No, I Am Not a Priest

This morning I was standing in a parking lot talking to a friend when a guy came up to me and asked, “Are you a priest?”

The fuck?

In his defense, he’s one of the dudes who lives in the park and it was pretty early and he was highly trashed, but still: “Are you a priest?”

I told him, “No, man, I’m just an idiot like the rest of us.”

At that, the clown takes offense. He’s drunk, living in a box under a tree in the middle of winter and he takes offense at an off-the-cuff remark about how we are all equal and not too goddamned impressive. I was shocked. How could he disagree? All signs, especially in his squalid situation, pointed to the accuracy of my statement but I suppose dope and booze have reduced his cognitive aptitude.

I excused myself because I didn’t feel like getting into a fistfight. My back hurts. Plus, I had given him the impression, for just a second, that I was a priest and I didn’t want to disillusion him more than I already had.

At first, I admit, a small part of me was flattered. A new career as a soft spoken hustler of spiritual mysticism, the same blather that has proven to be a very profitable ego-boost to countless practitioners of all styles; Jim Jones, Joel Osteen, Tammy Faye Bakker, Joyce Meyer, Dalai Whatever, Pope Whomever, Rabbi Random?

The guy had no money and nothing to offer me, so I didn’t lead him on, but I can see how he made the mistake.

I was dressed in a long black coat and speaking to another man about junkies and how untrustworthy they are. The dialogue may have been misinterpreted from a distance and with a head full of distortion. I could have been offering pastoral counseling.

Also, I have a new, more conservative haircut. Parted on the left, combed back and to one side, shorter. A woman friend said it was “different”, looked good, but a little “disco”. I replied that I was preparing for the neo-Fascist takeover of America in the next election and I wanted to blend in, hence the haircut. She laughed because she knows my Anarchic-Nihilist-Absurdist-Atheist propensities.

The ruined resident of the city park was pretty aggressively boozed, so I didn’t tell him what I really think of priests, holy persons, gurus and religious leaders of all denominations. Oh, yep, sure, of course, some are well meaning and consider themselves harmless, but in my experience (significant) most spiritual specialists depend on and actually promote lack of critical thinking skills in their followers, their flock, in order to prop up the dissemination of fantasy, magical thinking and dangerous prejudice that the sacred have been dishing out to the profane for millennia. It’s a tried and true hustle aimed at the needy, the codependent and people who are arrogant enough to think that there is a god and it gives a shit about them, personally, their prayers, their good works, as if god is hovering above, ready to rescue them from all of their difficulties and troubles, if only they get the chanting or the incantation correct, in the right key, if they do enough good works, pray, read and disregard reality.

I probably look like a street drunk’s version of a priest. Well-fed dude in a long black coat with a slick haircut, pontificating to another about how fucked up people are.

I recoiled when I was asked if I’d experienced the calling, the vocation. I had a touch of acid reflux, felt my knees buckle and my teeth grind.

“Are you a priest?”

“Oh fuck you, hell no, you brain damaged waste of time, space, air, skin and clothing.”

But that would be unkind. I want to be left alone and an insulting response might encourage more interaction than I could manage so I didn’t get uppity or disparaging about his inebriated mistake.

And seriously, who can think “Priest” and not immediately follow with “Pedophile”? Word association. Trump/Fascist. Arab/Terrorist.

Who knows what kind of grudges people are carrying around and how an impaired consciousness will react to misinterpreted stimuli?

Jesus Christ, I guess I was lucky get out of it so easily. I can live to denigrate, belittle and criticize another day.

I may swap the overcoat for something more secular, though. Leather jacket. No use giving the wrong impression.

My New Year’s Resolution:

Thou shalt not lead them on. Unless there’s money in it.

A Holiday Poem -- 2015

Taking a Bath -- December 26 2015 

 

The night after Christmas

Burned out and overspent

Relax in the peaceful bath

Seasoned with a lilac scent

It pops into my head

Like an impure thought

“What would I do

If I’d never get caught?”

Hypothetical of course

But I begin to think

The first thing I’d do

Have a couple of drinks

Pop a mix of pills

Some weed, a pile of coke

After all these years

I could really use a smoke

Then steal all I could

To fund my errant ways

Rip offs and robbery

Will occupy my days

Sex, why not sex?

No one would ever know;

Anyone at anytime

I’d have that sated glow

Every night I’d lie in bed

Make my vengeful lists

Who has bothered me

At whom I'm pissed

Yes, murder, absolutely

Without consideration

Slaughter of my enemies

A bloody termination

(Boundaries are important

But now I make the rules;

Lie and cheat and steal

And judge the tragic fools)

Free to carry on

And time do it right

Leave rubble in my wake

Forever out of sight

Immune to prosecution

Absolved of all my sins

Cleared of accusations

I will always win

Impure and vile thoughts

Of a secret psychopath

Drift through the steamy fog

While I’m soaking in the bath

Our Annual End-of-Year Analysis

Christmas Eve, 2015. This is the week when I wonder what the hell happened; the year flashes by, I’m older, the world is different and it’s easy to become discouraged. If I don’t take a clear-eyed look at the recent past it is too easy to descend into despair.

This is my version of an annoying Christmas Letter; those mass-mailed updates from friends that cleverly and passively make me feel stupid, poor and uninformed.

They’ve been to Peru again, they have lost weight, they’re into yoga and crossfit and they run half marathons, act in local theater productions, they’ve adopted Syrian refugees, they breed horses, dogs, have been growing their own food, skydiving and investing well, buying boats, summer homes, learning sign language, changing agents, bragging about their kids who help the homeless and are graduating with honors from ivy-league colleges, are happily pregnant, have super jobs and visit every weekend. A Xeroxed page of family photos accompanies those goddamn letters; everyone appears fit, happy, well dressed, tanned, younger. Everything but halos. That arrogant, self-satisfied, top 10 percent bullshit increases my incipient resentment. I’m older, more pessimistic and corrupted; they are not. How do they do that?

As each year terminates I notice the word “death” more often, in overheard conversations, in the news, in my inner monologue. I need to deliberately consider the preceding twelve months if I want to be realistic and move past doubt, dread and my default cynicism. It’s been a weird year and I have visions of perdition, expectations of increased suffering, imminent doom and worldwide collapse. I fear I may not complete another week, so I’m composing my year-end evaluation right now, while I still have time.

Also, I want to get it done before the pain meds take effect and I become too…creative.

This isn’t an uncommon, end of the world narrative, either. It’s not at all uncommon. I’ve felt this way most years, comparing myself to others, measuring, adding up, dissecting, calculating. Personal honesty has been mysterious and elusive and 20 years ago I was miserable without recourse. I became sober and learned that self evaluation and a sincere appraisal, writing down the days, the months, seeing what it looks like on paper, tangible and authentic as possible, is the best thing I can do to stay factual and grounded and prepare for the next episode.

It would be so easy to say, “This year sucks and there was nothing good about it.” Very easy. But absolutes (Nothing, Always, Never) are false. Experience is variable and events and occurrences are filtered through my own consciousness, which I control and can re-train.

The best way is to consider experiences chronologically.

I spent January and most of February living in Florence, Italy. Yeah. The start of the year was sweet. The land of my antecedents, my identity. I remembered a great deal of the Italian words and pronunciations I’d heard as a kid and reconnected with the beautiful language. I saw mind-blowing, life affirming art. I climbed to the top of the tower, the Torre di Arnolfo, of the Palazzo Vecchio, over 400 steep, narrow, uneven and irregular stairs.

I didn’t die.

I ate mussels and Tagliatelle and baked gnocchi, at Osteria Santo Spirito. Many memorable meals. I drank “miracle tea” with an Indian man and a depressed Italian.

Spring. There was rain and the drought we’ve experienced here in the Southwest was alleviated. I’ve learned to stand in the rain without cursing.

In May I was asked to participate in a public performance by a group of local writers. I stood on a stage in front of hundreds of people and read a short essay I’d written. I did well, and the reception was beyond my expectations. I received compliments on my work and, perhaps for the first time, I accepted graciously. I was confident, which is a rare and elusive feeling.

Summer. Hot dry days that are too long. Not my favorite time of year, but I wrote a book of poetry. I worry about poets; they may all be frauds. I can never tell if a poet is getting any better at the craft. So, to test myself, to put up or shut up, I wrote a book of 35 poems. Know what? It was a blast, some of the work is pretty good, and I decided that poetry is cool because it’s so much fun.

We went to Moab and saw Arches and Canyonlands and had a great short road trip. Later, in September, I flew to California, rented a Buick Lacrosse, a big assed comfortable gashog, and drove throughout the northern part of the state where I visited friends and family and well-known landscapes. There were bittersweet moments, some loneliness and sad memories, but I also spent time with Kate, Barbara, Armando, Terry, Roland, my brother Rich and his wife, my sister Chris and her family and my cool, beautiful grand-niece, Paige.

Ernie is my best friend from high school. He lives on the coast in Arcata, California, and we spent a day or two at the beach, bullshitting about our lives, aging, the old days. When we were fifteen we started a band, played gigs. Our history is insane, wild, and we remain brotherly. While I was there we played and sang songs that he and I wrote 30 years ago, and goddamn, they are really good songs.

The end of the year has been a mixed bag of health and horror. I’ve had neck and back pain all my life. Three surgeries, decades past. My spine lit up this year and discomfort has been moderate to severe, constant and restrictive. An unrelated annual doctor’s appointment turned into a blood sugar problem (that fucking pancreas), which led to a heart scan which indicated high (very high) levels of plaque and four compromised coronary arteries. A cardio stress test with radioactive dye followed. I burned through it and there is no blockage or narrowing. A good news clause attached to the death certificate. The doctor said, “We should repeat this test in 18 months.” Sure. Great. A chance to finish out the year. It's possible. Plan a trip to Paris.

An MRI of my spine shows the expected: crushed, degenerative, herniated, calcified disks, narrowed nerve passages, impingement, scoliosis, inflammation, bone spurs, deterioration. No wonder it hurts. Next? Another referral, cortisone shots, pain medications, perhaps surgery. During the MRI the doctor saw a “nodule” on my thyroid. A bump, a blip, a crappy little knob. Coming soon: more tests, scans, sonograms. Could be anything. Very common. Don’t worry.

Right. Fuck off, I’m worried.

Now, quick, I must balance health terror with good news.

Random positivism:

I purchased a twenty-dollar fountain pen that is amazing.

My old traveling jacket is finished, but I saw one in a magazine that looked good, tracked it down, bought it online and it fit perfectly. Sleeves were too long and my lovely friend Ariel altered them in a couple of hours. Miraculous.

Some good haircuts.

Before my back tweaked I hiked and ran in the forests high above my house. Paradise.

I have a recipe for Brussels sprouts that is brilliant. Is it possible to eat too many Brussels sprouts? Fuck em, I don’t care. They’re that good.

I’ve been writing my blog, “The Vagrant Cantos”, for three and a half years and I have almost 100 posts, nearly 100,000 words. I am consistent. That has not always been the case.

Water. I cannot stress the importance and benefits of drinking lots of water. Yeah, I get it, everyone already knows that, forever, but actually doing it? Man that is crazy. Water, it’s the new black.

Marcel Proust, Thomas Mann, Lydia Davis, Georges Perec.

Don Cherry, Ornette Coleman, Maria Schneider.

I spent several months watching French New Wave films and am addicted and inspired.

Last week I hooked in with some outstanding musicians and we played the blues all afternoon. My drumming was good. I dig deep the blues and it was a delight to play with Conrad, Jackson and Tad.

My wife, Sally, is a great woman, smart, talented, and I’m always happy at home. This is a very big deal.

It’s truly, finally, full-on winter and I love winter.

I might get a cat. Someday.

This year, like the others, was both complicated and common with moments of horror and joy. I’ve survived and hope I can write something similar in 2016.

A reminder:

Once a week, or as needed, I must recall:

In January, I climbed 416 steps to the top of the Torre di Arnolfo at the Palazzo Vecchio on a beautiful day in Florence, Italy.

I didn’t die.

A Christmas Confession

Mid-December and Christmas will be here in couple of weeks. I can manage.

It’s been a complicated few months this fall, blurry and tinged with anxiety. I spent much of September traveling, visiting, driving, far away from home. October was memorable for the medical distress and angst of potential diabetes, heart disease, weight, blood tests, medical appointments, chronic neck pain. In November it was Pneumonia or Bronchitis or Whooping Cough or Sinus Infection (no one diagnosed it the same way twice) and I wasted most of the month feeling like shit, drinking codeine cough syrup, waiting for death.

Now, December and I’m feeling cool and looking good (haircut, new glasses), doing my best to evade the holidays. I work out, watch the diet (lots of natural, home cooked, fresh foods); I’m relaxed and have reduced my justified anxiety. I take minimal pain med for the fucked up neck and back, have been watching great videos (Fargo, Ray Donovan), I’m reading Thomas Mann and Alice Munro; you know, digging my life, my wife, my home, my stuff, my world, writing, friends, coffee.

2015 has been an alright year; a couple trips to Italy, Utah, California but the days are passing faster than I can keep up. December frigging ninth? Slow it down, let me enjoy the final hours of the year, of my goddamned life, without the reminder that the end is much nearer this week than last and I’ll never get those days back.

I know that, all right? I’m clear on the concept of mortality, I just hate looking at the calendar and noticing that three days have passed. How the hell did that happen?

I’m a little touchy today. I’ve been drinking water. Too much water? Is that possible? I’m training myself to drink more H2O. They say it’s healthy. They. Yeah, I know, but lots of water is supposed to be good for hydration, energy, digestion, diet, full cognitive functions. They recommend at least five glasses a day. I’ve been chugging it for a week or so and, holy Christ, I admit it, I feel terrific. Body is working like a super-lubed machine and all systems are go, at maximum levels, in the green and bubbling with good will and verve. I may be a little over the top, though, high wired and liquid, ready for anything. Crime, big lies, active participation in the dark side.

I stole a rubber glove at the doctor’s office. I was in for a referral for the on-going neck pain and I stole a rubber glove. I always steal something at the doctor’s; a tongue depressor, an alcohol swab. Once I took some liquid cocaine but that was a long time ago and well planned with an accomplice. Last week, while waiting for the overworked doc, I glanced around the room for something close at hand and unlocked. Saline? Bandages? A blood pressure cuff? I’m trying to cut back on possessions and even though it would feel good to cop a big piece of medical equipment, I have no use for it. It’s not like I’m practicing medicine any more. Now I’m just an aging guy who is waiting in the doctor’s office for the scolding-scary health dialogue to begin. Lose weight, no sugar, join a gym, wear a seat belt.

A box of rubber gloves on the counter so I reached in and plucked one out. Why didn’t I take two? Don’t know, but I snagged one and felt satisfied. A noticeable improvement. As I put it in my pocket, the doctor swung open the door and began reading his list of demands and an alarming litany of threats.

Actually, the rubber glove was not rubber. It was vinyl. A pearly vinyl, off white, ivory, that becomes pinkish when I insert my hand.

The previous day I had been at the dentist’s. I plan all my appointments that have the potential for life changing news or require special seating as close as possible to each other. It’s an old habit. Doctor, Dentist, Ophthalmologist, Haircut. The new dental technician was distant and quiet, perfect, and she cleaned, polished and examined my teeth. During the procedure she wore baby-blue vinyl gloves and when she reached into my mouth, touched my gums, tongue, and chin, her hands slipped over the fleshy surfaces, clean, smooth and soothing.

Am I the first person to admit that I’ve developed a vinyl fetish in my later years?

Well, tough shit, that’s what happened. I didn’t get aroused in the Dentist’s chair, of course, but the vinyl was delightful, a treat. I opened wide. We were polite, well mannered, and bid each other goodbye while maintaining a professional client/practitioner relationship.

I kept thinking about the glove, so when the opportunity presented itself the next day at the doctor's I jumped at it.

I have no idea what I’m going to do with my new glove. It’s in my pocket right now as I sit yattering across the keyboard. I finger it and am reassured.

I’ll probably throw it away. Give it to a homeless person or put it under the Christmas tree at the Chinese restaurant. A Christmas gift, a present.

I might keep it, though.

As gun owners say, when asked, “Why do you need a frigging gun? Why do you think you always need to be armed?”

Their answer is, “Well, you never know.”

Meanwhile, I’m hydrated and energetic, happy and fulfilled and ready for anything. Even Christmas. I like the darkening days, long nights, cold weather, a functional vehicle, plenty of underwear and socks, roasted Brussels sprouts; it’s a decent existence. Nice views, clean water, clear air.

The world situation sucks but it always sucks. I can’t change that. I detach, fantasize, write down my ideas, stories, poems, essays, make lists of names of impossible, unwritten books and characters and wait for opportunities to arise.

I drink lots of water.

And I have a rubber glove in my pocket. 

You never know.

Respectfully, Talk is Cheap

Yep, they were Muslims who had become radicalized. I don’t like or respect Muslims any more than I do Christians, but these were Muslims. Of course, they were not representative of all Muslims; we have to say that because it’s probably true and we have to say it. Certainly, any religion can be a precursor to intense violence, but the real crazies (not just those needy sad people who want to be saved, rescued, win the lotto, but the real nutcases) are a problem in every religion. Right? I mean, if you read the news, there are some dangerous disciples out there.

And, yes, it’s real, absolutely, I’ve seen it, the “good” Christians and Muslims are denouncing the assholes. Denouncing the hell outta them. As they should. Thank you for that. Seriously. Grateful that you are taking a stand against madness and murder.

Lots of news footage of moderate Muslims filmed in front of mosques condemning the outrage in San Bernardino. Good for them. But I don’t totally trust their sincerity, any more than I trust the sincerity of the devout Christians who criticize the recent killings in and around Planned Parenthood. I can’t truly trust anyone who endorses magic and fantasy, God, prayer, worship, heaven, hell, life everlasting, the whole damn creed in all of its twisted mutations.

Talk is cheap. It’s air. Gas. Spiritual talk is the cheapest. What can we do? What can the moderate Muslim and the progressive Christian do to slow the carnage?

Personally, I’d like to see the faithful start weeding from within. Instead of simply proclaiming outrage, speak up when one of your comrades starts talking shit. If one of the brothers/sisters in Christ or Allah is preaching violence or spewing angry tirades against another person, place or thing, turn them the hell in. Fuck ‘em, they don't deserve your allegiance.

There are some really fruitcake Christians. Anyone who thinks the Planned Parenthood shooting is a good thing because God? Report their asses. I’d dig seeing Christians pull the rug out from under their heavily armed, pissed off, brain-damaged co-worshipers. If the Knights of Columbus begin buying up a shitload of guns and ammo and show up at mass in camos and flak vests, for Christ’s sake drop a dime. It would go a long way towards rapprochement if Muslims who are still sentient would roll over on the radical, violent dogbrains who may be living among them. Is that honorable? Is it fair? Some would say it isn’t, but why should I care?

If you talk you should act. If you are against the radicalization and screwball shit that goes on in your god’s name, don’t wait until the neighbors nut up and start blowing up a nightclub, a restaurant, a medical clinic, or a roomful of kindergartners.

Yes, I know, sorry, of course, this whole idea could cause a lot of innocent people to be inconvenienced. It could spin out of control. Report your parents for not being nice to you. Turn in your ex-wife to be questioned, interviewed. But the news media is late to the party, and the FBI, ATF, Homeland are confused and baffled. This is a grass roots thing. If we wait for the government, journalists, cops or God to fix this insanity, we are going to read a lot more horrible headlines. Ask questions, inquire, push someone’s buttons, write a letter, do something besides moan about how you disapprove of violence.

Prove it.

One more thing. Arming yourself to the teeth isn't going to help. Really. It's not the movies, it's not Die Hard or 24. You're not that tough. That's another fantasy. You'll just hurt yourself.

Another Helping of Thanksgiving

Sally and I are sitting in front of the fire listening to Pete Seeger, Woody Guthrie, Phil Ochs. American folk singers. Her idea. A bowl of tangerines. Nice pre-thanksgiving evening. Tomorrow I’m going to get up early and make dinner for us. Just us. Two people, comfortable. No one else, no socializing, no family or friends. It’s what we’ve decided and we’re looking forward to the quiet, good music, perhaps some poetry. There have been health issues, a few frightening moments, mostly self-generated, but I’m clearly aware that I won’t go on forever. For much of my life I thought I was bulletproof, that I’d be eternal. New realizations are prompting reconsideration. Holidays and the busy, populated planet belong to the younger people in my family, the ones who are not yet overwhelmed by a world they have just begun to experience. Josh and Michelle had a new baby (Thomas Joseph) yesterday. Joe and Lisa’s bambino, JP, is 4 months old. Valerie and Pat have Paige who is not quite two, and Michael and Jackie are expecting. My nieces and nephews are having kids and that is beautiful and bittersweet. The family goes on; the newest ones don’t know if life was better or harder or happier. They aren’t old enough to judge themselves or others and, so lucky, they are under the care of incredible young men and women.  I’m finished with building this life and now I hope to enjoy what I’ve done, what I have, who I know; I want to look forward to every goddamn morning. I’ve been disillusioned, of course, beaten down badly sometimes, but that’s OK as long as I recognize that I have options and can change my point of view. Which I absolutely can. I’m cool with the past, for the most part, and the terror, stupidity, anger and violence of the previous couple of weeks, years, decades, haven’t ruined me. Miraculously. There are plenty of good stories, good people. My life isn’t the world and it’s as decent or miserable as I make it; these days I’m content not to get in too deep. Choices; a concept I’ve only become aware of in the past 20 years. I love my wife, my home, the fine natural world, great books and writing. Good writing gets me high. And I love working on my own stories, poems, essays like an obsessed addict, full of self-doubt, pushing on. I’m nuts about jazz and still dig good rock n’ roll. I can find colossal joy in all forms of literature from contemporary comic books to Avant Garde to pulp to 19^th century classics: Spiderman, Sandman, Batman, Jane Austen, Gertrude Stein, Thomas Mann. Film? Hell yes. French new wave, Italian post-war, American noir, horror, slapstick and silent. I’m thankful for my brothers Paul and Rich, my sister Chris, and my great friends: Armando, Roland, Terry (CDG), Otha, Jonathan, Ernie, Barbara, Kate, Amy…. too many to name. Too many. I never would have guessed. I’m grateful for fountain pens, intermittent windshield wipers, copy/paste, delete/undo, Catherine Deneuve, a good haircut, desert boots, and most important, the all time greatest innovation of the modern age that has offered me a life free from guilt, confusion and stress:

Caller ID.

This is Paradise.

Enraged and Discouraged

What is the problem?

Since last night, Friday, November 14, 2015, when I saw the news about the slaughter in Paris, I’ve been wondering. What is the fucking problem?

Paris is a terrific city. I have lived in Paris, off and on, during the past decade. Two or three months at a time. I know the city pretty well and I know the neighborhoods where the ISIS attacks took place. When the news feed came up, reporting the terrors, I was exchanging emails with a few landlords because I’m planning to return next fall/winter for a few months. I don’t speak very good French but I dig the city, it is comfortable, crowded, beautiful and I feel at home there. I love French literature, architecture, history, food, culture, etc. I am a member of the Amis du Louvre, supporters of the museum, and I renew my membership card every year.

There is no way I would call myself an expert in anything French, I just goddamn love Paris where I have good friends who are now experiencing one of the most horrifying events in their lives and in Europe since World War II. Museums are closed, there is still blood in the street, people are scared and in shock, my own acquaintances are safe, but so many normal citizens were wounded and killed and the city and people are changed forever.

I’ll admit that I’m as ready as anyone to take revenge. Last night I was enraged and could have killed. It’s in my nature; my first reaction to the murder and assault of innocent people is to avenge them. I’m no hero, but I’m as pissed off as I’ve been since 9/11.

This morning, after I’d gone out for coffee and talked to a few friends, I am calmer. Less fury, but still gloomy and desolated. What can I do?

There is no use for religion, god, prayer, belief or magic. That’s my only commitment. Prove to me that any of that exists or is useful and perhaps I’ll pay attention, but until then, for my own safety and preservation, I cannot take devotees seriously. Belief, commitment to fantasy, voluntary ignorance, is dangerous and deadly and there are examples every day, both in the Mideast and in America’s Midwest. I’m an antitheist. I do what I can, in my small way, to disparage and dismiss and, I hope, destroy religion, faith, and delusion. Anyone who doesn’t approve can fuck off. I need my dignity and self esteem more than I give a crap about their rescue fantasies and desire for better parents.

Individuals who perpetrate holocausts, terrorism, torture, bloodletting, are not smart. No, they’re not. This is not some clearly thought out political ideology or utopian dream. It’s not about making the world a better place, solving hunger, fixing the environment, or caring for the homeless and displaced and sick and frightened populations of the world. It is superstitious ignorance at a global level and it’s getting worse. It appears that the focus of the monsters among us is total devastation. For what?

Meanwhile there are huge armies fighting in multiple countries and nothing is improving. Veterans Day comes and goes and we’re all up in the support and love and patriotic jingoism, but still, a perpetual war is raging, people are dying, and nothing is improving. We killed Osama? Good, hope you feel better. What’s changed? Yesterday the news media reported we “may have killed Jihadi John”. So? Something is different? Are you more secure and happy? I’ve got no problem about targeting dangerous assholes, but what changed?

What is the fucking problem?

Is it really as simple as a misplaced, misinformed, ignorant religious creed and dogma? Is it about Palestine and the West’s support for Israel? Is it Oil? Money? Patriarchy? Is it because “they hate our freedom”? Or they want our women? Is it honestly about making cartoon representations of Mohammad?

Do not tell me about how bad America is, either. I get that. We’re a flawed nation, but yesterday some douche said, “We do worse stuff all the time.” Well, fuck you douche, stay away from me. You are a collaborator. Do not excuse these recent events by trotting out some straw dog argument that it’s OK because the monsters have been hurt and have reasons for their animosity and killing. Bite me.

Oh, and drop the feelgood shit about “everything happens for a reason” or “we never get more than we can handle” and “god’s will” and “rich and varied ethnic heritage”. No. You are wrong.

This bullshit has been going too long and has escalated over the past ten years. So what is the problem? Plenty of groups have identified themselves, they have websites and twitter feeds and publish manifestos and make phone calls and use the Internet and social media to brag and recruit and take credit. We know how to get in touch, right? IS, ISIS, ISIL, the Taliban, Al Qaeda, Boko Haram; somebody has their goddamn phone numbers. I mean, before we get all gung-ho and start carpet-bombing (and last night I would have said, “Fuck yes!”) let’s find out what’s the frigging difficulty.

This is World War III. It can be the forever war. There may not be an answer and it may never end and this may be the wretchedness that defines the next several centuries. So someone, please, tell me, what is the problem? If it’s not resolvable in the real world, if it truly is about stupidity and fantasy and hatred, then we can all cut loose and the people of earth can begin a campaign to decimate themselves at a faster rate. I’m good with that.

I’d just like to know: Currently, this minute, what is the fucking problem?

What have I missed?

Someone, please, make a phone call, take some notes, tell the truth and let me know. And if you’re a disciple, defender of the monsters, collaborator or believer in a divinity, please block, delete, unfriend, erase me from your database. You may be part of the problem. Whatever the fuck it is.

The Not-So-Good Cop

This story about the dirty cop who faked his own suicide in Illinois is getting more and more interesting. Among all of his other crimes, he’s now being exposed as a drunk, a misogynist, and a seriously ragged piece of crap. And the other cops on the force knew it. You know, the cops who haven’t been caught. They knew he was a trashbag for 15 years; they had complained to the chief.  The standard line is, “Most cops are good guys and only a few give the rest a bad name.” I hear that whenever an ugly story emerges of cops shooting unarmed people, punching out the mentally ill, racists, full of hatred, angry, stupid, killing innocent citizens, shaking down, embezzling, threatening, breaking the law and walking away clean until some kid with a cellphone video exposes them.

I hear how these are really Good Guys who put their Lives on the Line Every Day and They are Heroes and Where Would We Be Without Them?

That’s the spew that spills every time one of these much-too-common stories surfaces. Sure as shit. Except that this asshole, police Lt. Joe Gliniewicz, was touted as one of those terrific, community oriented, help-the-kids, volunteer, GI Joe, local personality, honest, upstanding Good Guys until a few days ago when everything comes tumbling down and he is exposed as a thief, a cheat, a potential murderer, liar and Christ knows what else. It’s under investigation. So he killed himself.

Makes me wonder: Is he really an anomaly, a rarity, or is he typical of the team? Is he ready to do anything to get ahead, to control a little more power and money with no, none, training in ethics and morality and justice? Another selfish sociopath in a uniform? When I see a cop on the street, in his car, slumped over his cellphone, I wonder if he’s planning some scam, hustle or some creepy stalking. I’ve felt that way for a long time. Decades.

Nope, no more trust. Gone. My sense of confidence in these poorly prepared, badly educated, immoral, dangerous mindfucks has vaporized. I am nervous, always, around cops. I thought I was paranoid and guilty and defensive. Turns out I’m prescient and highly conscious.

And if there are really good cops out there, in the community, protecting, serving, coaching the kiddies and helping old ladies across the street, they better sure as shit stand up pretty frigging soon and say something, loud, act different, begin changing their culture from within, behave like men instead of pussies who back up the felons, idiots, psychos, criminals, thugs and bullies that are destroying law enforcement, annihilating justice and shredding communities with their unforgiveable shitty behavior.

Call me Mr. Silver Lining because I guess I should point out that at least this moron only topped himself and didn’t take along any innocent people. You absolutely KNOW that was in the mix.

Take as Directed. No Refills.

I’ve had a birthday recently and at the same time I’ve acquired whooping cough (really, what is this, 1925?) and now I have a sinus infection. Terrific. I feel like I’ve got another week, tops, and then I’ll die. Don’t have much appetite so at least I’m not killing myself with food. Maybe the drugs (Percocet, codeine cough syrup, aspirin, blood pressure meds, fish oil supplements, a vitamin, probiotics, antibiotics and nasal spray) have something to do with my ennui and loss of appetite? Impossible. I’m not the most ambitious guy, but being housebound and uncomfortable for nearly two weeks is driving me nuts. Thank Christ for decent literature and good movies and TV.

For no other reason than that I’m bored crapless and haven’t written anything except the names drugs and their possible side-effects for the past ten days, I’m listing my sickbed diversions. I’ll never write another word if I don’t do this.

Reading:

Kafka Short Stories. Be careful, this stuff will drive you nuts. Great writing, but Kafka is exactly the reason they invented codeine cough syrup.

Bukowski. I’m done with him. Yes, I know; famous, great, gritty, but also self conscious, immature, drunk and sentimental.

Henry James. I never get tired of James’s long sentences, clauses that flow rhythmically for half a page and meaning doesn’t become clear until the last word. It’s a puzzle, a meditation, an exercise in concentration. He explored his characters’ complex psychology with careful observation and affection.

James Baldwin. Giovanni’s Room. Baldwin is a master stylist and can communicate rage and frustration better than any other writer I can bring to mind. Giovanni’s Room is a book about secrets and confusion, deadly codependence, poverty and pretense. Similar to Bukowski, there is an immature quality in the relationships, but Baldwin’s pursuit of excellence in writing is apparent and overcomes any criticism. Also, the story takes place in Paris in the mid-fifties; great city, great period.

The Essays of E. B. White. I know he was on the staff of the New Yorker for decades but we shouldn’t hold that against him. White was funny, smart, a magnificent spectator and he writes about America at a time when the country and culture were changing rapidly. He can be serene and furious, but the writing never gets away from him. Total control and at times deeply touching. (Once More to The Lake).

Saga is a science fiction comic series about two warring races that hate each other. A woman and a man from opposite armies fall in love, have a mixed-species child, (he’s got horns, she has wings), and are pursued by everyone. Lots of commentary about race without directly alluding to race. The dialogue is a touch millennial-snarky, but the monstrous villains, the violence and the shock, are out of sight and the sex is plentiful and wonderfully erotic. For a comic book. I still read comic books. In the bath.

I’m taking a Philosophy course at UNM and I’m working through my assigned reading even though I’m missing classes. Heidegger will break your fucking brain. Brilliant, the parts I can tease out and understand, but holy shit. Lines like: “Nothing is not nothing at all but, rather, does something.”  Fortunately, we’re also reading Sartre.

I’ve just started a book called The Power of The Dog, recommended by my friend, Armando Silva. I owe Armando bigtime for this one. The writer is Don Winslow and he really knows his shit about the DEA, the drug wars and cartels. Badassed writing; he never holds back. It’s fiction that reads like history. Like today. I’ve never come across anything so brutal and terrifying. There are also sections that made me laugh out loud. Try that, emerging writers.

TV Shows via Netflix or Amazon Prime:

Newsroom, Season 3. Well written and, if anyone cares about media and the direction it’s headed, it’s pretty depressing. A little too much snappy patter, but while Sorkin doesn’t quite hit the mark with people, he’s a master at analyzing institutions and showing the little bits of humanity that remain. He’s pissed and makes it very clear why. Episodes 2 and 3 have a subtext about the EPA and climate change that is staggering. As in, “It’s already over.”

The League and Archer. Comedies and neither require a lot of braintime. Both are completely inappropriate, harsh, and funny as hell. If you don’t like these shows you are either a snob or not as smart as you thought you were.

Seasons 4 and 5 of The Walking Dead. I was surprised that I’d missed season 4, which has been up on Netflix for a year, so when season 5 debuted I discovered, to my delight, that I had 32 episodes to watch. In a row. In three days. And I did. Decomposing corpses, dismemberment, massive violence, tubs of blood and gore but the developers have desensitized me and I thank them for that. Best writing and photography, music, acting. Breaking Bad and The Sopranos quality. It’s supposed to be about zombies and crap, but that’s not true. Take the zombies out of it and it would still work at a genius level. It’s a training film for the near future. (See Newsroom, Season 3, Episodes 2 and 3 for background).

Movies:

Back into French New Wave. Started, again, with Breathless. This is one of the greatest films I’ve ever seen and I can talk about it for days and still can’t figure out why it’s so goddamn good. Probably the same reason that Kerouac is good. Honesty, heart, no bullshit, anti-Hollywood, flawed, human. From there I watched a lot of Agnes Varda’s work; she’s one of the only women directors of New Wave films. She’s still alive (87) and has the most beautiful way of framing a shot that I’ve seen. La Pointe Courte actually pre-dates Breathless (1960) by five years and, in some ways, marks the beginning of the movement.

Claude Chabrol’s Le Beau Serge is a tragedy about two friends who meet after many years and one of them, Serge, has become a miserable alcoholic. It’s a study of cultures, life choices and how difficult it is for a person with urban sensibilities to understand and communicate with his rural counterpart. There is a voyeuristic feel to the film.

Elevator to The Gallows. Louis Malle. This movie is similar to Breathless: Young couple with few prospects goes on the run, kill, get caught. A parallel story about a business executive who has also committed murder and spends most of the film trapped in an elevator. Jean Moreau wanders the streets in the rain looking frantic, trapped and wet. The flick is notable for the score composed and performed by Miles Davis and commissioned by Malle. Worth it.

Pitfall is a typical American Film Noir starring Dick Powell and Lizbeth Scott. He’s a deadpan insurance guy, she’s a damaged woman with a boyfriend on parole and everyone gets into big trouble. A classic of the form, simple, short, straightforward, efficient. It’s easy to see how American films of this genre greatly influenced the French New Wave.

Music:

Don Cherry, Complete Communion

Bill Evans, Conversations with Myself

Grant Green, Idle Moments

Hayden String Quartets

Vivaldi, The Four Seasons

Arvo Part, Tabula Rasa

John Coltrane, The Complete Impulse! Studio Recordings

Wadada Leo Smith, The Great Lakes Suite

Henry Threadgill, Air Mail

The Clash, London Calling

The Who, Live at Leeds

Black Sabbath, The Ozzy Osbourne Years, Disc 3

There’s more. There has to be. Doesn’t there?

Just when I’m at the point in my life where I think I’m running out of time, birthday anxiety, and the end is near, and the doctors are telling me that if I don’t ABC then I’m for sure going to XYZ and I’ve decided that I’ve got to be more active, jeez, buy a bicycle, a skateboard, learn to swordfight, Kung Fu, active shit, man, moving, running in the mountains, climbing cliffs and trudging through snow, getting in touch with the external, the natural world, closer to trees and perhaps be friendlier, talk to people I don’t know, be nice to strangers, be nice to friends, call family more often, buy presents for kids, give money to the homeless, donate my time to those less fortunate, stop being so selfish and self-critical and so critical of others and get a haircut, buy some new clothes, answer the phone; just at the time I decide to change my life I get this crappy, enervating cough that turns into a raging, painful sinus infection and headaches and I coughed so much I fucked up my back, my neck, and all I can really do is to go back inside myself and read more books, hear more music, watch more films, write stories and poems and essays about my life and what I do, what I care about; reflect, remember, regret.

Take the meds, rest, amuse myself.

Who am I to argue?

But, really, take the meds.

A Solution to Gun Violence

Another school shooting. Second or third this week. Lost count. We care. People like us, the victims, the targets, the irrelevant; we care. Shoppers, students, working people, families. We care because we may be next. We’re the people who get shot. It’s a terrible thing, right?

But no one else actually gives a shit, not the lawmakers, congress, senators, the Supreme Court, gun owners (lots and lots), cops. No one who can actually do anything about crazy assholes with firearms cares about gun deaths until they get maimed, their kids get killed, or their favorite lobbyist is shot and shuts off the cashflow. Nope. Every time one of these public massacres happens we still have to listen to the same old dumbassed give-and-take dialogue about gun control.

Take them away from everyone

Register the shit out of them, like cars

Screen all potential owners for mental issues

Arm everyone

Self defense

Criminals

Bad guys with guns, good guys with guns

NRA evil

Cecil the lion.

On the pro-gun side, the argument usually boils down to that old chestnut:

“Guns don’t kill people, people kill people.”

Right? That is so specious and small-minded. Screwballs shout that line, “Guns don’t kill, people do,” whenever they get a chance, and now it’s become a kind of right wing dickless stupid-guy joke. If a kid dies in a car wreck, you can bet your ass that a boring, dropout, stay-at-home porn-addict will comment, “Well perhaps we should outlaw all cars because someone died in one. Huh? Huh?”

Fuck you.

The whole, “Guns don’t kill people because they are inanimate objects like a hammer and need a person to operate them,” is so thoughtless and old and worn out that anyone who uses that argument should automatically be prohibited from owning anything more dangerous than a donut because they are way too stupid to own a weapon.

I have an idea.

Since we’re on the way to decriminalizing/legalizing weed (really, trust me, it’s coming soon everywhere) I expect there will be a lot more empty prison cells. Once we stop arresting and prosecuting citizens for non-violent drug possession we can free up entire cellblocks.

But wait, won’t this be a threat to America’s giant prison industry? Staff will be redundant and laid off, budgets reduced, and then what? Should out of work prison employees, many who are armed, just lay back in their recliners and smoke weed? How do we keep them employed and productive?

We retrain the DEA and all law enforcement agencies, prosecutors, and prison personnel to shift their failed “War on Drugs” programs to a brand new, helpful, functional “War on Guns”.

We’ll never get rid of all guns, too much money and whored-out congressmen for that, but if an individual is apprehended with an illegal firearm, if he or she has a gun that is not properly registered, if they use a gun in the commission of a crime, if they threaten with, brag about, brandish or wave a gun, if they have a firearm in a place where it can be found by a kid, if a gun owner is drunk, high, has a domestic abuse record or has been in trouble for road rage or has used a cell phone in a movie theater, then we arrest them and put them in jail with the same sentence that would have been given to a marijuana user fifty years ago. Life in prison in some Texas jurisdictions. And god help any fool who is caught with a stolen weapon. Sounds fair. A lot of slammers could be re-stocked with dorks who have stepped over the line and misplaced or misused their precious and the incarceration business could retain its employees, offering benefits and uniforms and security and Christmas parties and company picnics and finally doing something to promote safety in the community while prison workers will still be able support their families, buy big trucks and eat at Taco Bell.

I know, I know, the NRA and the Washington money will never allow it. It’s a dream; but if they oppose this idea, an idea that could get stupid-assed gun owners off the streets, if the NRA or their Congressional puppies protest with typical shit-for-brains arguments, we shoot them in the face.

Trip Report with Dangerous Video: California 2015

Driving. Driving. What do you do after hours of driving, thinking, worrying, planning, listening to the radio and trying to stay awake? I whipped out the camera and made little movies, completely unfocused on my driving, on other cars and upcoming hazards. Holding still and editing on the run, I had to spin the wheel a few times, correct my trajectory in order to stay in one piece while on a 12 day trip through Northern California to see old friends and family. I was in the world that raised me and it was all familiar and sometimes a little sad. Things change. We're supposed to be happy about that, adjust to change, be flexible. I am, for the most part, fine with change, I've experienced the best of it,  but memory is a tricky bastard and can really fuck you up. I felt as if I was being crushed by memory a few times and other times I was wallowing in it, overjoyed and outloud.

There were fires unlike anything anyone has ever seen in the foothills of the Sierras, near Yosemite, Clear Lake and in the Trinity Alps. Catastrophic. A few mornings I awoke to a smoky landscape and nervous homeowners. Friends were evacuated and didn't know if they'd have a home when they returned. California is bone dry, desiccated and unwatered by rain or snow for several years. Rivers that have crashed through the famed gold country for centuries are now simply large rocks resting in a few puddles. A fire can wipe out an entire community in a half hour. There are those who believe in climate change, global warming, drought, and there are those who deny that these are problems and they dismiss the science. None of that matters when the fire starts. Everyone's home burns.

I knew I was going to be on the road for a long time and I knew that I'd be driving 6, 7, 8 hours a day through crazy mountains, long stretches of nothing doing, along the coast and deep in city traffic, so I rented a brand new, big assed, black, comfortable American car with V8 engine and top of the line tech. The frigging seat could be both heated and cooled for driving comfort. It was 109 degrees in Cloverdale, California and I hit the wrong button and was warming myself to an uncomfortable degree. There can be drawbacks to too much tech, but once I got the hang of the controls, the badassed Satellite radio and all the stupid sensors that report every bump and insect, I had a damn fine time.

Highway 5, straight up the spine of California, infinite nothingness, flat, hot, dry and dull with the odd rest stop that was usually closed for repairs. Fortunately I had thought ahead and rented a big American car, Buick Lacrosse, fully loaded for a long drive, comfortable except for the goddamn moon roof that lowered the ceiling by a few inches and made sitting upright difficult. Still, it was fast and the AC more than fulfilled expectations. The best part? Satellite Radio. Good Jazz, Blues, Soul.

More of goddamn Highway 5, long and boring and after a few hours of motoring though the ennui I like to take some risks and see what I can get away with. How long can I drive at 75 mph with my eyes closed? How long can I keep my hands off of the wheel and how far will I drift? Let's pass some trucks. Those guys are loaded on several drugs, sleep deprived and boozed, I'm exhausted, feeling morbid and edgy. Coltrane has just popped up on the Sat Radio station. Go for it.

Possibly Freddy Hubbard wailing as I leave Arcata, California. There was a blazing heatwave and much of the mid-state was pushing well above 100 degrees, and a lot of the places I traveled to were soon to be on fire and experiencing the nervousness that comes with impending doom, but driving through the northern forests and nearing the coast it was cool, pleasant and empty. Pretty sweet places: Arcata, Eureka, McKinleyville, Trinidad. Coffee shops, artists, music, good restaurants, the ocean. Hung with my friend Ernie. We met when we were 15, started a band and we still play our songs, sing and have fifty years worth of fun. Laughed our asses off, remembered, regretted, renewed. Lots to think about for a few hours on the road from McKinleyville to Leggett, where I look forward to Highway 1 along the coast. These places were my backyard for most of my life.

First view of the coast from Westport, above Fort Bragg, after a long drive through hazardous mountains, followed closely by aggressive logging trucks while I was thinking a little too much about the past and digging the Chi-lites. An almost perfect formula for dreaded sentiment and unreliable memory.

Fog; good, clean, mysterious Pacific fog north of Mendocino. Fog is perfect for concealing the future and confusing the present. I didn't really need to be drawn much more into myself, but a dense fog, a decent road and no appointments are rare pleasures and encourage wild thinking. A hypnotic component overtakes the driver who is wheeling though memories and vague landscapes, wondering when, or if, he will ever return. Dazed and foggy from hours on the road, staring into the cloud.

In the Anderson Valley, in the Sierras near Placerville, along the coast, there used to be grocery stores, bait shops, car repair and towing services, diners and bars. Those businesses are still around, but most of the towns are now becoming over-built with wineries and tasting rooms and galleries that are part of a new culture industry, where the illusion of sophistication and refinement are for sale to daytrippers from cities. There are plenty of places where a traveler can find lovely eggs Florentine and a pastel landscape. The problem is, once you've tasted the wine and browsed the gallery it's time to go and why would you come back? More landscapes? The locals who are my friends are confused and a bit resentful.

The return. A couple thousand miles on the road, stopping to visit, to record and recall, seeing familiar places, some altered, others the same, enjoying family and friends and back into The City from the north, from where I grew up, grew old, became despondent and eventually bounced into contentment. All places are good if I'm OK. A bittersweet trip, but what a great way to end. In the past I drove across this bridge to see great music at the Filmore Auditorium, The Carousel Ballroom, the Avalon, drink at the Bit o' Paradise, the M&M, the Lucky 7,  and have many of the experiences that I can call up today, experiences that I either enjoy remembering or fail at forgetting. San Francisco has been criticized heavily for the homeless problems, the filth, expensive and impossible housing, the entitled populace, crime and a failed government. I'm from here; while a lot of that is true, you can also have Burmese and Chinese food all the time, buy books at Green Apple and City Lights, see the Turner exhibit at the De Young, get tickets for Wayne Shorter and Merle Haggard. Everyone I met was friendly, pleasant and accommodating. City living is more than I want to manage these days, but San Francisco and Northern California are part of my DNA. That Buick was pretty sweet, too.