on alternatives when the life boats are sinking?

Hot Hula Action

2011-07-26T10:56:00.005-04:00

What goes through a person's mind just before they commit murder? Are they pumped with adrenaline? Does everything fall silent? Is there a song they can't stop hearing? Does their version of God give them a pep talk? Having never felt the urge to kill, I honestly wonder. Then I put more ice in my drink and blast some classic Led Zeppelin.

I think that instant media makes human insanity bigger than it really is. There have always been mass murderers and serial killers, only now we hear about them while the bodies are still warm. Immediacy of information heightens the terror. If we had to wait a couple of days before learning of this or that rampage, the initial shock would be dampened. The carnage would already be history. And Americans hate learning history.

Of course, this is only a theory. Maybe human madness is truly out of control. Perhaps people are more coarsened than ever. Put that between two slices of French bread and sell it as a gourmet sandwich. Given what people eat nowadays, you'd probably make a tidy profit.

Let me step away from the chalkboard for a moment and stare out the window, hands gripping my lapels. No, you don't need to move. This isn't a test. Well, not a test for a grade anyway. Life itself is a test, so in that sense you are being tested. But then, so am I. The teacher as student? Precisely.

Where was I? Right -- crazy people who kill. Are all killers crazy? Aren't there rational killers who treat murder as a 9-to-5 gig, then clock out and go home? Outside of the government, I mean? I can't think of any offhand, and even if I could, there would be some mitigating factor. Cross dressing. Cannibalism. A shrine of skulls. Severed heads in the freezer. You can bank on one or more of these.

On the surface, everything is quiet and normal. Firm handshakes and hot cups of coffee. Underneath, however, a seething resentment against the modern world. How can you tell? Put it this way: if a neighbor wants you to buy his paintings of kittens, pack up and move. It's only a matter of time before your head's next to his ice trays.

So, in summation, human insanity is part of the game. People kill because they can. If you think I'm being blasé or cynical, just know I've got weightier issues on my mind. Like mice in the Pentagon. What if the mice accidentally launch a world war? Or are exposed to a secret ray and become monsters? How do we guard against that? Can we guard against that? What, you've never considered this possibility? Who's the blasé cynic now?

She's beautiful. Her soulful eyes framed by cascading ginger hair. Her moist lips, pert breasts, long legs. The mystery of creation in her smile. If she wasn't throwing rocks at my head and cursing my name, we might learn to love each other. But after this, forget it.

When I'm old enough to be called Pops, I'll have plenty of zingers in response. One is where I say "I've got your Pops right here!" while patting my jacket pockets, then getting nervous because my pockets are empty, then breaking down crying. Another is where I pretend I don't understand English. Considering how today's kids talk, who does?

Routine Bites Hard

2011-07-21T11:32:00.015-04:00

Air travel is a metaphor for decaying America. Maybe a microcosm. Perhaps a tattered symbol. Whatever it is, the service blows, seats are cramped, jets are old, and passengers increasingly surly.

USA Today covered some of this nasty ground, but there's a deeper backdrop. In the past year and a half, I've flown more than I have in my entire life. I'm an air regular, intimately familiar with various airports. There you see the classic cross-section of types, united mostly by frustration and boredom. You not only get an immediate sense of how big this country is, but how atomized our population remains.

Probably inescapable, given the control our owners enjoy. But it isn't an excuse. Think of the millions streaming though airports, filling stadiums, churches, malls, and trade shows. Countless people of varying aptitudes, held in place by shared nationalist myths and relentless propaganda. It's quite a triumph for our keepers. Should things get out of hand, they have a militarized police apparatus to protect them. But for now they have little worry. We're too eager to comply, believing we have a stake in a game fixed by those we'll never meet.

William Burroughs once quoted a Black queen, "Some people are shits, darling." A basic truth. Part of doing business. But how many shits are created by this anxiety-ridden culture? How many bright, compassionate people are pushed into the muck? Perhaps Devo was right: Humans are bad spuds de-evolving at an accelerated pace. Yet a system based on cheap sensation and personal alienation plays a serious role in shaping attitudes. The question is, how long do we let this drag on?

While waiting for flights, most travelers want nothing to do with each other. Crammed in the same space, they zone out through their electronic toys. Courtesy is rare. Recently at Detroit Metro, I sat near a brawny kid who was listening to speed metal on his headphones. I know this because the volume was so cranked that I wondered why the kid bothered to cover his ears. A few people moved to other seats, but most remained, pretending not to hear the thump thump thump blasting from his head.

His expression was of sullen defiance. Looking at the discomfort he created, the kid smiled, then turned up the volume. He was large and muscular, which I suspect is why no one told him to turn down his music.

He openly played on this. When the flight was set to board, the kid slid his still-thumping headphones around his neck and told the airline rep that he was a solider destined for Afghanistan. She dissolved, gushing about his bravery and service. The people who were annoyed now smiled at him. The kid put his headphones back on, speed metal bouncing off the jet bridge walls.

It was instructive. You had an obnoxious kid, intimidated travelers, and military worship in one place. There wasn't an honest connection in sight. Mix in my voyeurism and the scene was complete. No sharing. No effort to find common ground. No civility. Just a detached playing of roles. I felt some guilt for not asking the kid to lower his music, to honor whatever chivalrous code a war-bound soldier possesses. But his semi-crazed look frightened me as well. Maybe he was prepping to join a Kill Team.

Fortunately, the kid sat in the rear of the plane while I was near the front. I opened the New York Times to a story about Rais Bhuiyan, a Bangladesh-born Muslim shot in the face by Mark Stroman, a racist Texan who flipped out after 9/11, killing two other people he assumed were Muslims. Bhuiyan survived, but lacked health insurance. He went through hell trying to recover. Bhuiyan's marriage suffered, he went blind in his right eye, fell into poverty and depression. And yet, Bhuiyan forgave Stroman and lobbied against his execution.

This lifted my spirits. Here's a beautiful example of what is possible. Bhuiyan's forgiveness eventually touched and changed his assailant. Stroman confessed to his brutal ignorance, overwhelmed by Bhuiyan's attempts to keep him alive. How genuine Stroman was is unknown, but the alternative was merely more hatred, deeper division, and added suspicion. The lesson is clear.

States, on the other hand, aren't into forgiveness. They are mechanisms of control and violence. Texas is hardly an exception. The court denied Bhuiyan's request to meet privately with Stroman. His plea for clemency was also ignored. Last night, Stroman was executed by lethal injection. His last words were:

"Hate is going on in this world and it has to stop. Hate causes a lifetime of pain. I love you, all of you. Goodnight."

This from a white supremacist who called himself an "Arab slayer." What's our excuse?

ABOVE: Banksy, Love Is In The Air (Flower Thrower) 2006.

Obvious Things

2011-07-16T08:21:00.006-04:00

In case you haven't noticed, our owners and their political wing hate us. Deeply. They hate us so much that spectacles like the debt ceiling dance are performed in full light, a reminder of who controls what money is left and what more they can grab. It's an astounding sight, an open Fuck You to the rest of us. And the sad truth is, they'll get away with it.

Where's the resistance? the political anger? Observers have long noted that the Democrats will be the ones to dismantle Social Security and Medicare, and here's Obama promising to do just that. Of course, such dismantling is couched in talk of "cuts" and "fiscal discipline," but the cruel intent is clear. And apart from some grumbling about "betrayal," most liberals offer no push back, no alternatives other than holding their noses and voting for Obama once again.

What -- you want a President Bachmann?

A few of us questioned Obama's fraudulent claims for national rebirth in '08, and were shit on for our efforts (such as they were). The HOPE heads were too high on CHANGE meth to consider critical views. What's their excuse now? Even Obama's re-election team knows better than to stoke false dreams. They see that liberals have no place to turn and lack the political courage to break from the Democrats.

It helps that the GOP field is certifiably insane, with the exception of Mitt Romney, the Mormon Obama. If Romney snags the Republican nomination, watch out. He and Obama are close enough politically to make the 2012 election a nail biter, which is why most liberals pray that Bachmann, Palin, or Santorum heads the GOP ticket. Placing one's faith in lunacy has become a mainstream value.

Meanwhile, our numerous wars continue. Libya is a debacle. Iraq was lost ages ago. Afghanistan teeters on the edge. Pakistan is pissed off. Somalia starves while the CIA runs torture sites. There seems to be enough money for all this and more. No Beltway hand wringing about fiscal discipline here.

More ominously, there's no antiwar or populist movement to counter this butchery. Small wonder why powerless people gorge themselves on shitty food, loud empty movies, "reality" television, and increasingly twisted porn. Nationalism remains popular, the one supposedly solid feature left to average Americans. But it's flag waving over decaying myths. The more dire the circumstances, the more flags go up. Patriotism is the last refuge of the despised.

Can it be turned around? Yes, but it will take effort and sacrifice. Find comfort in that we've already sacrificed much, so that shouldn't be an alien sensation. Political effort is another story. That will require heavy lifting, endurance, tenacity. But we don't have to do it alone. If we're connected through misery, we can be connected through solidarity. And love. That's a binding power that the true cynics cannot buy, sell, and outsource. It's so obvious it's a cliché. Let's be clichés.

Oh Mercy Pit

2011-07-12T11:41:00.010-04:00

Opera dogs are howling again, distracting the singers, threatening another delay in production. I'm tempted to feed them poisoned meat, just to get through a rehearsal. But this would set off a vicious species war in which victory is uncertain. We barely survived the rodent uprising. Dogs are bigger.

The canine explosion metastasized into factions, even genres. Apart from the family dogs, heroic dogs, mad dogs, cute dogs who roll on their backs wanting their tummies rubbed with tails wagging, cyberdogs, and dogs of mystery are countless new breeds. We haven't been able to name them all. Fresh strains crop up hourly. A few are attempting human speech, determined to evolve. Joke's on them. Look at us.

I have nothing against canine evolution. I'm very live and let live. All I desire is to produce quality local operas, based on my librettos and music known only to me. Convincing performers who can sing is hard enough. Most want to do Dvořák, Janáček, Berlioz -- the standard crowd pleasers. My stuff is a little more challenging.

You have to hum it for a month before singing it, and then it has to be precisely in my pitch, an uneven falsetto. Also, there's a lot of running in my operas. Singers must be able to hold notes while jumping over the large letters that spell my name. So rehearsal is crucial.

Then the opera dogs found me. When I learned of them, I figured they'd harass the bigger companies. The first ones I saw were harmless. A few high-pitched yelps and that was it. When my production of Bavarian Sluice! premiered, the strays had grown into a pack. To enter the theater, customers had to wade through dogs howling my music. Some thought this was part of the show, applauding my originality. I'd smile and nod. The dogs and I knew differently.

At this point you're probably expecting some twist. Like maybe I'm really a dog writing this, or that the opera dogs are symbols for human neglect, or that I'm simply insane, wasting your time. But maybe you're the opera dogs. Never thought of that, did you? Let that possibility bake to a golden crust in your cynical minds. Life isn't all about you.

Sitting on a ledge, overlooking the sleeping city. So many people. Millions of hopes, fears, desires, dreams. And nightmares. Holy shit! Think of the nightmares! Statistically, a good third of the city suffers from nightmares. And I'm not talking about forgetting your lines in a play or having your teeth fall out. I'm referring to hellish landscapes dissolving to personal isolation where inner-demons gleefully rip your spirit to shreds. Where fantasies of love shatter on jagged rocks of regret. Where each living breath is a death march. Then mix in how many of these people own firearms and feel they have nothing to lose. If you can sleep knowing that, you're better than me.

Freedom Of Choice

2011-07-08T12:28:00.008-04:00

In a shameless bid for the women's vote, Mitt Romney declared he would protect America's toddlers from Casey Anthony, or anyone with Casey or Anthony in their name.

Not to be outdone, Michele Bachmann said she would protect the citizens of Whoville, whom only she can hear.

Believing God has already elected him as president, Rick Santorum signs executive orders on anything anybody hands him.

To show he has nothing to hide, Tim Pawlenty invites schoolchildren to search his scalp for head lice.

If elected, Jon Huntsman promises no distractions from running the country by keeping his family behind an invisible fence.

Herman Cain spends most of his time convincing white conservatives that he's not going to enslave them.

Always the maverick, Ron Paul tries to hypnotize a New Hampshire audience into embracing the gold standard.

Newt Gingrich is also courting the hypnotized vote, employing wife Callista at fundraising events.

Still weighing her options, Sarah Palin fears she may not be crazy enough to win the 2012 nomination.

Nations Of Debris

2011-07-07T08:39:00.009-04:00

Bigger shards are easy to remove. Feel torn flesh release broken glass. Cuts collapse in each shard's wake. Blood is the lipstick of wounds, said O'Donoghue. Blood beautifies these gashes. Almost don't want them to heal.

Someone smashed a champagne bottle. Celebrating, angry, doesn't matter. A minefield of shards, all sizes. Kicked off my shoes hours ago. Wandering the pavilion, bottle in hand, tie loosened. Did a friend's coke to stay awake. This is why I didn't feel the glass cutting through. Sliced my feet deli style. I keep walking, oblivious.

Another friend's date comes onto me. Cute perky curly-haired brunette. She's good. I believe her. Or I'm that drunk. She rubs against me. Says I'm cute. I love these lies. Moët buzz intensifies. But this is a classic con. She's trying to make my friend jealous. She succeeds. He doesn't leave her side for the rest of the night. He glares at me, wounded. She flutters her wide eyes. A shameless flirt.

I drain another bottle. There's splashing, laughing in the corner. Other guests share a jacuzzi. Guys topless. Girls in wet t-shirts. Walk toward them, losing clothes as I go. Down to my briefs I dive in. Instinctively, my hands shoot out. Keeps my head from hitting concrete. Barely. Later, sober, I ponder what might have been. Broken nose. Broken teeth. Fractured skull. Paralysis. Instead, just bloody water from my gashed feet. The party in full swing.

If there must be pick ups, weigh them down in mud. Bricks, sand, equipment. Whatever's heaviest. Climb wet hills, tires spinning, mud flying. Deliver supplies to construction sites. Make it functional. That's a sane world with pick ups.

In my youth, guys with pick ups were crazy. Usually armed. Their rusting hulks hauled garbage and mortar. They also intimidated. Several parked at dusk at Village Pantry. Guys leaning against tailgates. Smoking, drinking. They'd yell at anyone crossing the lot. Rarely acted. They'd finish their beers and peel off. You'd hear them shooting their guns in the woods. Primal screams under a cloudy moon.

Suburban pick ups are sad jokes. Big polished things. Wide gleaming tires. NASCAR decals. A consumer statement. It's easy to cite Freud here. Marx might fit too. Maybe Henry Ford would retch. That alone would justify the purchase. But I doubt suburban pick ups care. Probably for the best.

Mary returns from LA. Another pilot season without work. I see defeat in her smile.

She cut her hair short. Thought this might make a difference. No takers. She's too small for short hair. She looks like a pixie. Longer hair gives her a naughty Marlo Thomas vibe. Surely there's a role for that.

My friend Dan's in town. He's with me when I meet Mary at the airport. On the bus to the city, Mary and I kiss and grope. Dan sits behind us, annoyed. I like annoying him. Plus, I'm fondling a beautiful woman wearing nothing under her skirt. When we get back, I ask Dan to see a movie or something. I'm a shitty host. But Mary's too hot to resist. Can't wait to dig into her.

Months later, Mary ends it. She's through with marginal life. Given up the cattle calls. Begins seeing a man with real money. I'm devastated. Confused. Lost. Soon I'm the one in LA. There's money in laughtracks. I know a guy who knows.

Kaboom

2011-07-03T07:57:00.006-04:00

Off for a few days to see family. Until then, celebrate freedom by listening to me talk philosophy with old friend Doug Lain. A satisfied listener shared:

"Pardon me if I want to go out back shoot myself in the head. This is without a doubt one of the most cynical and depressing interviews I have ever heard on any subject. Are things really and truly this mind bogglingly dismal, hopeless, desolate and discouraging in the good old USA? I hope this is all more a reflection of Mr. Perrin's psychology than the conditions on the ground."

It's probably me. I'm sure that consumer life in the US is much happier than I could possibly understand. But we don't go to sideshows to see the well-adjusted, do we? For one mere mouse click, see the Hopeless Man who makes you want to kill yourself! Ladies, hold on to your dates! He's one of capitalism's cruelest jokes!

Closer

2011-06-30T10:45:00.017-04:00

Later Steven Spielberg is more interesting than his wide-eyed golden age. Munich and Catch Me If You Can seem richer than Close Encounters of the Third Kind, E.T., or Jaws.

Not that Spielberg's early work is bad; the problem is that these films are iconic. It's hard to see them solely as films. There's a static air around them. Once Spielberg found his formula, his characters were trapped by the same shots, drowned by the same soundtrack. His newer stuff is much freer.

Spielberg sprang to mind through Super 8, J.J. Abrams' homage to his producer and mentor. More duplication than homage. Watching Super 8 with my son, I was struck by Abrams' literal approach. There are the sweeping close-ups of faces in awe, staring at something mysterious off screen. There is the gang of suburban kids on bikes, each an archetype, all seeking adventure. There are the adults who don't understand their children's world. And of course there is the monster/alien.

Paul Thomas Anderson used Scorsese and Altman riffs for his films. Wes Anderson plumbed whatever was left of Hal Ashby. Even Spielberg tried channeling Kubrick in A.I. Artificial Intelligence (a mixed yet engaging piece of work). But Abrams simply made an early Spielberg film, revved up with CGI.

One real difference is the sound. I don't recall Close Encounters or E.T. being incredibly loud. And there are countless explosions, perhaps even more than in Saving Private Ryan. This is what a contemporary audience expects, or what is routinely offered to them. Had Abrams truly followed his inspiration, Super 8 would be a quieter, quainter effort.

After watching it (and if you do, stay through the credits for one of the best parts of the film), Henry and I talked about the similarities. He referenced E.T., which had an effect on Super 8. But to me the film owes more to Close Encounters. "I've never seen that," Henry said. Really? How did I let that happen? So I got a remastered copy and watched it with him.

I hadn't seen Close Encounters in ages. I'd forgotten how suspenseful the opening half hour is. The scene where an air traffic controller tries to keep a passenger jet from colliding with a UFO remains strong.

Today we'd see the jet and UFO with full THX sound. But Spielberg wisely kept us on the ground, staring at radar, listening to transmissions. Danger is enhanced.

The same is true with the little boy, Barry, who is awoken and lured outside by something we do not see, save for a floating light. His battery-powered toys come to life, a children's record plays, and yet we're apprehensive. Barry's facial reactions to whatever is in the house show awe and delight. He doesn't seem afraid. Should we be?

I was surprised by how much I enjoyed Close Encounters. Part of it was nostalgia, as the story's "present day" is 1977. But it was the movie's low-key approach that changed my mind. This is especially impressive given the big premise, the crowd scenes, the UFOs zipping around.

Richard Dreyfuss is probably the loudest thing in Close Encounters (apart from the mother ship blasting out a window). He's Dreyfuss at his Dreyfussiest: broad gestures, quick turns of body, whines becoming shouts, swift staccato laughter. Dreyfuss fully employed this technique in The Goodbye Girl, winning an Oscar. But a lot of it is on display in Close Encounters.

The other notable feature of Close Encounters is its gentleness. Our fear of the aliens dissolves into acceptance. They are less threatening than the military they meet. As with the Vulcan influence on humans in the Star Trek narrative, one hopes that these aliens will change the humans in their story for the better. That helicopter gunships don't greet the UFOs helps. It's also reflective of a post-Vietnam mindset, when the concept of peace wasn't the joke it soon became in the 1980s, a joke that has coarsened over time.

Super 8 ultimately calls for peace or some kind of rough acceptance, but it blows up a lot of shit to get there. The alien belongs more in Men In Black than in Close Encounters; yet it too wants only a peaceful exit from Earth, a message planted in the minds of those it touches -- well, grabs.

The bad guy is an Air Force officer with a personal agenda: a rogue element, just like those at Abu Ghraib or in Afghanistan's Kill Teams. The military itself is a background character, possibly a benevolent one if only a smarter, competent commander led it (sound familiar?). In this sense, Super 8 fails as a period piece, though Abrams and company did get the clothes, hair, technology and cars right.

"Is that what 1979 looked like?" Henry asked.

"More or less -- except for the large, aggressive alien."

Henry smirked. "I guess aliens in your day were more like hippies."

I laughed. "Kinda like Dead Heads, only less annoying."

The Buried Path

2011-06-27T11:14:00.012-04:00

There's a reason why I don't go out much. I could say it's because I'm focused on this book, which is true but not the main nugget. As attractive as a devotion-to-art cover is, it would be dishonest. I'm too broke and marginal to peddle lies. No, the driving force behind my non-existent social life is an undying hatred of Ann Arbor and all it represents.

I'm not proud of this. I've tried many times to outgrow it, shed it, beat it into submission and throw it in a landfill. Negative emotion, regardless of purity, drains and cheapens you. There are elements of Ann Arbor that don't make me pine for a flamethrower, but exceptions always exist. Anytime I'm near a crowd of Arborites, my skin thins to a nervous hum. My mind reads like extended passages from American Psycho. Mercifully, I don't ruminate on the deep meaning of Huey Lewis or Phil Collins. That would push me over.

For years I've flirted with various local crowds and individuals. Looked to fit in. However different each scene was, a provincial thread connected them. I've never seen a community so in love with its own importance. (Well, there's DC, but that's empire. They actually kill people there.) They speak as if Ann Arbor is a major cultural center. They act as if you couldn't possibly understand or appreciate what sets them apart. I've received plenty of smug condescension from those who deign to create whatever it is they create. People here tend to talk more than do. And most times they're talking down.

I'm no innocent victim. I have plenty of attitude as well. But when you've cleaned after Arborites, scrubbed their toilets, hauled their trash, you get a keener perspective on their pettiness and casual cruelty.

This was especially evident during Obama's '08 campaign. If you wanted a glimpse of what a white yuppie liberal cult looked like, that was the time. They not only droned on about the historic importance of electing Obama, they tolerated zero dissent. The older they were, the more rigid their demeanor. The reality of Obama has softened them a bit, but the 2012 stickers are multiplying and liberals are again getting That Look. "It begins with us," is the new official mantra. Yeah, and it ends the same old way.

To see me in public, you'd never guess that this is how I feel. I'm friendly, polite, crack jokes, spread peace. This isn't camouflage -- I'm genuinely trying to divert my demons and break their hold. I often fail but that's my weakness.

I tried again Saturday afternoon. Nan invited me to see The Tree of Life with her at the Michigan Theater. She's fonder of Terrence Malick than I am (I do love The Thin Red Line, the anti-Private Ryan), but this film features a remembered, troubled childhood. Right up my present street. Plus, I like the Michigan Theater. It reminds me of the old movie palaces in New York which no longer exist. And they sell beer. So I'm right at home.

Of course, this being an "art" film that won the Palme d'Or at Cannes guaranteed a yuppie Arborite presence. And there they were, nodding to one another, talking about film as confessional or something transcendent. Woody Allen nailed this type in Annie Hall. But it really didn't bother me. The brisk walk to the theater put me in a decent mood. The crowd was small, so Nan and I would have space. Sit down, drink a beer, relax, enjoy the film.

You'd think that Malick is to this crowd what Michael Bay is to suburban moviegoers. In theory, anyway. But once Tree of Life slowly unfolded, and it does take its time, many in the audience grew restless.

As Malick explored the origins of the universe and life on this cooling water planet, throats were cleared, bodies adjusted, sighs released. A few people walked out, shaking their heads in disbelief. A woman several rows behind me kept muttering something. I closed my eyes and focused on her voice. Apparently her sister said that Tree of Life was bad, that she should've heeded her warning. She didn't leave, though. Just muttered further disappointment.

I reveled in the surrounding discomfort. It made me smile. It also kept me from directly engaging the film. Nan was rapt, completely in Malick's grip. She saw things I didn't and shares them in a wonderful review. I wasted time laughing at the locals. My contempt, however silent, was precisely what I claim to despise in others. Hate something long enough and soon hatred's all you have.

Nan concludes:

"The Tree of Life is a testament to trying, however imperfectly, to come to terms with the mysteries that can destroy us, or, if we surrender, bless us with miraculous grace."

Grace sounds great. Surrendering to mystery is another story.

Little Books Lost

2011-06-23T10:58:00.012-04:00

As promised, here are a few more of my Oh, what might have been! books. It helps to picture me in front of a towering bookshelf, pipe in hand, tortoise shell glasses tilted down. And my hair's on fire.

A PEOPLE'S HISTORY OF SPORTS IN THE UNITED STATES

An editor at New Press, who liked American Fan, suggested I go Howard Zinn on sports. I'd just finished a sports column gig at Ironminds (which folded owing me a couple grand) and thought this would be the natural next step. I wasn't sure if I wanted to be a lefty sportswriter. Had I written A People's History, that probably would've become my schtick. I wrote a heavily-detailed chapter outline, tracing American sports from Iroquois lacrosse rituals to present day multimillion dollar contracts, steroids, and media saturation. I learned more about colonial-era "sports" like rat-baiting than I ever desired.

After sending the outline to New Press, I waited. And waited. Waited some more, then phoned. My would-be editor had left, and no one there knew what to do with my book proposal. So they did nothing. I never heard from them again. Years later, New Press published A People's History by David Zirin, a well-known lefty sportswriter. Somebody had to be one, I guess. Fate had other plans for me.

MY SHORT FAT BRIT MENTOR

Another editor, who'll remain anonymous, as will his publishing house, was intrigued with me writing a book about Christopher Hitchens. He enjoyed my 2003 piece, Obit For A Former Contrarian, and my Red State Son posts blasting Hitchens' war dance. We spoke on the phone a few times, sharing ideas, trying to envision what the book would be.

I'd write about my personal contact with Hitchens over the years, and explore the American phenomenon of lefty intellectuals becoming neocon propagandists. I told the editor that I didn't want this to be a one-dimensional attack on Hitchens. Despite everything, I still had fondness for him and wanted to be balanced. He agreed that this would make a better book.

Writing a rough chapter outline, I wondered if Mentor was such a great move. A lot of people would like it, but there would be harsh reactions from Hitchens' allies, personal attacks and God knows what else. Then there was Hitchens himself. Maybe he'd ignore it, but most likely not. Did I really want to crawl into the pit with him? Part of me did, yet the more I thought about the negative possibilities, the less enthused I became. Turned out the editor shared these second-thoughts. We decided to drop it, and he left for another house.

The proposed title was a joke. Had we done the book, I seriously doubt it would have been used. Given Christopher's current state, I'm happy I didn't write Mentor. Even if he was in the peak of health, I still wouldn't want to be tied to it. Trusting your gut sometimes works.

JANITORGOD

The agent who liked The Monkees: A Life really embraced this one. Janitorgod chronicled my family's move to Michigan and me mopping floors for a living. It was primarily set at Kerrytown Mall where I worked six days week under Richard, head of maintenance. Richard taught me a lot, not just about cleaning, but about humility, sacrifice and redemption. Every night after closing the mall, I went to the bar next door, ordered a Tanqueray martini and wrote about that day's experiences. There was so much material I didn't know how to use it all. Eventually I put the pages into manuscript form, sent it to my agent and hoped for the best.

He loved it. "This is a work of art," he kept telling me. Thoughts about a film version were tossed around. But the big houses weren't buying. Not that they disliked my work -- several editors praised my prose style; they just couldn't see the book scoring with a general audience. Other houses passed. One notable house showed interest, but only if I rewrote the book to their specifications. My agent suggested that I comply, which for a brief time I did. But my revisions didn't please them. They asked for more. Essentially they wanted a love story about me and the wife, the janitor jazz as background noise. People like love stories. Who wants to read about finding your soul in a clogged toilet?

Nan, already edgy about being a character in the book, wasn't crazy about expanding her role. Neither was I. Plus, I wasn't in the best emotional shape to write about our marriage, which had been severely tested and stretched to the breaking point. So Janitorgod just faded away. My agent seemed angry with me, and I haven't heard from him since.

Several years later the Ann Arbor Observer published a version of Janitorgod. I was told that reader reaction went through the roof. Apparently many people liked the story as it was originally intended. Despite weeks of positive feedback, nothing more came of it.

As of now, parts of Janitorgod will appear in the third volume of my book. Whenever I get there.

Lost Words

2011-06-21T13:13:00.021-04:00

Genuine thanks again to those who've contributed. Your generosity and support helps considerably (jeez, I sound like a PBS pledge drive). Contributions are still welcome, for this summer will be tight. Knowing people appreciate my work makes writing less of a chore.

Ah, writing. There are moments when I wonder why I quit baseball for the arts. I was a pretty good shortstop with a decent batting average. Made a couple of all-star teams. I loved the game, but theater's lure was too strong. Then acting gave way to stand up which surrendered to writing. I've banged keyboards ever since.

The new book makes me think of earlier efforts, as I've recently noted. But I've never really talked about the failed books, some fully written, others mere proposals and chapter outlines. So here's a review, in chronological order.

LOVE GRAVY

This was my Get Out Of FAIR project, an attempt to leave media criticism for racy lit parlors. The title stems from my psilocybin period, though the prose was hardly psychedelic. Early Updike and Evelyn Waugh clouded my young mind. I fell into the autodidact trap of trying to impress Ivy League betters. This is not to say that the writing was bad. Gravy had a nice clipped rhythm, short paragraphs, spare sentences, adjectives rare. The idea, stolen from Kurt Vonnegut, was to present conceptual satire through simple words. But I lacked the mechanics, patience and experience to pull it together.

Gravy attacked corporate propaganda, advertising especially. I read extensively about the history of American advertising, wedding it to my knowledge of late-80s media. I had three protagonists who didn't meet until late in the book, so essentially I was writing three separate stories. Then there were the media parodies, fake TV shows, tasteless ads, cynicism run riot. A few of these are still funny, but oh so dated. I did anticipate the coming Reality craze and war as a Brand. But overall it was a rookie mess.

An associate editor at Random House tried to help, marking up my manuscript with notes and flirty asides. She was sweet, yet I'd lost interest in Gravy. I also passed up sure sex. What a dope.

BEAUTIFUL LIES

I've mentioned this comic-nightmare novel a few times over the years. Lies reflected my emotional crack up in the early-90s, a period of heavy gin drinking, random coke use, busted relationships. Lies came to me quickly. Out poured nasty, misanthropic, hateful imagery. Depictions of emotional and physical violence. Blood splattering the pages. I fed off the vibe, writing twisted prose for hours on end. The sicker the image, the longer I wrote.

Lies is narrated by Kevin, a video store clerk addicted to pornography. He's sexually attracted to Cousin, his adopted sister, but never acts on it. Kevin's too consumed with fantasy to have a real relationship, however wrong or ill-advised. As his mind begins to snap, Kevin tries to hold together his dysfunctional family, yet that too is breaking apart. Hallucinations increase.

All appears bleak until Cousin dies from a botched abortion. Her fetus survives to become Kevin's Jiminy Cricket, guiding him to a saner life through song, dance, and threats of violence. The fetus finds fame by hosting a series of popular infomercials, urging consumers to love their Inner-Fetus. Kevin's porn habit is replaced by aerobic workout tapes. He masturbates to the tapes, but unlike porn stars, the aerobic instructors offer wholesome release. Kevin finally finds peace.

Friends who read Lies had very strong reactions. Some hated it, thought it was shit. Others said it blew them away. One in particular confessed that Lies literally made him puke. I took that as a compliment. Michael O'Donoghue saw promise in Lies. He shared his thoughts and criticisms on cassette tape, 40 minutes of direct Mr. Mike. I still have the tape. A few months later, Michael died. I don't think my book was responsible.

Editors treated Lies as toxic waste. Those who bothered with rejection letters wondered about my sanity. Only Nan Talese at Doubleday liked Lies. In fact, she nearly published it. My sole competition was House Rules by Heather Lewis, which Nan eventually chose. She sent a long, upbeat rejection letter that was more apologetic than curt. Nan said she'd read anything I wrote, that next time I might well be published. But I moved away from graphic fiction. Got married. Became a dad. Scored Mr. Mike and American Fan in rapid succession. I never got back to Nan.

THE PHIL SHOW

A proposed biography of Phil Hartman. Mr. Mike helped immensely here. By treating O'Donoghue's generation seriously, I won the trust of later SNL talent. I had several informative discussions with Christine Zander, who wrote for SNL when Hartman was there and knew Phil and wife Brynn very well. Through Christine, I'd have access to Hartman's inner-circle, including Jon Lovitz who wasn't happy with media coverage of his best friend's death. The Phil Show would follow Hartman through different comedy institutions. The Groundlings. Pee-wee Herman. SNL. The Simpsons. News Radio showed that he could help carry a hit sitcom. His growing film work displayed Hartman as a reliable character actor.

Given how Hartman's life ended, I would have to explore some depressing areas, already chewed over by the tabloid press. Christine was in touch with Phil and Brynn nearly to the end, and she told me some sad stories. I faced a real balancing act: depicting the violent final hours without falling into cheap voyeurism. I was confident I could do this. With one biography under my belt, The Phil Show would be more refined. Sharper. Better.

Problem was, no one in publishing wanted the book. No one. My agent was mystified, certain that the media circus Hartman's death inspired would sell the book. But Mr. Mike's weak sales sunk me. I may have won the respect and friendship of many comic icons, but the general reading public wasn't interested in humor as history. Although Mr. Mike has its share of sex, drugs, tantrums and feuds, it clearly wasn't enough. How could I be trusted with murder/suicide?

In the end, it was for the best. As Barry Crimmins told me, if I write Phil Hartman's bio, I become Dead Comedy Guy. Worse, Dead SNL Guy. Before long I would write Charles Rocket's story, which is an interesting one, but don't quote me on that.

THE MONKEES: A LIFE

Unlike The Phil Show, there was interest in a book about The Monkees. My new agent at the time, who had worked with Chuck Palahniuk, was very upbeat about the possibilities. I had in mind a story about fabricated reality sold as candy during a time of revolt. The Monkees were the first pre-fab band, worked with top musical talent, made a significant cultural dent before becoming self-aware and imploding. They were also part of New Hollywood, their creators, Bert Schneider and Bob Rafelson, producing Easy Rider, Five Easy Pieces, and The Last Picture Show. I couldn't wait to dig in.

I told my agent that based on experience, Mike Nesmith would be the toughest ex-Monkee to interview. Many years earlier I was to write the liner notes for The Criterion Collection's release of The Monkees' film Head. Micky Dolenz, Peter Tork and Davy Jones were on board for commentary tracks, but Nesmith, according to reports, was in and out. While he periodically appeared with the other three, Nesmith kept his Monkee distance.

Then I was bumped from the Criterion gig by someone who wrote the liner notes for The Monkees remastered CDs. If he wasn't allowed to write about Head, he'd advise The Monkees to not participate in the project. Then the whole thing fell apart. Criterion eventually released Head as part of a DVD set, but neither Monkee man nor I appear in it.

My agent and I tried to contact Nesmith. He never responded. I sent him a copy of Mr. Mike with a note about my serious intentions for this story. Still nothing. My agent wanted to keep plugging, but to me no Nesmith meant no book. To achieve what I desired, I needed extensive face time with every Monkee, not just the reliable three. I returned to janitorial work, not realizing that a better story was in development.

(Photo by Cara Barer)

Blown To Peaces

2011-06-16T10:29:00.009-04:00

Some readers say I resemble Chris Hedges, former New York Times reporter-turned-lefty moralist. There's much of Hedges' writing that I like and respect, but am I really so sanctimonious? I hope not. My screeds are release valves for my brain, not prescriptions for better living. I write about what I perceive. I've long conceded that I may be nuts or simply hallucinating. I don't insist that you wash your hands and sit up straight before reading my stuff.

With corporate rule tightening and Democrats lunging further rightward, I understand Hedges' rage. The lack of progressive, much less radical, resistance to Obama's expanding war/surveillance state is very disheartening. There's a general feeling of marginalized drift, and few offer real alternatives. Thus we're left with scorned prophets like Hedges, waving his tablets at Mammon's feet.

I'm not interested in prophecy. Like so much else, it's a fixed fight. I'd rather be John and Yoko, who said they were Laurel and Hardy. A fool in pajamas giving baked rants to the bemused. Hopefully, my material is better than Hair Peace/Bed Peace. And I'd try to treat Al Capp with a lighter touch.

Still, Hedges' anger hints at possible responses. What that actually means is up to those committed to serious change. Moderation is no option. Moderation in the face of present realities is worse than surrender. At least with surrender, illusion is dead. You know you've lost, are underfoot, and ideally find fresh ways to assert yourself. Moderation feeds the fantasy of reform in an age where reform is nearly impossible. Too many forces against it, which is why reform is touted as the "mature" route. Moderation is a voluntary leash.

Does this leave extremism? Yes, but not violent or hateful versions. There's enough violence and political hatred already. Reactionaries are defined by their hatred; liberals even more so. In fact, hatred is about all that liberals have left to offer. Hatred and fear. Rejecting these negative, destructive mindsets is, by current standards, decidedly extremist. Developing peaceful alternatives deepens the extreme.

Nicholson Baker suggests a time-honored path: pacifism. Not We Shall Overcome, daisies in rifles displays, but a thorough, ongoing philosophical engagement. Baker's recent defense of pacifism in Harper's dealt mainly with opposition to World War II (as did his book Human Smoke), that reigning symbol of righteous mass murder. Thanks to that war, all subsequent wars are justified, all enemies Hitler. The pacifists of the 1930s-40s had no chance to stop the slaughter. That war was inevitable. Are today's wars equally so? Perhaps. But there's more to peaceful resistance than just opposing drone attacks.

American culture is suffused with military worship and the glory of battle. It's given that Americans accept this arrangement, which a good many do. But support for endless violence seems shaky. It helps explain the increasingly desperate arguments for imperial war.

Our owners forever fret that a large chunk of us will awake and take action. Billions are spent trying to alter our thinking and sway our opinions (and if that fails, there's Homeland Security and SWAT). I don't believe they have much to worry about, but then I have less to lose. I'm hardly alone in this, which gives us the freedom to project different modes of living to those who embrace the war state. No lectures. No chants. Simply breathing alternatives sharing the same space.

Will it work? Who the fuck knows. I've helped temper a few war lovers (while pushing several more into bloodier waters), so I've seen results. Humor helps, something Chris Hedges might consider. It's tough finding decent punch lines with grim set-ups, but such is creative struggle. Dick jokes for peace may be our saving grace.

AGAIN: I'm still looking for donations, if you are willing and financially able. See the PayPal button above my blogroll. Every bit helps tremendously. Thanks to those readers who've contributed so far, and I'll soon contact those desiring signed books. Love you all.

King Blame

2011-06-14T09:54:00.004-04:00

LeBron James has my genuine sympathy. Not that he cares or notices. I'm one of the little people with problems he dismissed after the Heat's loss to Dallas in the NBA Finals. But facing the sports media's wrath is no doubt nauseating, regardless of bank balance. A chorus of assholes shitting contempt and envy on your every movement.

There are few things worse than watching middle-aged white men scold a Black athlete. With LeBron it's open season. His wealth and fame justify any attack, regardless of accuracy or importance. Comes with the turf we're told. Indeed it does. No high school grad-turned-global media icon receives a free pass. And the twisted thing is, acclaim damages more than critique. When sports hosts refer to LeBron's former popularity, they speak of it as a golden age, something to cherish. But the media's hype helped forge what is now being trashed. The mind fuck as loving caress.

Yes, LeBron bought into it and to a degree brought this on himself. But what American kid with his talent wouldn't? During New York's 1977 blackout, James Baldwin explained to baffled pundits that looters were simply following the American Dream: grab what you can while you can. A lifetime of consumerist fantasies fed poor people's desire for material goods. Morality had nothing to do with it. If the rich can rob for profit, what's wrong with stealing a TV?

LeBron's had these fantasies pushed in his face since 7th grade. Difference was, his size and physical gifts guaranteed eventual realization. I'm amazed he handled it as well as he did. That he succumbed to full branding spectacle by moving to Miami was a delayed inevitability. Seeking a bigger stage and a stronger team was seen as a character flaw. Humble LeBron in Cleveland was body snatched by South Beach vampires. He was now one of Them. Glitz and arrogance corrupted the kid. And after all the American sports media did for him.

Revulsion with PR overkill might make sense in a more equitable society. But in 21st century America, it's standard hypocrisy. Since when does the media, sports or otherwise, blanch at mega-wealth and propaganda? Shameless displays of personal gain? Boastful conduct? Such is the media's lifeblood. Appeals to humility are tinsel in the wind. No one of consequence takes it seriously. That's aimed at the rubes who believe that corporate sports offer a guide to life.

Of those bashing LeBron, easily nine of ten are white men. It's hard not to detect racist elements in white complaints, though no one will admit it. I've been around enough white male sports fans to pick up the signs, which usually begin with whines about "attitude" (tattoos a close second). Gifted Black athletes should be grateful for their success -- success that most white fans would presumably kill for. Their job is to feed white fantasies about physical glory in non-threatening ways. Of course, if the average white fan achieved LeBron-level fame, he'd be a model of public decorum. You need only visit an NFL tailgate party to appreciate that.

LeBron's real crime is to break that covenant. The weaknesses in his game pale in comparison to his responsibility to white fan self-esteem. Based on his post-series press conference, LeBron has no intention of coddling his critics. Considering who many of them are, I can't blame him.

Hit Me

2011-06-10T12:16:00.003-04:00

Things are tight my friends. Divorce isn't cheap, especially when writing a new book. The Project is now in composition mode. I plan to give readings from the new manuscript sometime in the fall, but just a taste, mixed in with stand up, or whatever it is I do onstage. So some extra dough would make all this a bit easier.

I have a few spare copies of Mr. Mike, American Fan, and Savage Mules I can offer as premiums. The higher donors will receive personally signed copies, but any contribution is most appreciated and keeps me working. If that appeals to you, please scroll down and hit the PayPal button on the right. I'll post more frequently, touching on various topics, not just our fixed political system and those who seem to like it that way. Maybe even some humor. Yeah, it's come to that.

Much love in advance, and thanks.

Give This Joke A Shove

2011-06-06T11:17:00.005-04:00

The plane lands at Reagan National. The steward says to stay in our seats, it's safe to use cells and so on. His voice rises a few octaves. "And to those military personnel aboard, we thank you for your sacrifice and patriotism." Passengers erupt in applause and cheers.

Other than an in-flight drink, I rarely fly altered. The Homeland drones are bad enough; fast food employees with badges. Surly overfed passengers push it to another level. Granted, my aversion to the public has gotten worse. I increasingly view fellow Americans through Grosz/Steadman eyes. My problem, my madness. I admit it. Still, the notion of psychoactive engagement is too horrifying to consider. Empty chatter, expanding waistlines, addiction to flashing toys would be an intolerable visual swirl. Overpriced cocktails provide a safer filter.

Applauding the military while taxiing to the gate is a new spectacle. Beefy hands slapping camouflaged backs. Expressions of gratitude and support. Whether or not these guys have seen or will see action is beside the point. Their uniforms alone merit adulation. If we were under siege from invading armies laying waste to cities and suburbs, I could see it. Military/civilian distinctions would evaporate. We'd all be part of the resistance.

But the opposite is reality. We're the invaders decimating occupied people. In deluded moments we pose as selfless liberators. When honesty emerges we boast of our destructive power -- the Fuck Yeah! approach. Those passengers weren't cheering necessary sacrifice. They were celebrating charred Afghan civilians. Deformed Iraqi children. Extrajudicial assassination. They probably give more thought to the TruGreen on their lawns than to depleted uranium in Fallujah's soil and water.

Too harsh? Sorry. After a decade of death, lies, torture, and corruption, what the fuck is there to celebrate? Are Americans that clueless or simply callous? Now that we've entered the next round of managerial ratification (i.e. presidential election season), the race is on to see who can best finesse our endless violence.

Obama owns the inside track, backed by liberals who love the wars they pretended to hate under Bush. Mitt Romney and Rick Santorum flatter Christian reactionaries who believe their war lust is celestially ordained. The economy continues to tank. Education is an underfunded joke. Corporations receive additional tax breaks. Mass media offer explosions, homilies, and gluttony. America's madhouse is sliding down a bubble. How long before the whole thing bursts is anyone's guess.

Saturday night I walked through Georgetown. I spent a lot of time there in the late-80s/early-90s when I spoke and debated at local colleges and think tanks. I loved the neighborhood's architecture. Little has changed. It's still beautiful, classic, if elitist. Georgetown retains its open nationalism. American flags everywhere. Makes sense, given the government-corporate connected who live there. I passed a small pub where the Stanley Cup Finals played on large screens. I entered and ordered an Absolut, softly rooting for the Vancouver Canucks over the Boston Bruins.

A younger guy next to me asked, "You Canadian?"

"No."

"Then why are you rooting against America?"

This reminded me of a drunk fireman in a Park Slope bar who chastised me for backing the Toronto Blue Jays in the World Series. He was so belligerent that the bartender had him thrown out. This kid was more confused than hostile.

"I'm not a Boston fan, though they were the first US NHL team. I just like the way the Canucks play."

He shook his head. "You should root for your own country. Especially these days."

"Why?"

"Because we're Americans. We gotta stick together."

I sipped my drink. "You a Bruins fan?"

"Hell no! I hate the fucking Bruins. I'm a Caps fan."

I laughed. "But their best player's Russian!"

"Yeah. They know how to play hockey over there."

I finished my drink and left. I later learned that Vancouver won in overtime. Good thing the Toronto Raptors aren't in the NBA Finals. The anxiety might be a killer.

Whitey's On Vulcan

2011-06-02T07:57:00.007-04:00

The Bible frightened me as a kid. Part of this came courtesy of the Catholic Church, but the Bible's stories and language conveyed much of the terror. To my young mind, God was insane, forcing his subjects to perform hideous tasks to prove their "love." The New Testament eased some tension, but by then I was a skeptic. Save for an incident several years ago, which I still wrestle with, my skepticism remains, the fear mostly gone.

Only once did the Bible provide comfort: Apollo 8's crew reading from Genesis as they orbited the moon in 1968.

I was nine watching this on TV. It looked unreal. To me, astronauts were like gods, so reading about the first days of creation while in lunar orbit fit. I felt tied to a wider consciousness. Humans rocketing through outer space mesmerized me. It seemed like the beginning of a grand adventure, one I wished to join. My dreadful math grades and undisciplined school behavior made this dream ridiculous. I wasn't even class clown. How could I lead a mission to Mars?

Locked inside late-60s suburbia, I didn't see the political implications of space travel. Had I been older, I might have agreed with Gil Scott-Heron about Whitey on the moon. I'd probably view NASA as a celebration of US power, then hammering Southeast Asia. Reality would dampen awe. Being a kid deepened the mystery of space. Whenever I watch footage from that time, I'm on my grandparents' living room floor, staring at the future.

Now that NASA is ending Shuttle flights, there are plans for returning to the moon, exploring asteroids, and ultimately Mars expeditions. It might be wise to reorder our political/economic system before committing to long-term space exploration. What's the point of stretching human reach if we can't or won't improve this existence?

I know the answer to that in present time. Must the future be privatized as well? However it eventually shakes down, let's at least ensure Zefram Cochrane's initial warp drive test in 2063 so the Vulcans will make first contact. If ever a planet needed logical alien guidance, it's ours. Too bad many of us won't live long enough to prosper from it.

Toodles

2011-05-27T05:18:00.003-04:00

A favorite and a friend tosses in his towel.

Who Is IOZ? ends, its author moving on to more serious writing projects (God help him). IOZ's energy, style and tone will be missed by me, his streaming sentences most especially. Few online whip the language like IOZ. Thoughts critiques bits rants recipes spilled across his site, commenters guessing at his ultimate point, if there was one. Yet IOZ's pyrotechnics, entertaining as they were, barely concealed his sensitivity to the surrounding madness. IOZ cracked wise because he cares. Too fucking much.

Maybe that's why he's stopping. Maybe he just got bored. Blogs are passé. New forms emerge, ideally offline. I look forward to IOZ's writing on a tangible surface. He's got the gift.

Happily for you, I'm still around, during lulls in the longhand and in between benders. It's nice to shout into the ether when needed. Beats my last therapist.

Where The Sharks Laugh

2011-05-24T12:00:00.006-04:00

Kinescope remains the most intimate time machine. Its ghosts perform in tight corners, emotion, action filling limited space. Old films and radio shows are vast in comparison. Early video flat but dense. Filming from monitors captured live productions that would otherwise be lost. Kinescope may seem quaint, even ridiculous to modern eyes. But its tiny package packs a distinctive punch.

Of the Kinescope classics, my favorite is The Comedian which aired live on Playhouse 90, February 14, 1957. Rod Serling's script, based on an Ernest Lehman story, exposes the backstage ugliness of network comedy in the age of Gleason, Caesar, and Berle, all of whom Serling mentions. These broadcasting giants oversaw mini-empires -- actors, writers, dancers, directors and floor crews dependent on their celebrity and comedic power. That they weren't pussycats to their staffs is well established. But they also showed generosity, seducing the battered back into the fold.

Such passive-aggressive behavior is shown early in The Comedian. Sammy Hogarth, played by Mickey Rooney, hammers his cast for a lousy rehearsal, his writers for terrible sketches. Sammy's the smallest person onstage, but his voice and shadow dominate. As cast and crew break for the night, a cameraman thanks Sammy for helping with his child's medical bills. Sammy responds warmly, but as we soon see, this is a rarity. To pretty much everyone else, Sammy Hogarth is a monster. Manipulative, overbearing, cruel, most especially to his brother Lester, who appears catatonic when not on the verge of tears.

Mel Tormé's Lester is a pre-beaten man. Whatever happiness he may have enjoyed before we meet him has vanished. He flinches, mutters, sobs, asks for Sammy's permission to have dinner with his wife, which Sammy angrily denies. Lester is Sammy's punching bag onstage and off. His public persona is that of an useless idiot who deserves to be ripped apart. Lester's wife Julie, played by Kim Hunter, is tired of watching her husband be humiliated and gives him an ultimatum: either quit Sammy's show or she'll leave him. This added pressure is too much for Lester. Julie is the only good thing left to him, but Sammy pays for their comfortable life. Caught between love and financial security, Lester rapidly breaks down.

Lester's not the only one hanging by a thread. Sammy's head writer Al Preston (Edmond O'Brien) has run dry of jokes. He tries to squeeze what comedy is left in him, but nothing comes. His junior writers are no help, tossing around dated gags that make Al's block seem inspired. After Sammy threatens to fire him if the material doesn't improve, Al thumbs through old scripts written by a comedy whiz he knew who later died at the Battle of the Bulge. Al kept the scripts, either out of loyalty, for good luck, or as a reminder of creative days. As the deadline looms, Al surrenders and steals a couple of sketches, the theft known only by the show's secretary Connie (Constance Ford), whom Al is dating and hopes to marry.

Rod Serling's dialogue runs from rat-tat-tat exchanges to sullen confessions of failure. At times his love of language and varied rhythms seem too clever for the characters, yet nothing feels false. A hell of a balancing act. Serling would become best known for The Twilight Zone, but his Golden Age work (which included Patterns and Requiem For A Heavyweight) puts Serling in the same company as Paddy Chayevsky and Gore Vidal.

John Frankenheimer's direction is simply awe-inspiring. I don't know how many cameras he used for The Comedian, but there seem to be dozens at the oddest angles. Remember, this was a live, 90 minute show. I can only imagine the frenzy in Frankenheimer's control booth. Given the number of cuts, swift close-ups (cameras roll right up to the actors' faces which seem pressed against ours), and long dolly shots where characters walk casually in and out of frame, Frankenheimer's effort becomes more impressive with each viewing.

But it's the cast that truly shines. This is easily Mickey Rooney's best performance. He gives Sammy Hogarth every awful showbiz trait while hitting his marks and sailing through crowd scenes with a light, brutal touch. Rooney saves the real brutality for the one-on-one scenes. You're sickened by his sadism as you marvel at his timing.

Mel Tormé and Kim Hunter remind us of what live TV acting was once like: raw emotion, intensity, commitment. No cue cards or teleprompters: memorization and direct eye contact. Their arguments are hard to watch, but you do, however awful you feel witnessing a crumbling marriage. Edmond O'Brien acts as if he's on death row, which essentially he is. If a sadder comedy writer ever existed on American television, I'd be hard pressed to name him or her. The Sammy Hogarth Show is a literal meat grinder. Alan Brady's writers wouldn't survive the first commercial break.

If you live in the States, you can watch The Comedian on Hulu. For those outside our envied shores, you can order The Comedian from the good people at The Criterion Collection. I avoided revealing spoilers so that you may enjoy this time capsule personally. Absorb some brilliant energy from over a half century ago.

Blow Me Down

2011-05-19T10:07:00.007-04:00

O'Donoghue surrounds me. I've compared writing this book to writing Mr. Mike, only I'm more in control and this one is better written. Still, Michael's spirit is present.

I saw him recently in a vivid dream. I haven't seen Michael since the Mr. Mike years, when he appeared in my dreams to help with problems, answer questions. (He even visited Nan, who was stressed about the process, telling her that the book would be fine.) We met in the wings of a theater featuring some comedy show. He looked to be in his forties -- short hair, light beard, clear plastic glasses. He wasn't smoking, which surprised me. He was very genial, upbeat.

"How you doing, Dennis?"

"Michael! I have so much to tell you!"

"I already know."

Michael's voice soothed me. His snickering laugh reassuring. He seemed not to have a care. We caught up, hugged, then he disappeared through the curtains. I awoke right after, his presence tangible in the room.

Michael's visit wasn't the only reminder of earlier days. I've been getting more O'Donoghue mail than usual, mostly younger guys asking questions, one of which is, How would O'Donoghue view today's America? I have a pretty good idea, but people change, even influential humorists. I do know this: Michael couldn't stand Dennis Miller when he was considered "good"; I doubt that Michael would embrace Miller's current reactionary act.

Yesterday on my Twitter feed, the gifted comic actor Michael McKean wrote "Someone needs to hunt up a copy of Michael O'Donoghue's letter to the LA Herald-Examiner." I replied that I had several copies. MM asked that I post it. So I am.

Some background.

When Lorne Michaels returned to SNL in 1985, he brought along several veterans from the original show. Al Franken and Tom Davis were producers; Jim Downey head writer. O'Donoghue was also hired, but Michael didn't want to write for the live show. His battles with Lorne and Standards led him to leave after the third season. He desired no more of that. Basically, Michael wanted to be paid to stay home and write short films, a la Albert Brooks and Tom Schiller. The producers accepted. Michael's name appeared in SNL's closing credits.

As SNL geeks know, the 1985-86 year was a disaster. Tom Davis called it a Death Ship. The first show, hosted by Madonna, tanked on all fronts. Critics sank their yellow teeth into the episode, taking delight in how badly it came off. Gregg Kilday, a TV writer for the Los Angeles Herald-Tribune, saw O'Donoghue's name in the credits and assumed that he contributed to the mess. Most critics called the Madonna show tasteless, and who was best known for tasteless comedy? Problem was, Kilday's assumption was wrong.

One sketch received particular attention -- National Inquirer Theatre. It featured Madonna as Marilyn Monroe being attacked by John, Robert, and Ted Kennedy, with only Elvis Presley to protect her. The King fails, and Marilyn is smothered to death by a villainous JFK. When O'Donoghue read Kilday's column, he reached for his typewriter. Here's the letter in full.

* * *

Nov. 22nd

Listen dickwad . . .

You made two mistakes in your Tuesday 12th review of Saturday Night Live on page two of the L.A. Herald-Examiner:

Mistake #1 -- I didn't contribute a sentence, a word, a syllable, a fucking dust mote to SNL's opening show so don't blame me if it turned out to be a big bowl of fucking dog snot. Yes the Marilyn Monroe sketch was lacking in wit and so was every other sketch on the show but it sure as fuck was lacking in my wit because I don't work on the live show! I'm hired only to write and direct short films/videos.

On real newspapers -- as opposed to the tar-pit pennysaver you work for -- they have this novel policy of "checking the facts" before writing a story. Here are the facts --

FACT -- The Marilyn Monroe sketch was written by producers Tom Davis and Al Franken, head-writer Jim Downey and staffer George Meyer.

FACT -- Almost everything else on the premiere show was written by Davis, Franken and Downey.

FACT -- My agreement with Lorne Michaels is only to write and direct short film/videos.

FACT -- These short film/videos will begin with the credit "WRITTEN AND DIRECTED BY MICHAEL O'DONOGHUE" so that mentally-challenged TV reviewers will be able to identify them.

FACT -- The only thing you did before shooting your mouth off was to pull out the donkey dong you were gnawing on.

Let me put it in upper case so that even a screaming jizzbag like you with a Bundt cake for a brain and the I.Q. of an eggtimer can grasp it -- I HAD NOTHING TO DO WITH SNL'S FIRST SHOW; I HAD NOTHING TO DO WITH THE SECOND SHOW; I WILL HAVE NOTHING TO DO WITH THE THIRD SHOW; AND, IN ALL LIKELIHOOD, I WON'T HAVE ANYTHING TO DO WITH SHOWS FOUR, FIVE AND SIX!!! Can you "dig it," touchhole?? Am I getting through???

In the great Southern California tradition of airhead journalism, I'm sure you don't give a flying fuck about "Truth" nor would you accept culpability (Look it up!) for your errors so I don't expect an apology or a retraction. I write this only as a Zen exercise. And you can return to your work in the flak factory retyping press handouts from the Amanda Foundation.

Mistake #2 -- You were much too easy on the show.

Let me close with the sincere hope that you and everyone you love catches rectal cancer and dies screaming.

. . .Blow me,

Michael O'Donoghue

* * *

The brutal irony is that Michael died screaming. Wishing painful death on others isn't karmically wise. Still, no one wrote a poisoned letter like Mr. Mike. Imagine anyone now connected with SNL attacking the press this way. Wouldn't happen. The corporate lock down is complete. That said, this outburst didn't help Michael back then. When he later told the New York Times that SNL '85 lacked heart, intelligence and that he gave it an F, Michael was fired. None of his films/videos were completed or aired.

Michael told me that writing for SNL was "hot," that he loved the money and access. It's fitting that his final SNL gig consisted of getting paid to publicly trash the show. Only Michael O'Donoghue could pull that off.

Again With The Hope

2011-05-17T09:16:00.009-04:00

The sad thing about Donald Trump's announcement is that it makes him Obama's moral better. Unlike the incumbent, Trump has no stomach for the serious meat. Photo ops and bad television seem enough for him, and we can all be thankful for that.

When I posted this on Facebook and Twitter, a few wondered what I meant by "moral better." Do I believe Trump to be a moral man? Based on available evidence, no I don't. My point is that Trump lacks the fire, if not the money, to make a serious run at the White House. Instead of milking a charade for the cameras, Trump packed it in before he started. You can't say that about Obama who hungered for state power and allied with anyone who could boost him. Yes We Can was brilliant cover, conning scores of gullible Americans. Obama did this with eyes open and hand over heart. At least Trump spared us that disgusting sight.

Still, it's too bad that Trump and Mike Huckabee have bailed from the Sweepstakes. The entertainment factor dropped considerably. Sarah Palin's still around, but her act is tired, a winking cliché. The surprise factor is gone. Liberals try to inflate Palin's specter so they can puncture it, yet this too has been done. Gingrich is an even bigger retread than Palin. Ron Paul will attack the war state, which reactionaries and liberals will vocally defend. So, barring an unforeseen candidacy, this leaves us Mitt Romney, who scarcely inspires. The only possible friction between him and Obama might be over the health care shell game, but this would be more about authorship than the crisis millions of Americans still face.

It's still early and anything can happen, but Obama looks very hard to beat. His expansion of Bush/Cheney war powers strengthens his profile. His service to corporate rule guarantees elite backing. I'm not sure what Romney, or any Republican, can offer that Obama's not already done. This helps explain the paucity of the GOP field. The election is Obama's to lose; and judging by how much he enjoys the imperial perch, it'll take a serious domestic shift to unseat him.

Many American liberals love this. They haven't had such a lock since Bill Clinton in 1996. And as with Clinton, liberals aren't terribly concerned with Obama's actual policies. For most, having a Democratic president is enough. No matter how draconian, violent, or corrupt a Dem administration is, Republicans are always worse. They just are. This is why I question making "progressive" noises during a campaign. There's no need for it. Liberals unconditionally support the Dems in elections, regardless of what a candidate says. Jonestown enjoyed more dissent.

Obama's presidency is the next logical step in eliminating whatever challenges to centralized power remain. If "progressives" didn't balk at Clinton's cruder corporate model, they sure as fuck aren't abandoning Obama's sleeker version. At this pace, we'll eventually have a mass murdering lesbian president in a wheelchair. Liberals will rejoice (FDR and Eleanor in one!) while reactionaries curse political correctness. The country will be broke, but only nihilists will care. Politics is all about compromise, even if you have no power to negotiate. Freedom ain't free.

New Tradition

2011-05-11T09:31:00.009-04:00

I was wrong about Osama bin Laden's execution. Incredibly, stupidly wrong. Some moral defect in my bitter mind led me astray. I've struggled with this for years. I nearly escaped once or twice, but my jackbooted soul kicked what decency I had down a concrete stairwell. Stomped its head. Kicked its face. Urinated on the body. It was a mess. Aspirin didn't help.

Then something happened. Right out of a Terminator movie. I forget which one. I think Part III. Anyway, after a night of heavy drinking a dim light beckoned. I stumbled toward it. As I got closer I realized it was an Exit sign. I'd passed out in the bar. Driving home, I saw people smiling. Old Glory waving. Children chasing bubbles blown by Detroit Lions cheerleaders. For the first time in memory, Americans felt safe to go outside. To see the sun. To breathe free air.

How can one scoff at such beauty?

As I thought about bin Laden receiving justice, face blown away, brains on the wall, a celestial presence consumed me. Total peace. I realized in that sacred moment that division is an illusion. That we are One. United. No one, not even the evilest motherfucker with a stupid name and bad teeth can tear us apart. For we are Chosen. Anointed. Forged in the spirit of greatness.

"American" no longer serves as national identification. Too soft, hesitant. Leaves us open for counterattack. Instead, call us the Death Suckers.

Mark Twain suggested that we replace the stars on the flag with the skull and crossbones. Twain was satirizing US "imperialism," yet if it wasn't for the Spanish-American War, we'd all be speaking Spanish-American today. So Twain got that wrong, but his flag idea still has potential. Let's leave the pirate symbol to Johnny Depp and Disney and create something really twisted. Something that will send our enemies to their knees, weeping for mercy, which of course we won't abide because we love death and death hates weeping.

How about Uncle Sam gnawing the severed head of a Muslim? Literal-minded, yes, but its deterrent power is inescapable. One look at that and young Muslims will think twice about arming themselves, much less committing violence. They'll ask, "Do I dare attack a white cannibal wearing a star-spangled top hat?" As they ponder that question, we'll turn them to mist with some choice drone strikes. The flag's stark image will give us room to kill more Muslims. It works on various levels.

But flags are static things. Retro appeals to nationalism. Maybe what's needed is an HD plasma flag, a field upon which we project whatever images appeal to us while making our enemies cringe like the cowards they are. Here we crank up the volume. Ideally it should be violent imagery, nuke blasts, napalm drops, executions, children crawling over charred corpses. Then we cut to gay bondage porn, NASCAR fights, drunken frat boys chanting, cable news hosts bellowing. Bring it to a mad boil.

Then the quiet kill. Images of crumbling cities and towns. Infrastructure collapsing. People struggling to survive. Teens abandoning hope. Crystal meth and gluttony. Ignorance, fear, despair. We make it clear that if we choose not to kill you, this is your alternate fate. Oh baby, the martyrs will rush to the slaughter. Our only problem will be body disposal. Then again, who gives a fuck. Scavengers must eat, too.

Pledge allegiance to the Death Suckers. Your sorry ass is ours.

Sage Me

2011-05-04T10:31:00.007-04:00

After enduring more American self-congratulation, I appreciate why H.L. Mencken was a Tory sniper.

I discovered Mencken through my friend Mark, a NYC stage actor who got a lot of TV/film work in LA. (He played Julia Louis-Dreyfus' boyfriend in Soul Man.) Mark's politics seemed libertarian, though he was skeptical of all faiths. He said I had the demeanor of "a cynical ex-communist," so reading the Sage of Baltimore might balance me out. He handed me his copy of The Mencken Chrestomathy, put a McKinney's Cotton Pickers 78 on his wind-up Victrola, sipped a beer and laughed.

At this point my political reading largely consisted of Hitchens and Cockburn in The Nation; Chomsky, whom I'd also just discovered; National Review editorials; literature from the Central American and South African solidarity movements; Maximum Rock and Roll, which kept the anarcho-punk vibe alive. Digging into Mencken gave me the weirdest kick yet.

He didn't seem to belong anywhere. He bashed capitalists, communists, socialists, reformers, farmers, tycoons, celebrities, Democrats and Republicans -- pretty much the American spectrum. His prose was archaic and electric. At times his critiques were so blistering that you imagined he was a sad and bitter man. Yet he appeared to be having fun.

Mencken made a serious impression on me. I spent months in the New York Public Library on 40th Street poring through bound back issues of The American Mercury, the monthly co-edited by Mencken and theater critic George Jean Nathan. The Mercury was early gonzo. During its heyday in the 1920s, the Mercury was celebrated, reviled, even prosecuted. In 1926, Boston banned the Mercury for obscenity, which inspired Mencken to visit Beantown where he was promptly arrested for selling a copy. It didn't stick. Mencken was released the next day, all charges dropped.

Not everything Mencken wrote jazzed me. I hated his characterizations of Baltimore's Black population, even though he embraced and promoted Harlem Renaissance writers. I don't recall him writing all that much on Jewish issues, though later he was accused of anti-Semitism, which may or may not have been true. (His closet friend was Alfred A. Knopf, but still.) Mencken despised nationalist organizations, singling out the Ku Klux Klan for special abuse. His scathing obituary of William Jennings Bryan influenced Hunter S. Thompson's attacks on Richard Nixon. Mencken was intelligent, rancorous, poetic. He was also an elitist who believed in natural hierarchies.

Underlying much of his commentary was a deep contempt for the general American population. Americans, by and large, were idiotic, ill-mannered, credulous, superstitious, petty, vain. They stomped on those below them and groveled before those above them. Americans were a mob of boobs, easily fooled by demagogues. At the time this disturbed me. I was also reading anarchist history and theory, the whole basis of which depended on the humanity and intelligence of average people. If the majority of Americans even remotely resembled Mencken's caricatures, then we were fucked. Bright-eyed mid-20s me didn't want to hear that.

While older me retains some faith in common intelligence and solidarity, it's not going to emerge in the United States. Not anytime soon. Reactionaries are crazy. Liberals cynical and craven. Radicals severely marginalized, scattered. Corporations run the show, bleeding us dry while fattening the One Percent. War is enshrined as a national virtue. Political ignorance and obedience are rewarded. Historical amnesia is at record levels.

Nobody seems to know what to do. So we drift along, finding glory in vengeance, believing what our owners say no matter how many times they change the official story. Chomsky claims that this is fertile ground for political organizing. Yeah, well, we'll see. Conditions are extremely different from the good old days of activism and agitation.

I'm sure that Mencken would have enjoyed the bin Laden circus. Favoring the death penalty, he'd have little problem with Osama's execution. Hating most religion, he'd doubtless rip apart Islam, though it would be better written than present-day Muslim bashing. Hating chanting mobs, he'd revel in coarse American self-righteousness as proof of his philosphy. Mencken would review it all with a knowing smile. Or maybe he'd be appalled by the current show and return to his grave. There's only so much a contrarian can take in life. Death must make it even more grating.

Killer Highs

2011-05-03T07:53:00.013-04:00

The key piece missing from the photo of the dead Osama bin Laden was an Obama 2012 bumpersticker taped over his mouth.* But that would violate the equal-time rule, and we'd have to tape Trump, Romney and Palin stickers over dead mouths throughout Afghanistan and Pakistan. First we need new monsters to fear, then assassinate. Bin Laden's a tough act to follow. But I trust our owners to find suitable replacements.

Oh, do you think that the wars are coming to a close? That once bin Laden bit it, we were finished? It's a nice thought. Maybe in another dimension. As William Burroughs reminded us, this is the War Universe. We ain't stopping. Judging from the reactions to Obama's hit, that seems to suit many Americans just fine.

I always hear, usually from radicals, that Americans are largely antiwar. If so, I sure as fuck don't see it. As I noted in 2008, Obama would effectively kill whatever antiwar sentiment lingered after Bush/Cheney, and he's done just that. Whacking bin Laden all but guarantees another term (pal Barry Crimmins says that bin Laden's death is 9/11 for Republicans), which means four more years of war, torture, and plunder.

Oh, do you think that in a second term, Obama's "true" progressive colors will blossom? Well, every vote is sacred. Primarily those predetermined.

I didn't scan all liberal celebrations, but I caught a fair share. Amid the self-satisfied fist pumping was a lot of Bush/Cheney bashing -- which is fine by me, yet it seems odd. It's as if liberals miss the Bush era where a good number of them cut their political teeth. Going back in time feeds some dissident urge. Since Obama's largely off-limits, especially now, and the current GOP crop is weak, Bush/Cheney fits their needs. The joke is that Obama has continued and expanded the Bush/Cheney Terror War scenario. It's not a particularly funny joke, but death humor is tricky to pull off.

At Facebook I made the mistake of crashing a few death parties some "friends" were throwing for each other. A couple are feminist/hippie types, so their blood lust was confusing at first glance. Stupid me, thinking hippies can't hate. Call them on their twisted fantasies then watch out. Some of the shit they were saying bent my mind. How they'd love to personally kill bin Laden, how sexy the assassination makes Obama look, how Their President is manlier than the previous president. I suggested that all this boasting and crowing was unbecoming, that they were better than that.

Woo boy. That didn't go over well. How dare I question their elation at this great American moment. I was smug, insufferable, self-righteous, and worst of all unfunny (oh dear -- not that!). They really didn't address anything I said, but when you're smoking the death weed, arguments are moot. It was as if they were posing with bin Laden's corpse, a la Abu Ghraib and Kill Teams in Afghanistan. I doubt that's something you want reflected back at you, especially when you sober up. If you sober up. The ease with which many liberals were whipped into a nationalist lather was surely not lost on their Dem keepers. That vein will be tapped again.

For a Global Terrorist Mastermind, Osama bin Laden seemed fairly unproductive and quiet for the better part of a decade. If he was indeed the brains behind the 9/11 attacks, then he got in one lucky deadly shot at the infidels. Attacks like that are rare simply because they're nearly impossible to succeed. Calling bin Laden a Mastermind is hyperbole. It gives him too much credit. Of course, it does help keep powerless consumers afraid and prepped for vengeance. For this, large, inflated monsters are necessary.

So what does Obama do for an encore? Mr. Gaddafi, I'm looking in your direction.

(*Seems that the photo I saw is a fake. So there's still a chance that Obama's bumpersticker sealed his mouth before the big splash. Killer brand positioning.)

Grave Dance Party

2011-05-02T10:24:00.001-04:00

Why can't we be more like Nelson Mandela or the Vietnamese people?

Mandela, imprisoned to hard labor for 27 years for resisting a racist state, forgave his jailers. His torturers. Those who wanted to see him hang. He did so smiling, laughing. It's one of the greatest moments for humanity I've ever witnessed. I'm still in awe of it and him.

The Vietnamese people even more so. You know the grisly record. What we did to their country. Jesus, it's still hard to get your head around it. Mind-blowing, genocidal violence. And yet, the Vietnamese people forgave us. Offered a friendly hand. Focused on a more positive future (whatever the geopolitical realities). How do you stay dry-eyed in the face of such beauty? I think most Americans have no idea what that means. If they did, we wouldn't be witnessing the present grave dancing.

We have a lot of growing up to do. We are spoiled children in a world where civilized people are considered our inferiors. I have more to say about the bin Laden circus, but I'm too sick and angry to do so now. Think I'll take a long walk. Hopefully, I won't be pelted by flags.

Parallel Hives

2011-04-28T09:50:00.016-04:00

Comment threads make me wet for the divine right of kings. Toxic levels of idiocy, piety, hatred, and warmongering run deep online, primarily at news sites (Yahoo is among the worst). I used to blast those hiding behind screen tags, calling them cowards for failing to show their true faces. But now I realize that anonymity is for the best. Better to think of them as fictional constructs rather than real people spouting vile opinions.

That's my concession to fantasy. Make believe softens the horror of being powerless in a corporate state. Recall that in Network, Howard Beale's top-rated TV show plummets in the ratings once Beale begins reciting the theories of his boss, Arthur Jensen. Beale's appeals to populist anger and action give his audience hope, however slight. After Jensen explains how the world really works and for whom, Beale loses his spark, his viewers, then his life. People need connection, crave relevance, desire some measure of power. Given present realities, fantasy is to be expected.

Corporate outlets eagerly assist in the process, peddling narratives that in a truly democratic society would be mocked if noted at all. When watching CNN or Fox, I wonder who buys such cheap, poorly-scripted propaganda. It's more self reinforcement for the educated classes than indoctrination of the lower orders, most of whom don't even watch cable news. Still, the fantasy remains for all: We The People matter. We are exceptional, unique, envied. Foreclosure and unemployment are part of freedom's price. War spreads our goodness to captive nations. Killing shows we care.

Recent Libya threads at various sites reveal the fantasy spectrum. Pro-interventionists believe they are resisting tyranny. Anti-interventionists believe they are defending radical sovereignty. That neither camp has any influence over events matters little. It's like playing flag football thinking that NFL scouts are watching. Yet, one must have a position. And when you take a position, you own the imaginary baggage that comes with it.

Take mass murder. Gaddafi's actual crimes aren't enough for supporters of drone attacks: they point to nonexistent massacres to bolster their arguments. If you don't cheer on aerial assaults, you have the blood of unmurdered thousands on your hands. How do they know this? Well, they apparently have access to a parallel universe where these massacres took place. They've seen the carnage and know who's responsible for it. Oddly enough, it's the people who hold opposing opinions.

Those opposed claim to know how Libya will be carved up and sold. Oil companies will run the show while imperial troops and mercenaries slaughter resisters. The US, which essentially lost the Iraq war and is barely hanging on in Afghanistan, will magically get it right in Libya. In a sense, these radicals share the patriots' view of an omnipotent America, whose influence over events increases in proportion to the alienation of those making claims. The real world is too chaotic and contradictory for comfort. Absolutist arguments help smooth things out; fantasy provides the glaze.

Obvious? Boring? Guilty. But then I'm back in isolation, facing countless blank pages. The little boy with a crew cut and cape awaits further adventures. I can't let the kid down, though I wince at what he'll face near the end of the volume. Putting it off by writing posts like this merely delays the inevitable. Good thing that boy's got a head full of fantasies. He'll need them.

Textures

2011-04-23T12:51:00.013-04:00

Tourists clog sidewalks, stare up at the skyline. Natives clog sidewalks, stare down at their phones.

At least tourists soak in the scenery. Natives are lost in pixels, mesmerized by corporate toys. Fish on hooks show more life.

Walking through lower Manhattan, sunny windy day, I passed several outdoor cafes. Kids at tables saying nothing. Everyone texted or checked email. Were they talking to each other through their toys? Or chatting with others far away? Whatever the case, they rarely looked up. Thumbs twitching. Faces blank.

Younger friends say I'm a reactionary fuck. Get with the program, pops. This is how it is today. They're right to call me out. I welcome it. I'm decidedly retro, embarrassingly so. But what is their alternative? Where does this text-tit sucking land? Are they bending corporate tools to express something uniquely theirs? Or are they docile consumers dazed by brands?

I know there are kids who talk to each other with their mouths. Who make steady eye contact. Who discuss ideas and desires without checking email every thirty seconds. But I rarely see them. I place my aging faith in spoken word undergrounds. Arab uprisings show the way. They use technology to undermine official narratives. To offer mutual support. To tell the world that they mean business. Smart/iPhones and laptops convey solidarity and resistance. Swords into plowshares is no marketed app.

Ah, romantic me. Still thinking there's a domestic out. I've never seen American culture so locked in. So derivative. Repetitive. Madison offered a brief taste of something better; but like Seattle '99, it has faded into the cacophony. It'll take many Madisons to ripple the national surface. And even then statist reaction will be punishing. It's almost as if they're daring us to use their tools against them. Judging from the general quiet, our owners have made a sure bet.

Gallery hopped with some friends Thursday night. Amid so much tameness and unoriginality (Pollock-like drips? Seriously?) stood a few striking images and concepts.

I was drawn to Ed Ruscha's photographs at the Yancey Richardson Gallery. His Gasoline Stations 1962-89 are time capsules for a long-dead America. Full service stations along two-lane highways. Detroit's imperial car-boats under Fina and TraveLodge signs. Sun beating down in the middle of nowhere. People unhurried, casual. An ancient pace. I'm old enough to remember that world, but young enough to appreciate faster times. Lined against each other, Ruscha's photos at first appear redundant. Get close. Sink in. Ghosts spring to life.

On to crowded Sikkema Jenkins & Co. There was much about Kara Walker's Dust Jackets for the Niggerati- and Supporting Dissertations I liked, drawings of subjugation, acceptance of assigned roles, acknowledged pain. An acquaintance balked at Walker's texts. "At least they're hand-printed on paper," I said. "Not the current bullshit version." She grinned, brushed me aside. Pseudo-Luddite charm goes only so far.

At Agora Gallery I discovered Jose A. Gallego. The brother spoke to me. His depictions of isolation and loneliness, based on images by Dali, Hopper and Caravaggio, are arresting. Jacques-Louis David - The Death of Marat (seen above), captures my writing conditions of late. Notebook and pen on the floor. Me slabbed out wherever. Replace the needles with beer bottles and blunts, and it's pretty much the same. But what really grabbed me was this piece, Place 0003.

I know this building from numerous dreams. Either I'm living there or trying to find an exit. Walls near collapse. Floors giving way. Strangers huddled in hallways. Many times I meet a woman who seems familiar, her face fluctuating in dream shadow. I go down on her, soft moans rising until I'm thrown down a peeling stairwell. Frustration. Regret. I wander dark corridors in search of her, finding nothing but dead ends. My sole escape is waking up in a sweat.

If only there was a dream GPS.

Roadie

2011-04-19T13:34:00.003-04:00

Off to NYC. Will check in soon. Until then, get hip to this.

Distractions

2011-04-15T08:13:00.021-04:00

Working on this book makes me pine for the first one. No soft nostalgia there, which should tell you what a motherfucker the current one is.

I often wonder how I finished Mr. Mike. Clearly, that was a different person. Scoring the gig won me few friends. Belushi had been burned by Bob Woodward, and mine was the next SNL bio. Skepticism was the kindest gesture I received. Dismissal and hostility were the main, early reactions.

Timothy White was the first to register his complaint. I worked as a copy editor under White at Billboard magazine. He became Billboard's editor in chief after a successful Rolling Stone run writing hip celebrity profiles. One of his pieces was about O'Donoghue, with whom White became close friends. When I got the book deal and quit Billboard to work on it, I asked White for an interview. He was there during O'Donoghue's Mondo Video mess. I was sure he had some stories. Had I shit in White's mouth, I couldn't have gotten a worse reaction.

He flipped out. "IT'S TOO SOON! IT'S TOO SOON!" he kept yelling in my face. "Who are you? What have you done? H.P. Lovecraft didn't get his biography for a century! Your book's gonna be bullshit gossip!"

White had a Jay Lenoish voice that made his rant nearly comic. His dandy costume of white buck shoes, pinstriped shirt and bow tie added to the effect. But he was very angry. Apparently, White assumed that he would be O'Donoghue's biographer. That some nobody copy editing scrub took what was rightfully his sent White round the bend.

Months later, I tried White again. His secretary coolly stated that White would never talk to me, under any circumstances. So that was that. Several years later, White died of a heart attack in a Viacom Building elevator. I have no idea whether or not he read my book.

White was the least of it. Despite having Cheryl Hardwick's blessing, various Lampoon and SNL vets wanted nothing to do with me. Most who did were very cautious and openly suspicious. It was a shock absorbing negative emotion from these comedy influences, but I plowed through it. What choice did I have? My wife and I just moved to Park Slope, Brooklyn, five-year-old daughter and newborn son in tow. I'd deposited the first advance check. There was no going back.

After a year of interviews and research (O'Donoghue's massive file system the main source), I began writing the manuscript, which filled me with anxiety. Michael O'Donoghue's life was literally in my hands. People whose work I revered were waiting for the result. That's when the stomach pain began. Sleepless nights. Cigarette smoking. Gin guzzling. I needed distraction. Nan suggested I join a health club on Grand Army Plaza. Swimming, basketball, weights. This appealed to me, so I signed up.

Within weeks I was going to the gym almost daily. I wrote at night, primarily between 11 PM and 6 AM, then would head to the club to shoot hoops. At the beginning I shot alone, mostly working on free throws. It was a quiet meditative space. I worked out various problems with the book at the foul line. Then a smaller compact man began showing up. We chatted, shot around, eventually played one-on-one, breaking really good sweats.

Rob was an ex-addict of some kind trying to get into shape. He spoke cryptically of his life, never giving too much away. I had no idea what he did, but on the court it didn't matter. Rob was as friendly as he was tenacious in a game. Eventually he asked if a friend of his could join in.

Rob's friend was John Turturro, who lived nearby. John was open while knowing people were staring at him, his intensity warmer than some of the lunatics he played on film. The gym's Haitian janitor Otto rounded out our two-on-two games as we regularly switched sides to keep it fresh.

John rarely jumped, having a height advantage on the rest of us. He also played hard defense. Once I drove to the hole looking to score the game's winning point. Turturro slammed me to the floor. No gimmes on game winners. Somehow I got the ball away and didn't know I hit the shot until John pulled me off the paint. "And one," he said, smiling.

Between games, John and I argued sports. A die-hard Knicks fan, John insisted that Patrick Ewing was the NBA's best center. This was 1997. Ewing's prime was past. Alonzo Mourning was the best all-around center if not player in the league, with Shaquille O'Neal right behind him. John flashed that crazy Turturro face from Do The Right Thing. "What -- are you high on LSD?!" I couldn't tell if he was kidding, but confessed that I wasn't hallucinating. Maybe I dreamed the whole thing. It feels that way from this distance.

John left to make a movie. (I asked if it was with the Coens. He smirked. Lebowski?) Rob and I returned to our little battles. As Mr. Mike came together, I spent less time at the gym. I saw Rob now and then, but that phase was over. Nothing intentional; just an NYC thing.

Later I learned that my hoops pal was Robert Longo, an acclaimed artist and director who worked with REM, New Order, and The Replacements. (The above image is from Rob's celebrated Men In Cities series.) He never said a word about his work. Rob was just a guy trying to lose weight. Knowing Turturro should have tipped me off to something, but in the city, relationships are varied, fluid. I gave it no thought.

The gym was a healthy distraction from Mr. Mike, which consumed the rest of my life, strained my young marriage, pushed me to the creative and emotional limit. The pressure of the new book is different, darker in parts with no serious distraction. Just me and the text. Anyone up for some H-O-R-S-E?

Measured Worth

2011-04-13T11:38:00.008-04:00

Shelly says she has Japanese radiation poisoning. I'd like to believe her, but Shelly lies so casually that trusting her is foolish. Yet she stirs passion in me. I've long loved wrong women, beautiful faces masking ugly emotions. Finding beauty minus nasty is fruitless. I stopped trying ages ago. This led to inevitable pain, but those sweet fleeting moments were worth it. My only regret is that I lacked the strength to make the pain last another day.

Shelly wants me to check her skin. She stands over me, freckled thighs covered by a baby blue skirt. She lifts the skirt slightly, points to what she claims is a rash. I see nothing but soft flesh. Shelly sobs, pushes her leg against my face. "Kiss the cancer away," she demands, and I do, moving up her thigh in case the cancer has spread. Shelly moans then slaps my face. "Asshole!" She walks away, stops at the bathroom, runs her hand along the back of her right thigh. She shoots me a shitty look, then slams the bathroom door. Running water cannot cover her screams.

Love is in the air.

Miles of strip malls rot away, weeds sprouting through the cracks. Kids play in these ruins, oblivious to the carnage. They run through dead showrooms and markets. They crash rusting carts into peeling walls. They jump on the corpse, screaming, cursing. No one stops them or counsels safety. Adults are too busy staving off more death. When the next mile of ghost lots emerge, kids will descend once again. Playing in failure and misery makes them happy. At least we left them that.

It's been an hour since the last blast. Maybe they're tired. Maybe it's a dinner break. We sit in candle-lit darkness trying to retain our sanity. Our block has been spared, but two streets over it's a fiery mess. Dense smoke. Loud cries. Doubtless many bodies. We don't know for sure. We're not going over to check. Some people from that block have staggered down our street, dazed, scarred. But they said nothing. We haven't seen them or anyone else for days.

We're told to be patient, that soon we'll be free. Let the missiles work their magic and a better world will arrive. Any world where missiles don't rain down is fine by us. Until then, some electricity would be nice. Drinkable water, too.

(Photo by Sam Holden)

Feathered, Not Stirred

2011-04-08T06:39:00.013-04:00

Sleep pattern shot. Up at all hours. Daylight savings meaningless. Write, drink, read news reports. So much suffering. Endless corruption and lies. Immediacy makes it unreal. Anxiety. Sadness.

Time for Everything's Ducky!

Released in 1961, Everything's Ducky pairs Mickey Rooney with Buddy Hackett, the unlikeliest comedy team since Buster Keaton and Jimmy Durante. The boys play hapless sailors stuck on a desert missile base, their military careers at a dead end. One day their commander orders them to release a lab duck into the wild. Soon the sailors discover that the duck, Scuttlebutt, can talk, so they plot betting schemes to make their fortune (Scuttlebutt successfully negotiates for a third of the cut).

Problem is, Scuttlebutt's a martini addict, and when drunk he screws up the boys' plans. He also reveals knowledge of a secret equation for a new missile guidance system. Once the Navy brass finds out, they want to remove Scuttlebutt's brain. Rooney and Hackett play interference, trying to save the duck's life.

I won't give away the ending. It makes no sense, but considering the overall film, to be expected. Rooney and Hackett are energetic, working routines so flat, so obvious, so bad they earn your respect. They really want us to believe they have chemistry, but the half-baked bits undermine them. It's sad that the film's rich premise generated such lazy writing. The entire plot revolves around a smart-ass alcoholic genius duck. You can't write decent jokes for that?

Yes, a talking drunk duck is gold in itself, so the temptation to let the image carry the story is great. Clearly it was yielded to here. And yet Everything's Ducky is fascinating and funny to watch. The cast (filled with period character actors like Richard Deacon, James Millhollin, and Alvy Moore, who was later Hank Kimball on Green Acres, a show that knew how to write for talking animals) plays this absurdity absolutely straight. But the real meat is Scuttlebutt, played by veteran voice man Walker Edmiston.

Edmiston's Scuttlebutt sounds like a cross between Edward Everett Horton and Hans Conried. He even throws in a brief Cary Grant impression. Despite this, you end up rooting for Scuttlebutt. You don't want the Navy to chop off his head and scoop out his brain. You might want to drink with him, though after a couple martinis Scuttlebutt gets loud and obnoxious. Then again, how often do you get loaded with a duck? Especially one who knows advanced calculus?

Given deepening human madness and environmental chaos (at least to us), it's soothing to know that at one moment in time, professional adults gathered to make a movie about a talking, booze-swilling duck. The result could have been better -- hell, in sharper comedy hands, it would be a classic -- but knowing that Everything's Ducky exists blunts some of life's sting. May Scuttlebutt stay buzzed in Happy Hour heaven.

Way Of The Dawg

2011-04-05T09:34:00.006-04:00

The dream was near, but not to be.

Some of my better-educated friends wonder why I follow sports, much less get excited by the games. Barry Crimmins isn't one of them. As he said to me last week, when it comes to certain games and specific teams, talking to us is like talking to a kid wearing a ball cap and chewing bubble gum. It's a primal state, perhaps arrested development. The passion we feel transcends higher thinking. Rationally discussing it is a sucker's game.

Butler's basketball team had an amazing season. Cliché but true. How they got to the final tournament game baffled most experts, yet we who follow them know that's how Butler does it -- grit, discipline, focus, luck. When Butler's on a roll, wonderful things fall into place. Last night's performance against UConn blew up that model from 80 different angles. It was the worst tournament game I've seen Butler play. UConn's size, length, and speed had a lot to do with that. But the Bulldogs had plenty of open looks. They simply couldn't sink a shot. For an Indiana team, that was most baffling of all.

Sports fans attach varied emotions to their teams. Mostly it's tribal, a lot of times just wanting to be identified with a winner. For me, it's largely autobiographical. Butler University plays an influential part in my psyche. Whenever I'm in Indy, I stroll through the small campus, memories vivid then gone as a group of kids walk past me. Kids who weren't alive when I walked in their place. At Butler I became politically aware and creatively emboldened. I forged relationships that still exist. I enjoyed some of the best times of my life there. I'm also a huge basketball fan. I'm a Hoosier. It comes with the membership.

Butler's run in the past two years animated all this and more. It's rare that I care this much for a team (not even my New York Jets match it), but the way Butler played, their tenacity and spirit, being in a place where luck ceases to surprise, inspired me. A close friend recently connected Butler with The Project. "What you're doing is like how Butler plays," she said. "You scrap, dive for loose balls, trust your instincts, combine head and heart. You are Butler."

Coming from her, this meant a lot. She's not only a Butler grad, she also taught there, as did her father, who worked closely with Tony Hinkle, the founder of Butler basketball. She lives her life the Butler Way: humble, strong, serving others, primarily in the developing world. It's a genuine mindset, and I'm flattered to be associated with it. And yes, I've had nights where my material hit around 18 percent. So I can imagine how Butler's team feels today. But it's okay. We get off the floor and go back to work. It's what we do. We're Butler.

Broken Roads Meet

2011-03-30T12:57:00.007-04:00

Memories of LA comedy run mainly through Ray Combs. I'd done improv at the Improv, some stray stand up, but writing for Ray put me near the real game.

Ray's comedy wasn't really mine. I'd been submitted to Letterman and SNL by the time I was 25, but youth and the lack of Harvard connections worked against me. (Letterman was nice enough to perform a concept from my submission). Ray was about to break open in LA. He loved my writing and wanted whatever "edge" I could lend him without losing his theme park appeal. So west I went, moving in with Ray and his family.

There are so many stories about my time with Ray. I've shared a couple here, but I'm saving the choice ones for the book. It was an unreal experience. I saw firsthand how Hollywood comedy worked and it intimidated me. I'd adapted quickly to New York, but LA was a larger beast. I rarely felt comfortable in its presence. When offered entry I fled east. The space-time continuum apparently demanded it.

Interviewing SNL and National Lampoon vets for Mr. Mike was a more pleasant experience. This took me all over LA and into the Valley (those exciting pre-GPS days), and I got to talk humor with several influences. I stayed with Nelson Lyon, O'Donoghue's writing partner and the chief model for the Mr. Mike character. Nelson was intense, quick, brilliant. He had connections everywhere, from William S. Burroughs to Devo. Tall, strong, shaven head, clad in black, Nelson made LA tolerable for me (haunting, too -- John Belushi's spirit reportedly occupied the house where his final drug binge began). Yet still I felt a tremendous distance.

It had been 15 years since my last LA visit. Life since then changed in ways I'd never anticipated, forging a tougher mindset from that eager first-time author. Despite lingering anxiety, I was ready to perform, confident in my material and approach. Friends advised that I avoid the standard venues. In the main rooms, comedy is pretty much the same on both coasts. But unlike New York, where to my knowledge only a few alternative outlets exist, LA offers a variety of stages that avoid the typical stand-up conga lines of self-hatred and diminished expectations.

I didn't have time to check out every alternate stage, but Barry Crimmins sped the process along by getting me on a late night bill. Ron Lynch, a Boston comedy veteran and regular at Barry's Ding Ho club in the 1980s, hosts a weekly show at the Steve Allen Theater on Hollywood Boulevard called Tomorrow. Every Saturday at midnight, Ron and a guest emcee present comedians, musicians, storytellers, performance artists, and random What the fuck was that? acts to a young, energetic audience. This is no open mic; each act is distinctive from the other. After a year of honing my act amid the steady bleakness of the New York scene, Ron's approach exhilarated me. Actual variety. What an idea!

It's a measure of Barry's influence and belief in my Project that Ron accepted me without question. Ron didn't know me, had never seen my act, but based on Barry's word he put me in his show. Pressure to excel existed, but Ron was welcoming and open to whatever I wanted to do.

There were several stand up approaches I considered, ideas that received stares in NYC. But The Project's not strictly a stand up vehicle. The point of stand up was to regain my stage legs, establish flow, sharpen my improv skills regardless of reception. My year on those sad New York stages helped in ways I hadn't considered. Those rough nights proved vital. At times I wondered what the fuck I was I doing. Now it makes perfect sense.

I told Ron that I wanted to give a reading. I hadn't attempted this back east, but wanted to try for some time. Ron said sure, keep it to 10 minutes or so, and have fun. Fun! That's a word I've not heard since going back on stage. And fun is what Ron's Tomorrow show is all about.

The show opened with music and singing by The Damselles and The TC4, sassy upbeat numbers that set the night's tone. They were followed by Ron and David Higgins, a character actor best known for his role as Craig Feldspar on Malcolm in the Middle. Before hitting the sitcom jackpot (he was also a regular on Ellen before she became the gay Oprah), David was part of a trio called The Higgins Boys and Gruber that made an alternative comedy mark. (David's brother Steve is Jimmy Fallon's announcer/sidekick.) Ron and David were casual but sharp, their timing professional, assured. They engaged the audience, mostly twentysomethings, feeding an anticipatory energy. The mood was playful, absurdist, but never mean or cruel. Laughter and applause felt -- dare I say it? -- humane. Everyone present shared it. How could you not respond in kind?

Ron and David introduced me by mentioning Mr. Mike, eliciting favorable recognition. It still amazes me how many people love that book. I regularly receive emails from kids who've just discovered it. Being billed as an author made my reading seem natural. I walked to the mic, papers in hand. The first page was heavily shadowed by the lights, and I adjusted several times to get a clear view. The audience assumed this was intentional and began laughing. So I played off that and stretched the fidgety silence a bit more. Finally, I read a recent piece from my blog:

"Shadow dog fighting spares canine lives, but it's pointless to bet on. Yet there's always a rube who picks the shadow. You feel bad taking his money until you remember that money buys commodities that bring pleasure to life. Then you remember that you're a Buddhist and that all life is suffering. You try to remember why you became a Buddhist in the first place. As you strain to remember, you run a red light and kill a pedestrian. You smile at the irony and hit the gas. Suffering at home beats suffering in prison."

Step back and bow. Laughter and scattered applause. They weren't sure what this was or where I was going, but they embraced it. Such is the vibe at Ron's show. I followed with some TV series pitches as the audience played producers looking to buy. They bought into the premise, reacting favorably to shows like Pussy Hunt with David Spade and Queer Heil for the Skeletal Gal with Ann Coulter. What surprised me was how much they liked Get Off My Lawn, Man, a vanity project where I harangue kids about my generation's superior music and comedy, doing Python and SNL routines in my robe amid uncut grass. Looking at me, they probably thought it was too real to be a parody.

I closed with a remembrance of an older woman I long ago dated, her two loves being fried rabbit and Jesus. My tone instantly shifted, but the audience went along. They appreciated what I did and the love was mutual. My Boston gig with Barry was great; those nights when I connected in New York stand out. But this was something deeper. I wanted more the instant I got offstage.

In the reception area I met one of The Walsh Brothers, Chris, whose set with sibling David was perhaps the evening's highlight. The Brothers combine a traditional comedy team approach with odd theatrical choices, no fourth wall (Chris came to the stage by climbing over the audience, yelling, spilling popcorn everywhere), contrasting energies that complement their pieces. This was the kind of comedy I vainly sought in New York.

Chris and I traded compliments. He told me how much he enjoyed Mr. Mike and that O'Donoghue influenced his work. This gladdened me. If only Michael could see some of his offspring, I thought. More importantly, Chris lacked any noticeable cynicism. When he talked about his humor, he was positive and inspired. Yet another difference, but I think by now I've driven that point well into your skull.

David Higgins was even sweeter. Chatting after the show, I told David how much my son loves him on Malcolm in the Middle. "You have a camera?" he asked. I had a Flip which I used to tape my set. "Let's say hi to Henry," David said.

Henry beamed when he saw the tape. Craig Feldspar hanging with his Dad, talking directly to him. A beautiful ending to a wonderful night and uplifting visit. I don't know if LA is in my immediate future, but I plan to return. I'm starting to see The Project's effect, a promise beginning to unfold.

Kill Buzz

2011-03-24T09:02:00.006-04:00

Is Libya still getting shelled? I stepped away from all media, took a walk through campus, encountered no urgency, elation, fear, or disgust. And certainly no protests. Michigan students love Obama almost as much as they love themselves. Gazing on their smug young faces, you'd never know we were throttling Libya. So I figured that Obama shot his Humanitarian load and we were back to just three wars.

Alas, no. To be expected. At this point, if we aren't attacking a smaller, poorer country, we'd have to check the mirror to see if it's still us. Americans are supposedly tired of the Terror Wars. If so, they're sure fucking quiet about it. That's the beauty of a privatized military: it kills and destroys with little public connection. If you know no one in uniform, chances are you don't think about cruise missile strikes or kill teams turning their prey into fetish items. Fifty people vaporized in an instant doesn't register. That you pay for it and it's done in your name stirs nothing. An Afghan child's severed arm landing at your feet might move you if the song on your iPod wasn't so awesome.

Several readers and friends suggest that I write an updated version of Savage Mules. "You called it!" they say. Well, I did, but so what? No clairvoyant skills were needed to see where Obama was obviously heading. And despite some wounded supporters and soured fans, Obama retains solid liberal allegiance. Especially with re-election time approaching. So revising Mules would be wasted energy. What more can one say about Democrats and endless war?

Those critical of Obama's adventure lean heavily on constitutional arguments. When you base your concern on the Constitution, the game's pretty much over. The Constitution, Bill of Rights, Declaration of Independence, Poor Richard's Almanack, and Thomas Jefferson's French porn stash mean nothing to our betters, and rarely apply to everyday life. "It's the law!" some shout, hands over star-spangled hearts. The President of the United States bound by law. How cute. Nixon understood: when the president does it, it's not illegal. Nixon's faux pas was openly admitting it. Thank God we have a man in the White House with better manners.

Reading comment threads at liberal sites (primarily Crooked Timber and Mother Jones, where David Corn auditioned to be Obama's George Stephanopoulos), "the law" was tossed around a lot. Pro-war libs countered by favorably citing the War Powers Act, something I doubt many of them did during Bush's reign. But Obama's different, Libya's not Iraq, these cruise missiles care, and as with Serbia we're bombing for moral reasons.

What's striking about pro-war libs is how good Obama's assault makes them feel. Many appear in blissful moods, like they just donated clothes and canned goods to the local mission. They are only too happy to help Libyan rebels -- whoever they are, or whatever beliefs they may hold. It really doesn't matter, so long as American liberals feel better about themselves.

Of course, this is all in their heads. Exulting over the Boer War would have the same political impact. Maybe that's the key to happiness: finding a war you like and playing it over and over in your mind. You can even change outcomes, reverse losses, establish post-war utopias where your support for the struggle is celebrated and taught to children.

Think I'll go with the Federation against the Romulan Empire. Those mad dog butchers have been flouting decency and suppressing democracy for too long. Give me full power, Scotty! Sulu, fire main phasers!

This Time For Sure

2011-03-21T09:21:00.010-04:00

Our latest Humanitarian exercise follows a worn script, players pro and con assuming their standard roles. It's so predictable it's funny. You'd think that after a decade of constant war in numerous countries, our betters would whip up a different scenario, for variety's sake if nothing else. But I'm a romantic. I like to believe that people crave originality. Yet the sad reality is that Americans happily feed on redundant themes, the simpler the better. And you can't get much simpler than violence wrapped in piety. If we don't save the world, who will?

Bill Hicks once likened US foreign policy to old westerns where a gunman forces an unarmed man to pick up a pistol and then kills him when he does. But I think our national values are closer to The Sopranos -- armed sociopaths trying to maintain their power and wealth by any means necessary. And if a former friend/ally/business partner becomes inconvenient, two in the back of his head. Bada bang. It's only business.

I had my doubts about a Western assault on Libya. I didn't think it would happen. It made no sense. But I stupidly disregarded a sudden imperial shift, and for that I apologize. No matter how closely Gaddafi worked with imperial powers, he wasn't one of them. His early defiance (The Most Dangerous Man in the World, recall) suggested potential deviation, and a Sopranos foreign policy can't risk that. Plus, Gaddafi is easily demonized. He plays his role with relish. So sending cruise missiles his way is simple to justify. Obama sounded bored announcing it.

I'm not sure what the end game is here. Even if I did know, it wouldn't matter. (Friend Richard Seymour offers what I think is the best explanation.) We have zero power over our owners, who can bomb any country they want with no public input or debate. The real comedy comes when public commentators act as if their two cents have currency.

Some of the pro-bombing arguments I've read are true howlers, filled with ass-kickin' rhetoric and testaments to nobility. In an earlier day I'd link to them, mock them, engage them. But I lack desire to exchange flames with pro-war liberals. You probably know who they are, and if not, you're better off.

Trading insults won't stop these expanding wars, nor will heroic postures save Libyan lives. We are mere spectators to violence and power. Pretending that our concerns matter to those pushing launch buttons delays any chance at liberation. The sooner we accept our powerlessness, the closer we'll be to forging actual politics.

Then again, I'm a romantic.

Soul Scrub

2011-03-16T11:09:00.005-04:00

Steady helicopter noise overhead. Sex dream fades to Apocalypse Now imagery. Awaken to police state paranoia.

What the fuck's going on out there?

Throw on my robe and go to the patio. A Channel 5 News copter hovers low. Walk back in and turn on Channel 5. Aerial shot of posh Venice Beach house. Lindsay Lohan's inside. She's late for court. Several news crews are waiting her out, but Channel 5 has the choice angle.

I fall back into bed. Warm sea air from the open window. Despite the incessant chopper, I feel real peace. I used to hate Los Angeles, at best tolerate it for work purposes. But this time around there's connection.

Age, divorce, a fresh turn in life contribute, sure; but this tiny Venice Beach bungalow has altered my mind. I'm actually happy for most of the day. Filled with energy and love. For me, this is revolution. I've tapped this vein occasionally through life, yet balked at full immersion. Sitting out on the colorful patio, lamps in the trees, Buddhist sculptures amid palms, a bluebird that's used to being fed flying around me, looking for a snack, I'm content.

After a tumultuous few months, The Project is back on track. It now runs deeper than just performance and words -- it's a living, evolving organism. It's not only changing me, but a few others around me. What it means I've no real idea. But it's tangible, and LA has added fresh oxygen.

I came out here to perform, write, meet some industry people and see friends. Memories of earlier LA trips made me anxious before this one. I wasn't sure if this was the right move and felt fear. But the same was true a year ago when I went back into the clubs. Part of The Project is about breaking through these walls. LA has lingered negatively in my mind. It was time to engage it full out.

I'd never been to Venice Beach. The boardwalk lives up to its cinematic depictions. But away from the tourists and gangs of loud kids, Venice is quiet, lush, bohemian. Architecture varies, Mies van der Rohe next to adobe. Abbot Kinney caters to hipsters and yuppies, but is pleasant to walk along. The ocean air is bracing. People are very friendly. I've had amusing conversations with complete strangers while waiting for a WALK light. Long-haired and Afro kids strum guitars and beat drums on bright grass. Sweet weed scent permeates. It all makes me smile. I feel totally at home.

I hook up with my younger brother, Cole. Actually, we're half brothers (same dad, different moms), but lived together for a time and share certain genetic traits. Cole's lived out here for ages, his most recent gig as a bouncer at the House of Blues. He's big, strong, frenetic, but in essence gentle. He's very happy to see me and offers a pipe full of medical marijuana. Like so many Californians, Cole has a weed prescription. I decline, a rarity for me. The last time I smoked Cole's weed I went zooming around the cosmos. I'm in no mood for that. So we hit an upscale bar, drink and catch up.

The Perrins are a loud animated tribe. Have been since I remember. To give you some perspective, I'm one of the quieter Perrins. Cole lives at the spectrum's other side. He's a lot like our father -- quick verbal riffs that break off into multiple directions, hands waving, fingers jiggling, eyes wide, electric. Intense, concentrated energy. I've engaged this vibe my entire life, and it still wears me out. As crazy as I am, I can't operate at that speed. Cole brings it every second. I say very little simply because there's little room to speak.

The sleek gorgeous hostess tells us to leave so the dinner crowd may sit down. Thankfully, Cole wants one nightcap. He can burn all night and through the next day without a sweat. But he has to get up early and can't binge. Sigh of relief. We walk down the street and spot a small bar. "Let's have a beer in there and call it a night," I suggest. So we do.

The dark bar's festooned with Christmas tree lights. Cole hangs back; I go straight to the bartender and order our drinks. I pay no attention to the clientele. I turn and hand Cole his drink. He smirks and says, "Bro, this is a gay bar."

I suppose the drawings of erections above the bar should have tipped me off. But in this overexposed era, what's a few hard dicks? Two guys making out near the pool table confirm it. Cole and I look at each other, shrug, lean against a wall and sip our drinks. We're just a couple of barrel-chested bearded guys looking to relax. I put my arm around Cole, pull him close and kiss his neck. He laughs.

"Staying in character?"

Perhaps. At this point, whatever character I'm playing is in development.

NEXT: Why LA comedy is better than New York comedy.

Evidence Of Possibility

2011-03-09T17:57:00.013-05:00

When a Terror War ally behaves in Terror War ways, why the shocked surprise? Hypocrisy covers only so much. At this late date, hypocrisy is sawdust on a wet floor. Gaddafi's violent effort to maintain power confuses and twists minds across the spectrum. An instructive display. Neocons call for war. Liberals call for no-fly zones. Radicals call for Libyan state support. The narrative is shattering, forcing those inclined to chase after shards in high winds.

Some say these are revolutionary times in the Arab/Persian world, potentially everywhere else. Could be. I've never lived through a world revolution, so I don't know the signs. Clearly, inmates are restless. Increasingly dispossessed angry restless. Hence elite concern and accelerated class war from above.

These motherfuckers are trying to take it with them, trampling millions along the way. Question is, How deep is the inmate uprising? How resilient? Most importantly, how adaptive? Imperialists scramble about, seeking hooks and explanations. Events confuse them, which means that fear is setting in. This has been building for several years, and a united inmate resistance could gain significant ground right now. Problem is, old narratives chain high and low alike.

The idea of a US/NATO assault on Libya is absurd. It may happen, but to what end? With whose money? Gaddafi has been a loyal servant to global powers, much more than Saddam. There's really no reason for the US to overthrow his regime. Gaddafi's more predictable and reliable than any unknown quantity. And he's willing to crush opposition. That's long been a plus. Most "humanitarian" chatter misses this rather large reality, and I'm not sure who they think they're fooling with their so-called sorrow.

No-fly zones are an Iraq meth high. That Saddam wasn't allowed to touch the Kurds is considered a great democratic triumph. Never mind NATO Turkey's treatment of Kurds -- no no-fly zones for them. Iraq's Kurds caught a major break thanks to an imperial shift, and soon began sorting out their own personal grievances and tribal claims.

Some liberals believe that no-fly zones are a one-size-fits-all solution, a proven problem solver. It might slow Gaddafi, but not weaken him. If anything, he could point to the planes as imperialist interference, which would be true. But again, why would the US undermine a staunch ally like Gaddafi? To prove a rhetorical point? Many liberals think that the imperial state must behave ethically. And you wonder why the Democrats are still in business?

Radicals who see Gaddafi as a flawed yet stalwart revolutionary nationalist have nowhere to go. Marginalization frees them to spout any theory, for what traction do they enjoy? That some embrace dated scenarios simply deepens their irrelevance. I understand. Old arguments require no new thinking. They serve as life rafts in a wading pool. I've done my share of wading pool floating. It's pleasant, so long as the sun's not too direct and your drink has plenty of ice.

The takeaway? Our owners are nervous. Perhaps vulnerable. They still own the firepower, which is hard to get around. But I'm all for trying. What else is there to do?

World Gone Oink

2011-03-07T18:17:00.007-05:00

Never tell the truth, much less The Truth. Lower case truth makes people uncomfortable. Upper case Truth provokes riots, rampages, mass suicides, building demolitions, tsunamis, and rapid devaluation of currencies, save for the yen. Despite war, earthquakes, and crippling diseases, the Japanese find ways to survive. Except for Pink Lady. Man, was that one bad musical concept. Good riddance.

Most dictators are driven from power through bloodshed, but a few have abdicated with embarrassed shrugs and What was I thinking? History never notes those former strongmen. Lucius Brane of Madagascar. Colonel Qam of Java. Togo's Psycho Twins. What do they have to show for their peaceful resignations? Apart from billions stashed in offshore accounts?

Whenever you curse human stupidity, remember that you're human too. If that's too depressing, punch every person you encounter. If that's too dangerous, keep to yourself and drink. After a few shots, things won't seem so bad.

She asked if I could ever forgive her. I already did in my mind, but after admiring my crazy face in the mirror, I thought I'd stay "mad" for another hour. Why waste a good crazy face?

Shadow dog fighting spares canine lives, but it's pointless to bet on. Yet there's always a rube who picks the shadow. You feel bad taking his money until you remember that money buys commodities that bring pleasure to life. Then you remember that you're a Buddhist and that all life is suffering. You try to remember why you became a Buddhist in the first place. As you strain to remember, you run a red light and kill a pedestrian. You smile at the irony and hit the gas. Suffering at home beats suffering in prison.

My cousin jumped on the porch, lit firecrackers taped to his chest. POP POP POP. "I'm a suicide bomber!" he yelled, laughing. I didn't see the humor. He just ruined the sports shirt I bought for his birthday.

Will humanity survive this turbulent era? How should I know? I spent 20 years trying to save the whales. Humans are on their own.

Insanity is an acquired taste. And no, not like baby's blood. What's wrong with you?

Spider From Mars

2011-03-02T10:38:00.006-05:00

Sheen grabs the back of my head and pulls down. He's stronger than I thought. If he takes me to the ground, I'm done.

I slip from his grasp, lock his right arm with an old Aikido move, drive him into the wall. The girls scream but don't interfere. Sheen's smiling through the sweat. His bleached teeth look ready for ripping. Bruce Lee said that biting was an effective combat option, to be used in tight situations. As I put more pressure on Sheen's arm, his head pressed against the wall, I see he's weighing that option. For me to finish this I need to adjust, and that might give Sheen the opening he needs. So we stand there, straining, sweating.

"Is that all you got, bro?" Sheen asks.

"It's enough for now."

"Dude, don't bring a dog leash to a tiger fight."

Sheen's left elbow smashes into my ribs. Agreeing to fight naked means no protection, and the sudden pain loosens my hold. Sheen swiftly spins and strikes my sternum with a stiff palm. I stagger back, block two punches to my head, drop, throw a quick fist to Sheen's solar plexus then grab his balls and squeeze.

Most guys would buckle. Sheen simply laughs.

"Bro, if you wanted to blow me, we didn't need this foreplay."

Sheen's cupped hands slam my ears. The ringing dizzies me. I think I hear applause but am not sure. Sheen pushes me to the floor with his foot and stands over me.

"Winning!" he yells. The girls jump around. I hold my ears and look up. Sheen's cock is growing near my face.

"I think we have a new Sober Valley Ranch girl," he says. "Let's see how you look in lingerie."

For all the media moral scolds (the New York Times, that paragon of adult responsibility, most especially), I think Charlie Sheen knows exactly what he's doing. Or has a basic idea. He's a Hollywood kid; PR courses through his tiger blood. In a rigid corporate environment where everyone must behave themselves, Sheen's outbursts and lifestyle burn bright. There are as many who envy him as revile him, a guy who says whatever he likes, tells his boss to fuck off (flirting with ethnic slurs), lives with porn stars, and makes a shitload of money. That it's all about him is consistent with our celebrity-worship culture. Sheen understands this, which is why he's currently the most famous face in America.

Muammar Gaddafi knows about celebrity culture, too. Since 1981, when US media outlets deemed him The World's Most Dangerous Man, Gaddafi played the role with Ian Fleming flourish. Over time, Gaddafi drifted back into the imperial fold, making peace with his scriptwriters and publicists. After 9/11, Gaddafi became a Terror War ally. He had matured by accepting his place in the global power arrangement.

I'm sure he suffered Saddam-like shock when it suddenly turned to shit, and like Saddam had no hesitation butchering those who challenged his rule. His bombing of Libyan civilians not only surpassed Ronald Reagan's body count in 1986, it showed that Gaddafi finally approached his original billing. Unlike Charlie Sheen, whose career is far from over, Gaddafi faces the final act. It was a long run and served its purpose. The lingering problem is cleansing the stage of so much blood.

Then Came The Dawn

2011-02-25T12:19:00.007-05:00

Where's the politics? The world's aflame and you're fucking around. Give us some spin. And be funny as you do it. Sorry. The grand stage is crowded. Countless people shouting their opinions. Pick a voice and go with it. Plenty for everyone. The century I'm in is no less chaotic. It's what the future holds.

Small green spider motionless. Meditating? What runs through arachnid synapses? If it's looking to eat, it picked the wrong season. No flies or ants around. It'll starve then dry up like the spider bodies in my old basement. A breath and they're dust. I turn my writing light up, a spider shadow's cast. Maybe it'll chase the shadow as dogs chase their tails. Maybe I'm stalling. More likely drunk.

Digging my car out of the snow. Nissan caked with drifts. Tires buried in exhaust-blackened ice. A dirt shovel's needed to break through. Arms and upper chest start to strain. People my age die doing this. I feel it for the first time. New snow falls. I'm the only fool on the block digging. The other cars sleep undisturbed. Fuck it. I'm going back indoors. I'd rather be comfortable should death come. Johnny Cash singing Reaper ballads.

Late calls to the west coast. It's 2:30 here. Can't sleep. Won't write. Nothing but voice mails. I'm going crazy. The bite of this birch beer is the only contact I have. How do other people lose it? What's their final straw? Thoughts of them snapping soothe me. Projection of madness is balm. Good thing I didn't become a teacher.

Back to the notebooks. I don't remember writing half of these pages. Sentences crossed out. Arrows in all directions. Circled phrases, some starred. The whole thing's beautiful and absurd. The noise raging in my head sometimes makes sense. But I can only snare bits of it. So much more gets away. Grabbing a nice chunk is glorious. Occasionally you don't feel the debris.

Rumors of a new Three Stooges film continue. I say give the boys guns. Make them martial artists. Get them laid. I wanna hear Curly come. Moe moans while Larry has locks of hair ripped out by a frenzied woman who thinks he's an oil magnate. Add sledgehammer and hack saw (maybe Shemp?) and it's a Stooge orgy. Next: Abbott and Costello Learn To Obey.

Sloopy Hang On

2011-02-22T10:23:00.014-05:00

Isolation is vital for deep writing, but man does it fuck with your head. Relation to space fluctuates, time has no meaning, sleep comes when it comes. The only schedule is the page.

Remembrance feeds the fire. Dredging up emotions seemingly lost can surprise but also sadden you. Moments and events accelerate. A kitchen scene cuts to a Catholic school playground then to a driveway at night, a frightened boy in pajamas staring at stars, wondering where his parents are (you'll have to wait for that ending). Out it pours. And I run after it all, laying it down in longhand, filling small notebooks with nonlinear bits. There's a certain joy in this, but it's brief. It feels more like a long-delayed duty, if only to myself. But it's on now.

Proust's madeleine is an overused reference to memory triggers, yet it remains apt. And while food/aroma/taste triggers are in play here, much of what sends me back is media-related.

The music my mother played and danced to in our living room (Motown, Streisand, The 5th Dimension, Herb Alpert), cigarette commercials, local TV stars like Sammy Terry and Cowboy Bob (still around via YouTube), 60's sitcoms, Hanna-Barbera cartoons, any show where characters wore capes (Batman, Superman, Captain Nice, Mr. Terrific, The Mighty Heroes), early masturbatory images (Julie Newmar, Diana Rigg, Tina Louise, Nichelle Nichols). All this and much more merge pop crash in my mind. If the younger tenants mind the older guy cackling at 4 AM, they haven't shown it.

It's weirdly appropriate that I'm writing this volume on campus. Michigan is a hyper-study school, so the atmosphere is right. There are few diversions. I know a divorced guy my age is expected to slobber like a Tex Avery wolf at all the young women, but it just isn't happening. Sure, there are some beautiful women here, yet they live in a different world from me.

I get more stares from guys when I walk down the street. I don't know why that is. Maybe I look like a dork to them. Or perhaps they're mentally measuring their dicks against mine. This is the age when that shit blossoms. These guys are at the beginning of their adult lives, which must frighten most of them. I understand. It never really goes away, but you learn to mask it better.

To the young women, I'm invisible. Just as well. They're focused on their studies while I'm spinning through time. I will say this to the student downstairs who gets laid on a regular basis: What's your hurry, dude? From the sound of it -- and trust me, I can hear everything -- you're fucking as if on deadline. Slow it down. Switch speeds. Mix it up. You've got more time than you know. Take it from the traveler upstairs.

(Above image: "Sonia Face through Time 2 (with Face)" by Sonia Landy Sheridan, 1970s.)

Like Butter Play Toast

2011-02-17T10:10:00.009-05:00

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.

Hugh Simon's Theory

2011-02-15T07:58:00.013-05:00

Kenneth Mars' death makes me very wistful. Although Python, the Lampoon and SNL forged my early comedy awareness, Mars was never far away. His talent was on par with Peter Sellers; his absurdist, at times bizarre precision anticipated the young Dan Aykroyd. Mars made the most unusual comic choices, seemingly sane to only himself. Yet they always worked, with Mars chest deep in character.

Mars' passing is another reminder that my generation of influences is starting to die off. I wish I could be more Zen about it, but I was raised as an American. Clutching old emotions is a national birthright.

My favorite Mars performance is in What's Up, Doc?, Peter Bogdanovich's homage to Howard Hawks. But most people prefer Mars in The Producers and it's easy to see why. Zero Mostel and Gene Wilder were pretty good, too.

Broken Good

2011-02-13T15:46:00.005-05:00

Screaming at the crows again. Out it pours, pain, frustration, faded love. And the crows take it. They're used to my abuse. Occasionally they'll caw back, black eyed void and casual hate. I dare them to attack, tear off my shirt and wave it at their heads. But they fly away taking wet white shits. Neighbors watch but never intrude. Their lives are sad enough without testing crow patience. Me, I got nothing but time.

Old photos of her still arouse. Long legs, firm ass, a model's posture. Then we were hurt crazy, fun crazy, drunk crazy. We fucked on a dime wherever we liked. Kitchen counter love with the windows open. Faint hair on her arms electric, prim tongue unwound. It was sweetest when she let it all go, pretense, modesty, education. In the moment cries and bruises from sharp corners. Eventually it passed and now is gone. Only the dead remember.

I drink to see my ancestors. Many are mean, shallow, base. What intelligence they have fuels their mockery. They blast me for being a sucker. I smile in the haze, let them flail. You'd think they'd change tactics, but their bile blinds them. They stagger through lost time confused. I reach out and they slap away my hand. A wasted gesture I consciously repeat. Maybe that makes me a sucker. One of us has to embrace it.

She gently drew blood. I didn't resist. It felt too good. I'd collapse with her at my neck. A few hours later I'd wake up, sore, happy. Light burned my eyes. I rubbed them as she came into focus, lips crimson caked. She wanted more. She always wanted more. Step to the plate, baby. All you can eat.

Being thrown into walls seasons you. Life's less a mystery when your head dents plaster.

Cute cashier smiles in dull brown frock. Uniforms obscure, but she floats above it. She shares the secret with those paying attention. Amazing how many miss it. All you need do is look.

An old friend phoned, angry with my writing. Why do you hate? he asks. What happened to you? I say I've changed somewhat, but not in a bitter way. My words are filled with love. That he reads my love as hatred means I've failed to connect. Not the first time. So I keep trying. This is me trying.

Old Glory Holes

2011-02-08T10:43:00.005-05:00

Militarist displays at the Super Bowl are nothing new. Since 1991 in Tampa, when the US finally shook off the Vietnam Syndrome (celebrated by George the First Bush) by pounding Iraq to near-unanimous national applause, corporate America's biggest PR stage has been used to forge obedience to the war state. The 9/11 attacks pumped fresh plasma into the mix, and now we must bow to those in camouflage, not only at the Super Bowl, but at practically every major sporting event. Without them, we are told, the barbarians will trash our toys and turn our strip malls into mosques and beheading parlors.

America has long flirted with and at times personified authoritarian tendencies. But now it's institutionalized. What's more, it's lost its sheen. Whenever I debated reactionaries or spoke to dopey libs about corporate culture, I always gave our propaganda system a genuine thumbs up. Hitler, Stalin, Mao were Mr. Magoos compared to our heavily researched, tested, and financed fabric of lies and fables. Making consumers deeply believe that not only were they the freest people on the planet, but that they couldn't get any freer was genius. I mean, who invented the invisible fence? Keeping them doped with religion, sex and TV was only the beginning. As technology advanced, so too systems of control and surveillance.

Like so much else, the golden age of American propaganda has passed. Now we're directly, crudely told to obey our masters and their military wing. Instead of shaking off the cobwebs and forging some kind of resistance, most Americans go meekly along, hoping not to lose their jobs or their homes. Sophisticated lies aren't needed anymore -- consumers are trapped and show no signs of stirring. This saves the PR industry billions. Wave a big flag, push a few Afghan vets into view, have fighter jets streak overhead, and compliance is pretty much guaranteed.

This is why Christina Aguilera's National Anthem fuck up was beautiful to see. It would have been sweeter had Aguilera intentionally flubbed the lyrics, but she's no celebrity class traitor. Aguilera simply forgot the words, which sent reactionaries into predictable fits. Yet what Aguilera did was thoroughly American.

Not knowing the words to the National Anthem is minor. A great number of Americans have no knowledge of their country's history, much less the song that celebrates it, but this ignorance doesn't stop them from humping Old Glory. Indeed, it fuels nationalist frenzies. Less intelligence is more. Next year have the Anthem sung by CGI dogs with celebrity voices, one of whom should be Christina Aguilera. After all, Americans are a forgiving people.

Rust In The Drain

2011-02-04T11:10:00.008-05:00

She ran in the snow, crying in bare feet. I saw her while throwing garbage in the motel's dumpster after dark, so I could avoid the housekeeper for another day. Long dark hair hid her face, but her pain and confusion came through. She wore shorts and a sweatshirt, oblivious to the ice crunching under foot. She walked in circles then dropped to her knees, sobbing, laughing, coughing. I began to approach her when a man's voice yelled from the balcony.

"Bitch! Get back in here! Don't make me mad!"

He wore a Harley t-shirt, short hair spiked. He held a small camera in his left hand, using it to emphasize his impatience.

The woman got up, brushed the hair from her face. She looked young, 18-19 tops. Baby fat cheeks red from frozen tears. She looked at me and smiled. I stood in the icy parking lot under a dim light. For a moment there was frigid silence, then her redneck boyfriend started yelling again.

"Kelly! What the fuck did I just say? Get your fat ass up here!"

Her shoulders hunched as she trudged back upstairs. The guy filmed her all the way, laughing about how getting fucked in the ass wasn't so bad. She had to relax and play to the camera. She entered their room and he slammed the door behind them. He yelled some more, then it was quiet.

This was my last night in this dive, and so far I'd been left alone. People came and went during the day, battered rusty cars and mud-caked pick ups sporadically parked through the lot. This is a place for the poor and ignored. There is relative freedom in this world, so long as the cops aren't called. But there's sadness and resignation as well.

I went back in, smoked more weed, poured another chilled vodka. The heat worked pretty well, countering the drafts and cracks that brought in subzero air. I'd planned to jerk off, but that girl's face stuck with me. Poor kid. What a shitty life she must be living. Usually I can get past such distractions and tend to business, but not now. So I watched an early sound picture on TCM, where men in tuxes drank cocktails while women in gowns smoked long cigarettes and cackled at their antics. Somewhere else bodies burned, but here the heat made the numbness bearable.

From The Mailbag

2011-02-02T11:23:00.009-05:00

Just because I'm living in motels doesn't mean the work stops. Far from it. If anything I'm taking on too much, which if I paused to analyze it might suggest that I'm trying to divert the psychic pain of my personal life by answering those whom normally I'd dismiss with a nod and a wink. Anyway, this entered my in-box from an admirer of a certain English-born propagandist this morning, and I thought I'd share.

SUBJECT: So, what do YOU think?

I'm guessing the Muslim Brotherhood starts taking over the political representation in Egypt. The best and the brightest flee to the U.S. (doctors, academics, elite science researchers) leaving the society to fracture into subsets of severe and disenchanted anger and in 3 or 4 years it becomes Pakistan rather than Iran.

To which I replied:

You're right. Them Ay-rabs can't be trusted to revolt responsibly. Too crazy. Too primitive. We should probably invade Egypt now to save money and American lives, or at the very least, send a dozen drones and cruise missiles through Cairo to show them we mean business. Because we do. Unlike the Ay-rab, Americans kill for the RIGHT reasons. Plus, God is on our side, not theirs. As if the celestial creator of all things would choose mud people with car bombs over us. Please.

If YOU have a query or just want to say Hi!, please write. I love hearing from you!

By The Week

2011-01-31T10:08:00.005-05:00

The manager insisted on No Smoking. "Gotta keep it fresh for the next stranger," he said, pushing his shoulder into the stuck door.

The website said hotel, but this was decidedly motel, a roadside Norman Bates joint. The manager was older than Bates, more engaging, but he thought himself funny, kept trying to make the guy laugh. Short riffs off his bad jokes was all he got back. The guy was in no mood to laugh, especially at an amateur.

Still, the guy felt empathy for the manager. Was this how he envisioned his life twenty years ago? Ten? Maybe the manager was happy renting out dank rooms. He seemed content. It could also be resignation, make the best of it. The guy had no real standing to judge him. Sooner or later we all surrender.

The second-floor room smelled of mildew and dirty carpet. The furniture was worn, patchy. It probably hadn't been redecorated since the late-80s. A large framed print of Gauguin's The Siesta hung over the couch. Some old show at Met in New York. The guy smiled. New York. This dump was light years from there.

"This is one of our best suites, probably the best," the manager boasted. It was essentially a one-bedroom flat, small kitchen attached. Plenty of space. Not that the guy needed it. The manager modeled the rooms, arms waving, pointing. He sure loved to talk. The guy nodded, thanked him and yawned, hoping the manager would get the hint and leave.

"Well, if you want anything, anything, just dial zero. I practically live here."

The manager finally left. The guy wondered what that second anything meant. He bolted the door and went into the bedroom.

No Smoking? Menthol would sweeten this air. The guy checked the bedroom ceiling. No smoke detectors. Just one in the front room. Perfect. The window looked over a snow-covered vacant lot. The guy opened it, lit a fat roach, blew smoke into the frigid air. Unlike the room, this weed was clean, pure. It lightened his dark mood. He clicked on the TV, surfed, stopped at a Christian station airing shows from the 1970s. The burnt orange/peach/turquoise dresses and leisure suits matched the room's decor. The guy knew not to fuck with a theme when he saw one.

Christian television had barely changed in three decades. Same sermons. Same smiles. Many of the same songs. The guy popped a beer he brought with him, took a deep swig, laid back to hear how Jesus would better his life. Jesus lived in worse conditions and kept his spirits up. What was the guy's excuse?

A line of white Christian women with feathered peroxide hair spread across the screen, broke into Put Your Hand In The Hand. This delighted him. The guy bounced off the bed onto the stained floor, singing along.

"Put your hand in the hand of the man who stilled the water
Put your hand in the hand of the man who calmed the sea
Take a look at yourself and you can look at others differently
By putting your hand in the hand of the man from Galilee."

Two singers looked delectable. Cute Christian girls aching to sin off-camera. They were probably in their fifties by now. He'd still take them.

Street Wise

2011-01-29T10:41:00.005-05:00

Egypt erupts, and in an earlier day I'd be all over it. This uprising is especially riveting, given that the Egyptian people are openly resisting a US/Israeli client state. Everyone from Joe Biden on down are sweating it out, for in essence these protests are also against the US (Made In The USA marks the tear gas canisters and shotgun shells littering the streets). The corporate tap dance between showing sympathy for the protesters and hoping that Mubarak can quiet things down is beautiful to see. Were this Iran, there would be no confusion about how to react. But the fairy tale about "democratic" Egypt is fading by the hour, requiring improvised assessments by propaganda outlets.

In my media activist youth, I specialized in Middle East politics, primarily how the American press dealt with Israel and the Palestinians. (As I then put it, Palestinian dead were buried in shallow, two paragraph graves.) Watching events in Egypt and Tunisia takes me back to that time. Fortunately, there are plenty of younger writers and activists covering these uprisings, and friends tell me that Al Jazeera offers the most in-depth coverage. Good. Anything but the chimp chatter from the cable news networks. My heart is with those struggling to break imperial shackles, yet my personal life is experiencing seismic shifts as well.

I've moved into the hotel-staying phase of my divorce. The papers are signed, the search for a local apartment is on, a new existence emerges. It's not easy, and my son, who's been pretty steady so far, is showing signs of sadness as his mother and father finally split. This absolutely kills me, but it's inescapable. I've become what I swore I'd never be: a divorced dad arranging times to see his kid. I went through this at a younger age than Henry, and it sucks on both ends. I can't imagine ever getting married again.

Happily, Henry's staying with me tonight. We'll take an indoor swim, order room service (the food here is pretty good), watch classic Simpsons episodes and the original Star Trek, which Henry loves. I showed him Star Trek: The Next Generation, and he made snoring noises. "I like some of the plots," he said, "but it's so boring. Kirk and Spock are much cooler."

That they are, son. Live long and prosper.

Spit Like You Mean It

2011-01-26T12:56:00.006-05:00

Masses revolt elsewhere. Here it's the usual surrender and obedience. Fine by me. Given what's inside numerous Americans, especially those who are armed, I happily accept their acquiescence. I won't get pissed when they suddenly turn without signaling into a fast food lot. I won't hold them in contempt as they sleepwalk through stores. Keep eating. Stay asleep. This is your life. Enjoy it.

She's younger, her devious smile telling lies before she speaks. He loves that. Silent lies. What he deserves for chasing her. There's no future between them. No present, either. Only his past and her boredom. He's too old to take seriously, but he makes her laugh, shows tenderness in bed. She looks down on his tenderness, learned to fuck with arrogant boys in a hurry to finish. She equates softness with dying. He simply loves to touch her. Both are doomed, but her sentence is longer.

Listening to sports radio in a small dented car. Last refuge for angry white men. Sickening to hear, yet it beats driving to your own angry thoughts. These men feel cheated, and to a certain degree they are. They swallowed the fantasy long ago and insist that it eventually come true. But it won't and they know it. So they wallow in self-pity, spout clichés, repeat what smoother talkers have already said. They lack the talent to be their own bullshit artists. Perhaps the saddest fate of all.

There are worse things than despair to pass on to your kids. Insanity is bad, cruelty the deadliest curse. Stupidity is the most democratic trait, making mixing easier as you age. Happiness is a lucky shot over your shoulder using a mirror. Contentment is the killer who gets away with it, evidence burned, fingerprints wiped. Despair is a form of love, kicked around but rarely broken. Despair makes you feel, lets you cry. Despair gives you room to breathe, which is more than most people get. Treat it as a gift and you might have a chance.

Every man should suck at least one dick in his life. Not to completion, unless that's desired. Just to experience the texture and taste. Think of the violence averted. Imagine the altered demeanors. Gone would be the dread and fear of fags. With every man a cocksucker, we might inch past our present barbarism. Plus, most straight women find it hot. Confess to sucking dick, and you'll have more pussy than you can handle.

Smashing typewriters with hammers once served as expression. Now it's passé, a relic of grittier days. Smash some iPhones and see who cares. Destruction is a yawn. Our time's nearly up.

Return Deposit

2011-01-24T08:54:00.009-05:00

Barry Crimmins warned that I could never go back, that once I'd worked a better room, open stages would repulse on sight. I didn't doubt him, but had to see for myself. Barry's right -- it was like watching bum fights in some cluttered vacant lot.

The Village Lantern is as close to a home stage as there was for me in the past year. Much of this was tied to Ray Combs, who helped me navigate unknown stages across the city, tipping me off to emcees and the moods of various rooms. But Ray's hosted shows at the Lantern weren't like any of the others. I've written extensively about them. They remain among the most cherished if crazed moments I've had since The Project began.

Ray took a break from stand up to work on a documentary about his father; but when I came into town, we decided to hit the Lantern's Wednesday late show. Like old times. In theory anyway. Upon walking in, I felt nothing but dread. Ray kept asking me, "Doesn't the room feel weird?" I nodded while looking around. The packed place had a distinct insect vibe, a deleted scene from Cronenberg's Naked Lunch. We grabbed some drinks and sat in the back.

I'd seen many of these comics before, and none seemed to have evolved at all. Same dick/cunt/cum material. Same ragged delivery. One young guy with McCartney hair delivered a fevered rant about children as Big Pharma sheep and the lack of real political options. "Hurry up, 2012! Why the delay?" This naturally silenced the room, yet I liked it. He wasn't funny, but he pelted us with open contempt. It's a start.

A couple of ringers slid through, including an Upright Citizens Brigade regular who emceed and mocked my Muslims-on-acid set when I performed there. He read from a notebook and stumbled over a few punch lines. After him, more Lantern regulars, more my-life-is-garbage musings. Then came Ray's turn. He polished off his drink, flashed me a smile, took the stage.

Ray is so fucking at home up there. I think it comes too easily for him, which is why he disdains much of it. Where's the challenge? This pushes him into darker areas than he already occupies. This night Ray went right for the sore spot: the Arizona shootings. "How can you shoot someone point blank in the head," he shouted, eyes blazing, "and not kill them? Does competence matter anymore?" This sent a series of shocked gasps all the way to my table, something I'd never felt before at the Lantern. Ray surged on, observing that today's would-be assassins are rank amateurs compared to pros like Charles Manson. "Think Manson would've fucked up that shooting? Quality meant something back then."

It takes a lot to put off self-hating stand ups, but Ray did it within seconds. I loved it. Only thing is, Ray's set was nearly identical to what I had planned. As Ray tore up the stage, my mouth dropped. Fuck! I thought. There goes my bit. Mine wasn't as angry or intentionally tasteless as Ray's. It was more a parody of American nostalgia, in this case for assassins. Whereas Ray winged his material, mine was written with a definitive close.

"How was that?" Ray asked afterward.

"You did my set, dude."

"Really?"

"Close enough. But I can work around it."

While I thought of a new opening, the show steadily declined, the comics grinding out crap as the audience thinned. I waited in vain for my name to be called. Finally, I asked the emcee what was up. "Oh, you're on near the end," he casually replied. By now the Lantern had moved into Weimar cabaret territory, masked midgets whipping obese transvestites. Not for me. I told the emcee fuck it, I was leaving. I put on my coat and walked.

Ray asked me to reconsider. "I can get you on right now," he said. No doubt, but after playing to full, paying houses in Boston, I had zero interest in closing to a handful of bored, drunk stragglers.

Barry nailed it.

Ray and I went to the Olive Tree Cafe above the Comedy Cellar. He spoke of his film project, asking if I would be interested in writing a book about his Dad. I informed Ray of publishing's woes, how there would be little to no money to finance a book. Ray Senior's story has plenty of ripe angles -- small town kid who scored big in Hollywood, the lure and lies of celebrity, the emotional and financial beatings he took, the scramble to recover, the private hell, his suicide. Ray Senior lived a strange showbiz life. I was there near his peak. I could turn it into a fascinating book, but not for free.

Later, Ray and I walked up Sixth Avenue. The weather had warmed, the wind's teeth not as sharp. When we came to 16th Street, I asked Ray if he wanted to see where Michael O'Donoghue lived.

"Sure!"

We strolled down the block to Michael's old brownstone, the site of his glory years with the Lampoon and SNL, as well as his career slide and early death. I spoke about the countless hours I spent in that place, hanging with Michael and poring over his voluminous files after his passing. I can still see his many dioramas enclosed behind glass. His masked dolls. The paintings and pencil sketches by John Wayne Gacy and Richard Speck.

"You miss it, don't you?"

At one time I did, especially during those early Michigan years when anger and regret stomped my spirit into the mud. Now, in the midst of another shift, I see that time for what it was and how it nourished me. I'm happy to have lived it, but that period is long gone. Another life awaits.

Congrats to IOZ and his Steelers. My Jets fell short yet again, something we fans are used to.

The Jets' defense shut down the Steelers for most of the second half as the offense slowly came back, scoring 19 unanswered points. But some dodgy play calling at the Steelers' one yard line and Ben Roethlisberger's late game improvisation sealed the Jets' doom, five points shy. And yet I still love the Jets. Rex Ryan has changed the team's culture for the better, madness and stupidity included, but I wonder if they'll have the same fire next season, assuming there is a season. Until then, Joe Namath remains the Jet king.

Yawp

2011-01-21T03:09:00.003-05:00

Doug Lain and I discuss mentors and other breath mints. Snuggle close to the radio, kids.

Gridiron City

2011-01-20T09:45:00.008-05:00

IOZ can kick up dirt and play victim, but most football observers are picking his Steelers to defeat my Jets. Few people take the Jets seriously, many Jets fans included. The Steelers are the critics' darlings, as IOZ well knows, so worrying about their chances is a pose. Should Big Ben lay down a righteous ass whipping, IOZ will have suspected as such all along.

I can't blame my friend. When you've won two Super Bowls in the last five years, you must find fresh ways to remain interested. IOZ is more imaginative than most, and funny in the bargain. Jets fans have endured far longer stretches of failure and mediocrity, which is why we tolerate Rex Ryan's sideshow. He has walked the talk. A friend who's a Patriots fan calls the Jets the Island of Misfit Toys. He means it as a put-down, but I embrace it. The Jets are indeed misfits; name a more entertaining NFL team this season.

If you believe in conspiracies as Steelers fans tend to do, then a Jets victory on Sunday should be a no-brainer. Clearly the league would prefer the Misfits in Dallas, as that would attract a larger crowd. The Steelers offer nothing save the same old grind and win. Every institution has its biases and flaws, and I doubt the NFL is capable of an effective pro-Jets fix. But hell, this is America. If you can steal elections and economies, what's sixty minutes of football?

Flying Speed

2011-01-19T10:38:00.009-05:00

Of the few blog pals I have left, only IOZ writes as if blogging still matters. Granted, he's much younger than me, so his energy level surpasses mine. And I'm happy to see his stuff linked to and praised by Jim Wolcott at Vanity Fair. I trust that IOZ's true energies are focused on his fiction, and that soon we'll see the first of many novels. If IOZ can animate a dying form like blogs, then imagine the life he'll inject into dead wood.

IOZ exhibits fine taste in many areas, but his choice in football teams is baffling. The Pittsburgh Steelers are an unimaginative franchise, a rigid specimen of the Rooney family, a phony blue collar distraction for rust belt survivors. That IOZ is a Steel Town native makes his allegiance even more unattractive, for what's worse than provincialism? I'm sorry, but IOZ can do much better than the Steelers.

Normally, I would overlook such lapses in a friend. But since his Steelers are playing my New York Jets in the AFC Championship, there's no avoiding it. So let me lay it out there.

The NFL-AFL merger in 1970 was the best thing to happen to the Steelers. Until the AFL came along, Pittsburgh was a football backwater, a professional dead end. They couldn't compete with the Giants, Packers, and Bears; not even expansion helped the Steelers. Within a few years of their creation, the Dallas Cowboys and Minnesota Vikings surpassed the Steelers, making the playoffs, and in Minnesota's case, the Super Bowl, though they lost to the AFL's Kansas City Chiefs. It wasn't until the AFL forced the older league to the table that the Steelers had any hope of on-field success.

Though loyal to the American Football League, the most influential sports alternative other than baseball's American League, I'm not blind to its weaknesses. Even by 1970, a decade into the project, many AFL teams were not on the same plane as their older NFL cousins, and this showed once inter-league play began.

In order to level out the new conferences, NFL commissioner Pete Rozelle had to bribe the Colts, the Browns, and the Steelers to move to the AFC. Like the rest of the established league, the owners of these teams despised the AFL for crashing their private party. How humiliating it must have been for Art Rooney to slum among the upstarts. Neither Wellington Mara nor George Halas would ever dream of such a move. But it was precisely what Pittsburgh needed.

Unlike the old NFL, the new AFC provided Pittsburgh room to strengthen and grow. They built a dominating team led by Terry Bradshaw, Jack Lambert, and Mean Joe Greene, won four Super Bowls, cementing their legacy and importance. And who do the Steelers have to thank for these riches? The New York Jets, of course.

In 1965, when the Jets outbid the Cardinals (acting as a front for the Giants, who didn't want to be seen haggling against their hated in-town rival) for Alabama QB Joe Namath, paying him an unprecedented $400K upon signing, the NFL knew that the AFL was serious and there to stay. Soon after, merger talks began. When the Jets became the first AFL team to beat an NFL champ, the one-loss Colts, they further opened the door to subsequent Steelers success in the emerging conference. History may be a hallucination, but certain facts remain. Pittsburgh owes the Jets big time.

This is not to say that the Jets "deserve" to win on Sunday. They'll have to earn it like their two previous victories. But since Rex Ryan's arrival, the long-dormant Jets legacy is revived: back-to-back AFC Championship games against all doubters and naysayers. It's time to reclaim what Namath's Jets set in motion. Only IOZ's black and gold tourists stand in way.

Oh, one more thing -- thanks for Santonio Holmes. Here's to another Super Bowl MVP game.

Golden Shower

2011-01-18T12:51:00.006-05:00

Bad boy comic Ricky Gervais took no prisoners at the Golden Globes Sunday night, and Hollywood's still reeling.

"I questioned my own mortality," quipped Steven Spielberg.

"He's white phosphorus in black tie," added Anne Hathaway.

"I fell off the wagon immediately," said Robert Downey Jr. between Meth hits. "He's that good."

Truly, Ricky Gervais reigns as Tinseltown's Sadist of Ceremonies. But despite the stings, slights, slams, jabs, stabs, tweaks, fleeks, dreebs, crogs, and character assassination, Gervais actually withheld harsher fire.

"It could have been much worse," confessed RG's nutritionist. "I have no idea why I'm sharing this with you, but here are some of Ricky's notes. He loves to write while taking a dump. Promise to give them back?"

Promise.

"Tonight we honor Hollywood's elite. Or as some people call it, Jared Loughner's Bucket List."

"Remember Scientologists -- Justin Bieber's a minor. So no sex after 11 PM."

"Scott Caan's hair still has his Dad's jizz from a Playboy party in 1974."

"January is Hollywood's traditional dump month. Or as we call it in England, Judi Dench."

"Natalie Portman was born in Israel. So if she wins, we'll know it's stolen."

"Colin Firth is nominated for a character with a speech impediment. Funny -- when he was sucking my dick, I understood every word."

"Thank you Alec Baldwin for being fatter than me."

"Laura Linney's nominated for The Big C, which made sense to me until I learned that the C stands for cancer."

"Steve Buscemi looks like my balls covered in shit."

"Give a big hand to Michael Douglas! After all you've been through, it's inspiring that you still swallow."

Toward the back of his notebook, Gervais scribbled random observations.

"Life remains a lie. Yay me!"

"You'd think these twats would catch on. God how I fucking hate them."

"If I had any guts, I'd spray the room with a Glock. But the money's too good."

"Series about a rageaholic actor who's better than everyone else. See if I'm available."

"Who's reading this?"

Dream Nation

2011-01-17T10:28:00.002-05:00

Happy Decapitation of Black Leadership Day. Hug it out, y'all.

Where's The Love?

2011-01-10T10:47:00.006-05:00

Jared Loughner gave liberals something they desperately needed: a political distraction, and as an added bonus, a platform from which to proclaim their superior values. They haven't had such a gift since Oklahoma City. Prizes like this are rare, and liberals will rub it out long after the coating's worn off, cheap tin exposed to toxic air.

Loughner's murderous rampage, shocking and awful, is well within the American grain. He's not the first nor the last lunatic to snap and shoot up a room. Armed inhabitants of a declining imperial power where politics are privately owned are bound to be itchy, if only a handful bother to scratch. In a brutal sense, public assassins provide the few flashes of reality left in this country.

After JFK's death, Malcolm X observed that the chickens had come home to roost. Malcolm, vilified from all corners, was correct. JFK was bombing South Vietnam while backing death squad violence in Latin America. Oswald, or whomever, brought some of that bloodshed back to the source. For a few minutes in Dallas, there was little difference between a US president and his puppets in Saigon.

Of course, politics were more in play in 1960s. Young liberals and radicals openly, actively challenged their Democratic elders, from LBJ and Hubert Humphrey on down. JFK's assassination did little to alter their course. Today, most liberals embrace those who despise and use them. No amount of Dem "betrayal" (i.e. performing their systemic function) will loosen liberal grips. The Arizona shootings justify liberal surrender while reactionaries seek solid footing between "respectful" discourse and their own ballistic fantasies. The corporate media reinforce these scenarios, feeding on the dead for whatever ratings they can grab.

Same shit, different day, as the Stoics put it.

It may be gauche to point out that those trying to politically exploit Loughner's madness care nothing for the anonymous victims of Obama's foreign policy, death scenes far grislier and more common than what was seen in Tucson. Besides, IOZ got there first.

A Family Way

2011-01-06T16:51:00.012-05:00

The Squid and the Whale, Noah Baumbach's film about a family dealing with divorce, is probably not the best thing to watch when your divorce is nearly final. Especially when you have a teenage son. Especially when your family once lived in Park Slope, Brooklyn.

Mercifully, the comparisons end there. When I told Nan that I feared Jeff Daniels' character might be too close to home, she wrinkled her nose. "God, you're nothing like that guy! He's an egocentric jerk."

That's a relief. Daniels' Bernard Berkman and I sport thick graying beards, longish hair, and published a few books that some people remember. But Bernard is emotionally distant, condescending, snide. He lords over his oldest son Walt (Jesse Eisenberg), expecting reverence and obedience. Walt mostly complies, looking up to his father in confused awe, parroting his opinions, seeking his approval. Henry and I have a much different relationship.

My son and I are very close, and I've been there at every critical stage since his birth. Far from trying to indoctrinate him, I share my passions with Henry, no strings attached. He can, and does, take them or leave them. If anything, I grew up with Henry. I'm not the same man I was when we left New York for Ann Arbor. Henry was three and doesn't remember the move, which is good. It was a dark time. I was incredibly angry about coming here, filled with guilt and remorse. This didn't help the marriage, and Nan and I nearly split a few times back then. Somehow, we kept it together.

I simply couldn't leave my family, and I really couldn't leave my son. I still lug my own tattered baggage with fathers and father-figures, and to abandon Henry at such a young age would've meant I learned nothing, tossing him on the same rocks. So I stayed. Fell off the career grid. Worked as a janitor to help make ends meet. Some of you know the story.

My son turns 15 in May. He's pushing 6'3", has a deeper voice than his Dad, and will soon need to start shaving. By staying, I lived through his young life, watching him grow. He got to know his father, for which I remain grateful. He's much more balanced than I've ever been, and hopefully this will feed a happy, prosperous life. He's doing extremely well in school.

Sadly, I won't see Henry on a daily basis. We've talked about what this might mean, and he's been open and accepting about it. In fact, Henry gave me the green light to pursue The Project. "You shouldn't be mopping floors," he said to me. "You should do what you're supposed to do." When I show him videos of various sets, he beams, though some of the references elude him.

"You're not like my friends' Dads," he said, watching me on stage.

"Is that bad?"

Henry laughed and shook his head. Being Weird Dad has its privileges.

The other family members in The Squid and the Whale bear little resemblance to Nan and Trina. While Trina certainly had her troubles, she never matched the turbulence of Frank (Owen Kline), whose anger and attempts at getting attention are alarming to say the least. Trina lives back east on her own, brewing coffee for hipsters to support her music and songwriting. Her songs make me cry. I'm very proud of her.

Like Joan Berkman (Laura Linney in one of her best performances), Nan is a writer whose spouse was published first. Her work at Nanarama is first-rate, and has become a favorite of James Wolcott of Vanity Fair. (In a post about our marriage, Jim wrote "[Nan's] reflections at Nanarama are far more profound and elegant than any exercise in settling scores would be -- the sentences seem laid across the screen like pressed leaves, tiny veins of remembrance that you can run your thumb over.")

Unlike the film, where Joan's book deal and excerpt in The New Yorker leaves Bernard bitter and envious, I fully support Nan's efforts. She's a wonderful writer, and her novel Fly deserves to be published. When it is, I'll lift the first glass to her success. We can't be husband and wife, but we can be colleagues and friends.