Mandatory Corruption Training

I've taken to arguing with cops online now. It's fun, because they're just as threatening, and just as willing to misuse their power, but it becomes more difficult for them to do so from a distance, though not entirely impossible. 

"Know in my heart that I am pistol-whipping your dumb ass right now." 

I wonder how many background checks were run on me last night.

Cops just seem to like me; they like handcuffing me, they like threatening me, they like screaming at me, they like punching me in the head, and they like taking me to jail. I don't know what it is. I must be a fun guy to arrest. But the internet deprives them of those immediate pleasures, so they resort to verbal threats, which is just so cute. 

There is something about my attitude that brings a deep and abiding joy to the cop heart. Particularly when I say things like, "Cops are just like anybody else, they are mostly incompetent when they're not too busy being corrupt."

I just feel safe knowing that there are such level headed professionals out there upholding the law, dedicated to the idea of being public servants.

I finally finished the Thomas Jefferson book. He dies at the end. It is a famous story that we all remember from elementary school civics class. He holds on until the morning of the 50th anniversary of the signing of The Declaration of Independence. His friend and political foe John Adams also died that same morning, on July 4th, 1826; also on the committee to draft the declaration, also a signer. What an odd and poetic ending to two lives dedicated to the cause of democracy. 

Now I am free to read other books. 

I thought it was funny and coincidental that the placeholder that I used when reading the Jefferson book was my receipt for having recently voted. I left it in the book for someone else to one day find. 

My take on the Jefferson book: "Man... Fuck Alexander Hamilton!"

.

"You can lead a horse to water, but how?"

I don't feel like writing this morning. Between this site, the aborted one that was ostensibly about drinking wine, and the laziest nerd ever I have written over 1100 posts, close to a thousand on this one alone. I have run out of things to say, and I have bored of repeating myself. Perhaps it is time for me to start writing about my experiences drinking wine again. 

Thomas Jefferson is about to die, a convenience that will free me up to do other things. 

The image above was taken in the Santa Fe historical museum, click on it to see. They asked me not to take pictures, though there were no signs saying that it was forbidden. It is a recurring theme in my life: being perpetually told not to do something, seemingly without any coherent set of rules in place. I couldn't resist snapping this one. It reminded me of the flying monkeys in The Wizard of Oz. It was almost as if the many crucified christs were going to fly right off of the wall and start swirling around the room, picking me up by the shirt sleeves, to take me off to another place. 

.

If life were made of mornings

It is 5:45am and I am already out of time. The day approaches, with it comes the job. I had a bad day yesterday. There's some reason for me to check my work emails on my phone, though it comes with the price of added stress. Sometimes it's worth delineating sharply between work and personal time. 

It's not worth writing or talking about. So, I won't.

I've just poured my second cup of coffee, on an empty stomach. That's certain to help. 

Ah, if life were made of only mornings.

I spoke with a fellow at the local pub yesterday. He was an interesting sort. A Brit who lived in Germany, spent many years of his life busking, and who now lives with his wife of 35 years here in Sonoma. He made some observations about the people who live here, about the people who have only lived here. "It's not that they're stupid," he said, "they're only limited by experience." It partially explains a thing that I have often wondered about, why people insist on the supremacy of locale, mainly theirs.

We, of course, like it here very much. But living here comes with a sacrifice. Our membership to The Moma has expired, even the SF Moma membership has expired. Going regularly to museums is a lessening event for us, in terms of frequency. Perhaps by doing it less the sensation of newness will increase. I don't know. Robert Hughes writes about museum goers as if they are binge drinkers, how they gorge themselves on new visual sensations, trying to intake as much of it as they can in a single day, so that the result is meaningless or worse. 

I want to travel again soon. Rachel and I have been talking about Italy, or Yellowstone. They would both be big trips, expensive, one much more than the other. Rachel said that portions of the drive down the coast beyond Big Sur reminded her of the Amalfi coast, though without the distinct architecture of Italy, and the cultural landscape, but more in the steepness of the shoreline, the relationship between traveler and terrain. 

I only stepped out of the car once to take a picture, the one that I used at the bottom of yesterday's post. I never wanted to be a landscape photographer. No matter how well I take a picture when I go home I do a search for the same region and there are many that are much better than mine. So, it ends up meaning little to me, nothing at all. For me, it is the human's experience, their relationship to the landscape (or set) that fascinates me, each person's approach to the world, the ways in which they present themselves, or hide. 

.

The beaches along the coast

Traveling with a child is not simple, or easy. Add a dog to this formula and everything becomes a series of cascading considerations, limitations, and needs. It's not that the trip was not fun but when we came home I was not relaxed, but only felt that something had been accomplished. We had done a thing that we had not done before. Effort was expended and it was now complete. We had driven down the coast, seen some things, then driven back. 

Now, I return to work.

Do not get me wrong. The beaches were fun. Watching Rhys discover them with the liberty of locomotion was charming, impossible not to enjoy. He was giggling much of the time. This was his second time at the beach, the first in which he could walk, which is quickly becoming a run. He is a natural for the ocean.  He darts towards the excitement of the approaching water as soon as you set him down, with Barkley galloping in tow. 

Barkley loves the beach with a comical naiveté. I think I mentioned that yesterday.

But traveling requires much preparation. Everything becomes a process about getting and being there. Packing and unpacking things from the car, often with the thing you need the most packed underneath the things you need the least. There is the eternal question, "Is this place dog friendly?" Some yes, some seem that way at first, some a much more decidedly no. 

Will he be warm enough? Will Barkley be too hot in the car? Don't forget to crack the windows. What do you want to do? Should we go this way? I have to use the bathroom. Are you hungry? When will he need to nap? How long can we park here? Do we have any change? 

Sometimes all of society seems structured just to punish you for being there. Petty restrictions on parking that are nearly impossible not to violate. 1 hour parking in front of an area where there are restaurants; restaurants that have predictably slow service. Why? Only so that they can prey on you. They want you to visit, then punish you for having done so. 

The California Highway Patrol has initiated a program to start fining seagulls that fly too close to the beach. Rules are rules, they must comply.

We tried to avoid the tourist areas, but it is not always easy, especially with a child. It is one of the many reasons I hate any place that invites people to be there. Tourists should be punished this way, through unexpected taxes and fines, but I'm one of the other guys. I don't even want to be there. I should be the recipient of parking violation funds, not the victim.

We went to Cannery Row. I can only imagine the pride that Steinbeck would feel at how the light he shined on that place transformed it from being a place of much difficulty during the great depression to a place of much commercial victory in our current economy. He seemed interested mainly in reducing suffering, injustice. It was one of the most authentic outdoor malls I had ever been to... People come from all over to buy useless things that they will go home and work to pay for. All the people seemed so happy. Everyone had two coffees; one for each credit card.

As for nature, we did get to see some through the windshield. 

.

Monterey

I am writing my first ever post from my phone. My suspicion is that the justification on the image will be all fucked up. We'll see. It is all that I can do today. We are in Monterey and there is no wi-fi.

We just went and had breakfast at Denny's, a thing we haven't done in years. It occurred to me that they should partner with the Quest Diagnostics clinic system. They share the same hours and clientele, 24/7 and the elderly. One practically begs for the other.

I had the Santa Fe skillet, in honor of having just been there. It was sautéed in a generous puddle of grease. Once the world-famous handful of Denny's cheese-product melted, and with some added Cholula sauce, it tasted pretty good, but it caused me to have a few flashes of pain down my left arm. I re-named the plate, "The forti-aorta!" (New on the Denny's menu! Recommended by our in-house doctors! Now with our exclusively patented heart-strengthening oils...)

I chewed two aspirin, just in case.

It's before 6am still. We were up at 4. Rachel's trying to put Rhys back to sleep. He's fighting it, as usual. Traveling with a child is particularly difficult. He doesn't seem to understand the changes, though he loved the ocean. He kept running right for the waves. It was really something.

Twice now that we've taken Barkley to the the beach has he turned his back on the water and paid the price. A wave overtook him right as he sat down. The wave drawing him back out towards the ocean as it receded. For an instant I had to ask myself which mattered more, the dog or my camera. We kept calling him to come to us but the water moving back to the ocean seemed to be scaring him and he kept backing up into the water. Luckily, the wave withdrew enough and Barkley made a wet and muddy run for safety, newly invigorated by his fearful experiences.

More later, Rhys is sleeping again. This is the only time that I ever get to kiss Rachel. Perhaps the Santa Fe skillet is an aphrodisiac. That could be yet another advertising angle for my new enterprise.

If a heart-attack lasts more than 4 hours, please contact a nurse.

.

This is what you shall do: hate tyrants

(the camping Buddha)

Today we go. Down the coast to see what there is to see. There are elephant seals at Año Nuevo Point, a state park. They are mating and Rachel has indicated that she wants to watch this. Then, further down the coast to a point as yet undecided. We have a hotel booked in Monterey for tonight.

This will be our first trip without a real destination since having Rhys. It unsettles Rachel a little bit, I can tell. She keeps asking me what I want to do, what plans can be made. It is part of what constitutes our love, our differences in this way.  In a few years I will be able to take them tent camping. Rachel claims that she does not like it but I suspect otherwise. She prefers to sleep in a cabin, a room of some sort. I prefer the sound and feel of nature, even the cold.

One time I took a friend camping who was somewhat unsettled at the premise of setting up a campsite in total darkness. She stayed in the car while I assembled the tent and prepared the campsite. Once that was completed she ventured from the car to the tent with me acting as security, a park ranger of sorts, to shield her from savage nature. In the morning, with the sun up, the sound of the river trickling in the near distance, the fears seemed laughable, they were laughable. But in the darkness of night, there are many dangers, too many for most. There is often no end to fear, unless one is chosen in advance.

The other night I was talking to an old camping buddy of mine. We spoke of many things, but not of camping. When we got off of the phone I picked up a book of poems by Walt Whitman, a thing I rarely do, and did this night for no specific reason. There was a picture holding a place in the book. It was from a camping trip we took when we were young. We discovered a fire that an angry arsonist had just set. We reported it, took some pictures, and moved on, back to our camp. I have another picture from that night of an entire mountain that is on fire, a long exposure so that the sky appears blue while the mountain burns. The park ranger who came to our site later that night to question us about it told us that they had had some problems with a few brothers who were angry about various things.

I read a few pages from the book, then took a picture of the picture and sent it to the friend.

This is the famous passage that the picture held:

"This is what you shall do: Love the earth and sun and the animals, despise riches, give alms to every one that asks, stand up for the stupid and crazy, devote your income and labor to others, hate tyrants, argue not concerning God, have patience and indulgence toward the people, take off your hat to nothing known or unknown or to any man or number of men, go freely with powerful uneducated persons and with the young and with the mothers of families, read these leaves in the open air every season of every year of your life, re-examine all you have been told at school or church or in any book, dismiss whatever insults your own soul; and your very flesh shall be a great poem... " - Walt Whitman, preface to the 1855 edition of Leaves of Grass

(fire on the mountain)

.

Rising abruptly from the Pacific

Perhaps an adventure. Down the coast to Monterey, Big Sur, beyond. We will speak of Robinson Jeffers, Henry Miller, and Jack Kerouac. Others. We will summon memories, conjuring lonesome travelers.

Something, anything. It is time to get away. I will bring a book of poems and read them towards the air when no one is watching. 

A friend had a stroke. It was apparently quite bad. He has been in intensive care for some time now. The news that makes its way out is hopeful but somehow not encouraging. "He has been smiling" is the latest. It all sounds very bad, deeply unfortunate and saddening. There was no insurance. There will be enormous bills, much time spent recovering as well as can be done. It has been distressing but there is little that I can do, little that anybody can do, though there are many who are committed to trying, myself among them. We are going to buy him an iPad to assist in his recovery. There are specialized apps that are meant to help.

He is my age, though nicer than me. We know that fear and love have their source in similar mysteries.

I will go to the gym this morning when the clock strikes six; stepping on to the exercise machine, dreaming of the coast line, of freely moving south, towards the southern waters.

.

"maybe it was the roses..."

The romantic new year. A day in which everything tastes like chocolate, and I the emperor of ice cream. 

I am having a New York Strip steak for breakfast, with eggs, over easy. That is my simple way of honoring the day. It is, as they so often say, the least that I can do.

If I had a nice bottle of cabernet then I would also drink that, just to show that I was not merely doing the least that I could, but going the extra distance to really celebrate. 

But alas, it's a work day, and I a worker. 

I almost finished the sentence above with the word drone. It's funny to think of how the word drone has changed meanings. Though the drone bee does not do any work, it is a common misconception. The drone bee fertilizes the queen and nothing else; they are fed by the bee masses, saving their strength for the queen. There is no such thing as a "worker drone" among bees. 

But, I still like my job, very much. A good friend told me that I was fooling myself and I would quickly hate it, but he was wrong (so far). His name is Pat, just so that he doesn't confuse those last sentences as being for anybody else. 

Rhys is walking now. Have I mentioned that here already? He no longer even needs help from a chair or couch to get himself upright. He walks around in the mornings with a waffle that Rachel has made him, inspecting all that there is to reach. Dusting the house with his newly toasted waffle.

I can hear them upstairs now, playing in Rhys' room. The sun has yet to breach the shallow mountain line. There is a coming milky blue.

I am cooking the steak on the grille, in the waning darkness.

.

... whispered

An 1890's decadent once met a young girl, of about twenty, "with a lithe body like a snake, a great red dangerous mouth, and enormous dark amber eyes that half shut and then expanded like great poisonous flowers. "Nuffing amuses me," she said, with her curious childish lisp, 'everfing bores me. Nuffing ever did amuse me. I have nuffing to amuse me, nobody to be amused with. I don't care for men, women's talk always bores me. All I care for is to sleep. Tell me what is there that will give me a new sensation?' And she lay back and gazed at me through her half-shut lids. I bent down and whispered "Opium." 

- Arthur Symons

.

An Official Red-Ryder

I want a new camera. Well, the camera is not exactly new, but it would be new to me. I probably won't buy it, but I enjoy wanting to. That is something, to want.

I want to have steak for breakfast, too. And eggs. 

And a glass of red wine, a cabernet. I have moved on from pinot's, for now.

Instead, I am pouring coffee into an empty stomach, writing this nonsense to you.

I should try to pick a subject before writing, not during.

Rachel just asked me if I wanted a steak for dinner tonight. Funny, that.

I responded before thinking about it. I should have told her I want "...an Official Red-Ryder Carbon-Action Two-Hundred Shot Range Model Air Rifle with a compass in the stock." 

Or, the camera... I could have tricked her. 

She's been reading this site again though, so who knows. We've been struggling lately and perhaps for Valentine's day tomorrow she will realize the error of her wicked ways and buy me the camera (with the 35mm f1.4 lens).

Or, perhaps nothing would make her happier than to see me be happy. I should buy it for us. 

Then I could take pictures of her and Rhys for Valentine's day. We wouldn't be able to afford to do anything so we'd have plenty of time to experiment with the new camera, documenting the triumph of my decision. 

I have begun to remember more books that are missing, Joyce's "Portrait of an Artist as a Young Man" , T.C. Boyle's "East is East" , Styron's "Lie Down in Darkness".... It is inexplicable that some of these are missing as they should have been in the same box as the other books by the same author, one would think. Why do I have all of T.C. Boyle's except that one, why Joyce? It is a mystery without any clues. None of it makes sense. Was the box left in a hallway or on the street in NYC? Was it stolen by local crackheads? Anything can be true, with no scent back to them save for my fading memories.

But the list is growing.

They are only a box of books, but my life is splintering and I find myself struggling to hold the pieces. The history of my life is as a demented ping-pong ball, ever bouncing back and forth unpredictably, knocked from number to number, to the recurring reds and blacks of roulette. 

I have lived as an errant truffling pig, run amok, unleashed and unchaseable, doomed but laughing.

.

This Side of Paradise

Then wear the gold hat, if that will move her;

     If you can bounce high, bounce for her too,

Till she cry "Lover, gold-hatted, high-bouncing lover,

     I must have you!"

-Thomas Parke D'Invilliers

.

FTP!

(Catholic Idolatry)

Fuck the Pope. I don't feel like writing today. I stayed up last night, reading. 

Thomas Jefferson just accomplished The Louisiana Purchase. Now that is how a president makes good history: declaring independence from England based on an idea of individual unalienable rights and then buying a nation of people from France, who only recently acquired them from Spain. 

He got them and the land they lived on from Napoleon for about $.03 an acre.

Lewis and Clark are preparing for their epic journey. When they finally do cross, after the purchase is complete, they inform the various Indian tribes along the way that they have a new Father now, and not to make him angry.

Things are moving right along with Sally Hemings also. Everybody knows now. Jefferson never addressed the issue of inter-racial relations, neither in conversation nor in writing. He never once spoke of his relationship with Sally Hemings, never once publicly acknowledged that she had birthed his children. He simply chuckled when his daughters would show him the newspaper clippings. His enemies did not make light of it though. Once can always count on one's enemies for such things.

It was a 37 year love affair, seemingly enlightened in every way except one. 

James Callender, the man who made the most of it, publishing a surprisingly factual piece in The Richmond Recorder drowned in a nearby river only a few days afterwards. Where are the attending conspiracy theories for that?  Without a CIA nothing seems quite as devious, I guess.

I'm also reading Brideshead Revisited by Evelyn Waugh.

Boarding school really fucks English people up. 

.

DJ "My Name Here"

(Does this bathroom make my name look big?)

Anybody that has been reading this site for a while, or anybody that knew me in my previous life, knows that I used to dj. I had a little mini-career for a number of years and was quite pleased with it, for the most part. It afforded me luxuries that I still remember fondly: lots of free time, expendable income, travel, etc. 

I still get invited to dj from time to time. On Saturday night I played in Santa Fe, New Mexico for a friend from the Florida/NYC connection, Melanie Moore.

How things usually go when you are invited to perform is that you are given a number of hours to play, usually two or more. In that time you might attempt to create a sense of musical topography, to give the impression that imaginary things are developing, or to keep the energy at a certain level and make sure that the people are dancing and having fun. This is an over-simplification, but usually each dj's time to perform is delineated this way. Sometimes dj's will play in pairs. This is as far as the concept of sharing time is usually taken.

When you are the guest dj you are often given the "peak hours" of the evening. The energy level of the peak of the night must not usually go below a threshold, though different dj's play with a varied degree of intensity and their audiences come to expect that from them. As a general rule, if you are going to decrease the energy level you must increase the interest level. You can play slower but the music must have some other special quality to it to justify doing so, or you will seem flat and dull, the feeling of the night will be one of waning rather than one of increased expectations. Only certain dj's wish to be perceived as flat and dull. Many of them spend their days imagining just the opposite about themselves, and structuring their lives such that others will think and feel likewise.

There is something to be said for feeling like a star. The dj status confers a distinction that is at once both difficult to achieve yet somewhat necessary to project. Those that do it regularly tend to do it well. It's almost as if they were born to do nothing else and there is an air of effortlessness about them that adds to the mystique. With some it is captivating, with others it can be tedious and forced. Much depends on the style of music that is embraced and the persona that is then projected from that. It is a purely subjective exercise, of course, but one in which I spent passing a few decades.

I do not say any of this with malice, or dismissiveness. While at times it can seem laughable there are other times when it is something very special and unique. The true fans of this music rarely disagree on those two distinctions. Conceding acknowledgement of the value of music that one does not care for is a forced application of objectivity. It requires a modicum of understanding. Others can not see it at all, in any of this. It holds no magic for them whatsoever, or it is merely elusive. They can not create an adequate understanding between themselves and those who live for it and (seemingly) nothing else. It seems foreign and possibly dangerous, if not foolish.

Few people, in their daily lives, are often cheered by a group. It is a special and empowering feeling. The world might be a different place if everyone received such occasional recognition and applause. Because what is being applauded is a part of you. It is an accumulation of years of private taste being made public, stylistically and in a moment. Few ever regret having been cheered. People within this subculture are quite desirous of its intoxicating effects. For a working dj there is (hopefully) a sense of being in demand. There is a cool-factor to being in different cities on successive nights. Sleep is cruel, so it is rightfully mocked.

Where am I going with this. I had hoped to write about my night on Saturday...

So, when I arrived in Santa Fe I was told that the format of the night was different, but that I would like it. When I stopped by the club earlier in the day there were several different dj setups lined up next to each other, stretching the length of an extended table: six specialized cd players, two turntables, three dj mixers, all being fed into a more traditional line mixer; then the amps and speakers on the receiving end, circling the dance floor. Right away I realized that this was perhaps a more democratic arrangement than one that I was used to. I told myself not to worry about it too much, that they do this all the time and it works for them. What possible harm could come from it?

I went back to the hotel and tried to sleep. The altitude there is such that I was lethargic but couldn't rest. I tried and I tried. I went and got a little sushi and had a beer. Yes, sushi at an elevation of 7000 feet. I know....

I went back to the hotel and prepared myself for a night's sleep at my usual hour, 8pm. I got into my pajamas and brushed my teeth, crawled back into bed. My friend was supposed to come get me at 9pm. I considered calling her and telling her that I had come down with narcolepsy and wouldn't be able to make it. Why do I get myself into these situations, I asked.  There was a can of air that had been given to me and I thought that maybe the combined effects of a double-expresso and a coffee would do the trick. I walked back downstairs to a coffee-house and came back to the room. I read the instructions on the can of air: "breathe"...  I felt ready.

I locked the hotel door.

The coffee didn't make much of a dent, but the oxygen surged through my veins and gripped my skull. I was prepared for anything. I felt like Frank Booth huffing on that can but had no Dorothy Vallens to cry at, no thighs to sniff.

I was pacing the downstairs lobby talking to strangers in a new language when the text came. It was time.

We went to the club and got started right away. There was nobody downstairs yet. The arrangement seemed strange at first and I privately wondered if it was going to have to hold all night. When was I going to get a chance to be a star.... But after about an hour it all started to make more sense. There was a feeling of giving over to it, that I could contribute to a thing but not control it.

This must just be the oxygen talking, I told myself. Why do I try new drugs?

But as the night went on and I got more comfortable with the arrangement I started to realize there were charms to it that there would not have been otherwise. Unexpected turns in the direction of the music, some that worked and some that didn't, but all requiring an immediate response. It forced a flexibility on the night that would not have existed otherwise. No tracks were played in their entirety. Bits and clips and pieces, suggestions making up the whole. Hints being completion. Less being more.

To the mind of a normal dj this might sound horrible, antithesis to everything that matters to them: them.  But it wasn't horrible at all, it was engaging on several levels. To relinquish that sense of control over the direction of the night actually caused me to try more, and to be more creative in phrasing, to communicate more to those around me, to give away a part of myself. The insularity that a dj spends his time developing suddenly dropped away, useless in new experience.


After all of these years, to be able to see a familiar thing in a new way, was almost shocking to me. It was one of the best nights I've had in a long time, for all of the reasons that I might not have ever guessed on my own. What is said just could be true, that sometimes the simplest lessons in life are the most rewarding, no matter how often we are forced to re-learn them. It's possible, and perhaps even preferable, to contribute but not control.

Surrender. It sounds so easy.

.

Vagina Palace

(unknown)

I tried to write about last night but was unsuccessful. Not enough sleep, I guess. Difficult subject. Who knows.

Yesterday I went to the museums, the historical and the Georgia O'Keeffe. They did not like me very much at the O'Keeffe place. I kept asking why so much of her work was subpar, if not outright poor. They told me that I was not allowed to take pictures but I didn't see where it was posted anywhere.

Her work was always very inconsistent for me. The standout pieces are just that. I liked her take on modernism, towering vaginas in the sky and all that. 

When you go and look at a lot of her work, all hung together, you realize that she was not only referencing vaginas, there are also many anuses to be found there, if you stare. She denies that her flowers are vaginal but anybody that has ever studied the subject closely recognizes the immediate and striking similarities. Her work would bore me witless otherwise, like most of Kandinsky.

Her works were described as "broad and expansive," which is sexist on one count and vulgar on the other.

They were all humorless at the museum, guards often are. They probably dream of one day being customs agents. I queried them on who would win in a fist-fight, Frida Kahlo or Georgia O'Keeffe? I knew their money was on O'Keeffe. But Mexicans and the Irish have a proud history of producing fine boxers, and paired together they often make for good matches. 

I asked where the bathroom was and was instructed to walk down a specific hallway. At the end there were two doors, one said "women" and one said "men"... my choice seemed clear. I was there to learn. When I first walked in there was much excitement. I thought that I must be in the right place, the vagina palace. I took a look around. But the excitement quickly gave way to a graver tone, a hushed seriousness. The room emptied out. The cops arrived just as I was starting to get a feel for the place. 

They had no interest whatsoever in my story about door choices and unintentional aesthetics. I assumed that they were also philistines. They barked at me, as they were walking me out handcuffed, in front of all the staring people. They barked at me about privacy. 

Nothing at the time, to my mind, seemed more contrary.  

"What about the vaginas?" I offered. "What about them?"

(known)

.

Many battles with the savages

(my new best friend: Cormac McCarthy)

I made it to Santa Fe, the famed birthplace of Santa Fe Claus. I flew into Albuquerque - taking the requisite left turn as warned against by Bugs Bunny - then took a beautiful drive through the desert valley into Santa Fe just as the sun was setting. I took some pictures with my little travel camera, but they can not convey the full richness of it, of course. Why do I do such things, you ask? Because I'm a fool and I like staring at the sun, but without all the danger and blindness.

The guy who drove me from Albq. to S.Fe was filled with information and great stories. He and I will be buddies by the time it's all over. In the late 60's he used to live in the Lower East Side, directly across from where the Hell's Angels NYC chapter is on 3rd St. He fell in love with a Puerto Rican girl and followed her out here. She lives in Abilene now.

We drove down the Pecos trail and then the more famous Santa Fe Trail. I only regret that I did not bring more furs and tobacco to trade.

Today I will go to the museums. There is an historical museum here that I want to see. As I was walking to breakfast this morning I happened upon a monument in the center of the square. It once read: TO THE HEROES WHO HAVE FALLEN IN THE VARIOUS BATTLES WITH SAVAGE INDIANS IN THE TERRITORY OF NEW MEXICO. The word "savage" has been etched out so that it is just a rough rectangle. It appears to have been done by hand. I was told yesterday that the chiefs of several of the area tribes were hanged in the square. The Indians lined up along the roads giving the Spanish settlers a chance to leave peacefully. The Indians killed about 400 settlers, the rest fled. They eventually came back and were substantially more persuasive the second time.

I had coffee at breakfast but I fear I will need another. The world is moving too slowly. I am tempted to crawl back into bed for the day.

Here is an abbreviated version of what I saw yesterday on the drive through the valley:

.

Sorry, NO More Potato

"A man who carries a cat by the tail learns something he can learn in no other way." - Mark Twain

.

Jefferson, Hemings, Ferraro, Burr, etc.

Thomas Jefferson has just barely beaten Aaron Burr for the presidency. Tied him, in fact. The country was having one of its first Constitutional crises. They ended up amending it (12th) such that the result was it greatly strengthening and embedding party politics into the fabric of the country. The system used to be that the two men with the most electoral college votes became President and Vice President, irrespective of party. But there were 146 votes cast at the time. Well, I've told this story backwards, you already know what happened.... There was a tie between Jefferson and Burr that had to be decided in the House of Representatives. Jefferson was Vice President at the time, to President John Adams, a man who left the city of Washington and never returned. He did not even attend Jefferson's inauguration. 

After the 12th amendment two men ran together to form a party platform, opposing another party's platform, also of two men. Several hundred years later Geraldine Ferraro ran as a Vice Presidential candidate. When she made the cover of Time magazine several of our family's friends noted that she looked much like my mother, though I can't see it now. There must have been some truth to it then.

"Every difference of opinion is not a difference of principal." - Jefferson, from his 1801 inaugural speech

Jefferson used Hamiltonian policy to achieve Jeffersonian ideals. Don't ever believe what anybody in the tea-party tells you, ever. Don't believe any of the nonsense that the tea-partiers disguised as libertarians will tell you either. All of the founding fathers increased the size and strength of the federal government, out of sheer and obvious necessity. The need to do so was both domestic and international in nature. Hamilton, through Burr, aided in Jefferson's victory though he opposed many of J.'s policies and ideals. The animosity between Burr and Hamilton became so great that they famously engaged in code duello with only Burr remaining. 

Maybe I'll read "Burr" by Gore Vidal next, for my fictive historical pleasure. 

Things are also developing between Jefferson and Sally Hemings, a woman who was, by the few accounts that remain, one of the most beautiful women ever available to their owner. She was Jefferson's late wife Martha's half sister. That's right, Martha Jefferson's father was also Sally Hemings father. The painting above is not of her, there are none. There are only four remaining descriptions.

She went to France with Jefferson where she demanded her freedom from him. Under French law she would have been given it. Jefferson begged and pleaded. She returned with him and remained his property for 37 years. But he kept his agreement with her. As part of the deal they struck, all of her children - those with him unsurprisingly included - were granted their freedom at the age of 21.

I have slowed down in reading the biography, it is that good. The changes that Jefferson put into place, in many ways, helped right the country from Federalist policy. His principles are the ones now cherished most by those who seem to understand them the least. It is this early shaping of the country that made us what we now are, for better or for worse. The Alien and Sedition Acts of John Adam's presidency are finding their full fruition in our current President. Though J. also used them for his political gain, he attempted to righten the wrongs once in power, rather than what we seem to have now, a reversal of the same principle. 

I recently visited a friend's house in Los Angeles and saw the biography of J. on his shelf also. I had made a recommendation and voila', there it was. My friend had asked for a suggestion on RFK, FDR or Lincoln. Having only read an abridged version of Carl Sandburg's biography on Lincoln when I was much younger I had nothing to suggest. Only recently have I developed a sustaining interest in history. Most of it that I've ingested has been through fiction. It's no small wonder I am "proven wrong" so often online, on all points political.

.

I know you're in there.....

 
I got in late, then woke early and often. I said Hi! to Rhys and Rachel, then tried to go back to sleep. Rhys crawled to the door of the downstairs bedroom and pushed until Rachel took him upstairs. In a few minutes the clack-clack-clacking of a plastic toy on the floor punctuated my morning. So, now I'm up, home again for two days.

Next I am off to the snowy desert mountains of "holy faith" Santa Fe. I have not seen snow in two years. I hadn't realized that I would miss it. When I return I will be best friends with Cormac McCarthy. He and I will chat often on Facebook.

I will have a free day to wander the town on Saturday. Perhaps I will find Christ there. It seems as good a place to hide as any. For all one knows he has concealed himself for the time being in one of Georgia O'Keeffe's famous flowers.

.

Home again, home again

Though I went to bed early I stayed in bed late this morning, covering my eyes and trying to lie still. Risking erratic dreams just to get a little bit more of that precious sleep. I would go back now if I didn't have to work soon. Strange memories dart and skit about there on the periphery of consciousness. Somebody had printed the bible out on regular office paper and was insisting on its veracity. It was a monstrous pile of papers held together by some mechanical binding. I laughed in the faces of those apparitions, waking myself up again. Why do I dream of such things? I am plagued by the past, memory is half of the raw material needed to build a dream.

I return home today. Rhys has been walking lately. I have yet to see him stand on his own, unassisted by furniture or some sort of help. But he has been launching off from furniture and taking steps, standing, making turns, rounding corners, all of it. It is an exciting time. Yesterday I saw him briefly as Rachel and I spoke on "Facetime."  Technology truly is a marvel. We have been promised those types of communication since I was a child, before that even. Now it is here. That fact itself is somewhat underwhelming after a lifetime of promises but the ability to engage was quite charming. I spoke to him and he seemed to recognize me, his finger reaching out to touch the screen the way he does when I move in to take his picture.

Da-da-da-da.

 .

Damn it!

 (Super Bowl reveler)

A disappointing game. What can be said. The Ravens played better, made fewer mistakes, ran better plays, tighter passing, all of it. It was an exciting end, though I don't know why they didn't play the last 10 yards the same way they had been playing the rest of the field. Teams get within 10 and suddenly they're trying to make a touchdown. If they had just tried to make another first down they would have ran it into the end zone.

Why I'm not a captain of an NFL team yet is a complete mystery.

 .

ManBowl

(Nelson, a good friend)

Yesterday went as planned. There was perpetual drinking, and then endless driving around. I don't understand how everybody in LA doesn't have multiple drinking and driving arrests. It's no wonder that the nation focuses on Lindsay Lohan's troubles as a personality to publicly admonish while bolstering their own sense of morality and personal responsibility. She just seems like a normal young woman around here, not even problematic, just famous. 

We took a drive up Mulholland and around to Sunset, commenting on the many legendary places and people. We stopped at the Frolic Room and the Blue Palms, experimenting with beers and then martinis and then beer again. By the end of the day I was exhausted. I took a couple Xanax, a pain killer, an anti-inflammatory, a cute little yellow pill that looked familiar though whose purpose I have long since forgotten, and some aspirin to thin my blood for whatever the night might bring. If I hadn't been drinking all day long I might have worried about my hydration levels, but as it was I felt secure that my body would find its rightful place, achieving stasis. 

By the time that I made it to the guest room where my air mattress awaited me I felt as comfortable as I ever remember feeling before. I vaguely remember waking up at one point to piss, then back to my inflatable cloud, not even interrupting my dreams. I must have slept for another 10 hours. Not even coffee can break through my tranquility this morning. I am as an old Zen master, calmed and meditative, all knowing. All of life merely a giant marshmallow, nothing can harm me.

Yesterday we visited one of the nicest homes I've ever been to. It was up in Beverly Hills. I would have taken pictures and used them here this morning but did not want to seem like a tourist. Having lived in New York for 12 years has taught me a few things about how to act, some traits being good, others not as much. But the house was a marvel, a visual event. That's where we'll go and watch the Super Bowl today. There is an impressive media room there. To get to it you must be willing to walk across a glass floor that shows the vast wine cellar below. The place is populated with much modern art, each piece an investment as well as a luxury. The entire guest house has been converted into a studio room, dedicated to music. There were two turntables set up in the "dj fashion" so my friend and I spent the evening reminding ourselves how old we are, taking turns at being fat with headphones on.

When Justin Bieber visited the house he offered to buy it on the spot, to give you an idea.

Now my friend is making eggs with vegetables and chicken. The vapors are working their way through my morning fog, reminding me that today is America's big day. 47 years ago we became a proud nation, with a sport that is larger than all other sports combined worldwide. It's annual revenues place it as being larger than many nation's entire economies. I mean... when Superman lets you use his name to advertise a game, you know that you've finally made it, that you've arrived on the galactic scene. Let's hope the dreaded General Zod from Krypton doesn't ruin it for us all.

.

 

What's that dollar doing in my underwear?

I made it to Los Angeles, have been trying to sleep for the last 8 hours. It is all useless. I have sleeping problems and being anywhere other than home does not help the issue.We stayed up late last night, drinking wine. My friend and I arguing until we both gave up, as is our custom. His wife watching in mild bemusement. Then I tossed and turned for a couple hours, falling out of bed once, trying the couch instead of the spare bedroom, then back to the spare bedroom with all three dogs following me excitedly. Finally, I just gave up. Here I sit. 

Those two can sleep at their own leisure, anywhere and anytime. I will probably not see them until noon, or later. I am writing this post into a stickie note because I neglected to get the wi-fi password from them. Consciousness is miserable. I want sleep and there is little chance that I'm going to get any. This is among the most boring paragraphs I've ever seen in my life.

Last night it seemed that there was nearly endless food to be eaten, steaks and vegetables and wine. This morning, as is often the case at other people's houses, there is no easy food to be had. I have already eaten an entire bag of sandwich meat (ham) and a few bites of ice cream (chocolate). When my friends wake up I'll force them to go and get a real breakfast, bacon and sausage to round out my ham ingestion. I guess that I accidentally put the ice cream back in the refrigerator rather than the freezer. I just went to have another bite and found it in the wrong place, slowly melting.

I've gotten so fat that I can't breathe well any more. 

I smoked pot last night, a thing that I don't often do. I don't remember enjoying it, we had drank too much wine. Nothing as mild as pot was going to break through the fortification that red wine had built around my mind, a moat with a rusty drawbridge, my cerebrum proudly perched just off center, tilting in the winds.   

Several people seemed to like my porn piece from yesterday. I got a number of emails. 

That reminds me. Last night on the plane I did end up sitting next to a blonde, though she was closer to 34 than 24. She was also coming to LA for the weekend. She had also considered driving instead of flying, she also had a cocktail on the plane. We sat and chatted about the differences between LA and SF, thinking ourselves clever. She asked what I was going to do when my friend picked me up from the airport and I joked, "Steaks and a titty-bar, what else is there?" She took this opportunity to tell me how disgusting titty-bars were and how awful desperate men appeared to her, and on and on. She wrapped up her little speech with, "But, boys will be boys..."

"I'd say that there's as much 'girls will be girls' going on there as the other."

She did not seem to like this and it occurred to me that we were still trapped on a plane together for a few more minutes, so I let it drop. The implication that money grubbing women revealed any truth about women, or people in general, was an unpleasantness that she did not seem particularly interested in entertaining. 

But it never ceases to amaze me how thoughtlessly some people will make the most dull and sexist remarks and the worst thing that you can possibly do is agree with them, but just invert the stereotype. Nobody likes it, and it never seems to have the desired result.

Oh well. There was a decidedly "How dare you!" look that came over her face. 

I'm not opposed to titty-bars, but I'm neither a big fan of them. There is something to be said for a room full of naked women. I just said it: a room full of naked women, or nearly naked anyway. It is hard to argue with, unless you take it upon yourself to argue for others, then there is much to say, I guess. Women never seem to like it when they are discussing the exploitation of women and I point out that the men are also being exploited, and possibly even more so. They fail to see how. Even when you point out the obvious to them, that they are giving more value than they are receiving and that they are duped into this by various genetic impulses that they have no control over, whereas the women engage in this behavior decidedly for monetary gain. 

If you believe that the pleasure gained is worth the money lost then titty-bars are your kind of place. Alternately, if you believe it's worth getting naked for a few dollars at time, and you're physically predisposed to engage in this type of transaction, then being a stripper just might be the right thing for you.

When I was younger I knew quite a few strippers. They all seemed to love electronic dance music and ecstasy, which coincided with my interests. Many of them would openly express their reasoning for being strippers. There was a sort of, "I might as well do it while I'm young and I can, before everything falls apart" 

"Then why don't you try to break into porn?  Who wants to put in all of those hard hours working at a tit bar when you can just let a few guys fuck you and make lots more money. A whole week's worth in an hour or two, and there won't be anybody telling you not to do drugs or anything fucking stupid like that. Right?"

.

Debbie Did

Nothing to convey today. Rhys was sick again last night. He feeds me cookies every day, covered in his own saliva. I'll probably feel the first southern tug on my bowels as soon as the door to the plane closes for Los Angeles tonight. I'll be seated next to a 24 year old giggly blonde, heading there to break into porn.

I've been eating a lot of beef and cheese lately, perhaps that explains my heroic resistance to the dreaded viral invaders.

Okay, no more anus talk today. I'm alienating those readers here who might not have one, or those that have two and are self-conscious about such things.

Isn't pornography funny. Are there people that actually act like that? I do hope so. I'd like to meet a few of them while I'm in LA. I recently saw a brief interview with the protagonist of Debbie Does Dallas. She has lost some of her star luster through the years. I don't understand, she seemed so glamorous then, in 1978. Who would have ever guessed that Bambi Woods would end up looking so spent. It looked as if she's had basketballs heaved at her for the last 35 years or so.

I once wanted to do a documentary short on porn contracts, those who write them, the various provisions within them. I mean, there must be contractual precedents for certain mishaps occurring, to ensure that those things videotaped are then handled with a sense of decorum. There must be events that are at once hilarious for some and astonishingly embarrassing for others. 

Okay, one more small bit of anus talk, then no more. I promise.

I mean, when a woman is getting butt-fucked by a select team of men there must be the occasional error. Is it provisional that those things are edited out and immediately become the sole property of the star's management company? They must be. The various acts and potential occurrences must be agreed upon in advance. Or, are these things just agreed-upon in that industry? Perhaps there is a code of honor that would prevent a producer from ever leaking something like that.

Speaking of leaking, a girl that I used to work with at Apple told me a story one day about a video clip that I absolutely had to see. I guess a porn cameraman was the unwitting recipient of "the gift..." In trying to get the best shot possible of the infamous money-shot, he got too close and ended up as part of the film. Nothing made this girl happier. She would laugh for minutes telling the story, having to take time to catch her breath. She never tired of it. A man getting cum on his face, there was nothing funnier in her world.

She would often ask why white people's porn always tries to tell a little story, a fantasy. She said when black people make a porn all the guys just come out of some other room, ready to do this thing. She would swagger a bit when telling the story, mimicking, with a certain heft in her gait, looking around with a sort of What? attitude. She said that white people would waste too much time setting up the scene, interviewing the girl. "Who the fuck cares what that stupid bitch has to say?" was her repeated point. There was no malice in her question. She merely wanted to know what all the setup was even about. "We all know what's going to happen. Why don't they interview the dudes with the swinging trunks?" That was the extent of her inquiry into the matter.

She was a riot.

I, of course, never had an adequate answer for her. I'm one of those that would likely interview a subject, get an idea of who she was before things unfolded as planned. Set the scene, etc. There are some who attach significance to such moments, however modest.

Though admittedly, it's difficult not to think of her now when a porn director will engage in a touch of cinéma vérité just before the arranged sequence begins. Not that I watch all that much porn, but sometimes it's the only honest thing that's on the internet.

.