UP YOUR STAIRCASE

Kill Switch

2008-12-06T18:06:00.000-08:00

This is it. Moving-on.

My real life identity was outed in connection with my blog persona a few months back. Honest mistake. But then lawyers connected with boyfriend's divorce did roam here. And so forth . . . Most people have been very decent readers, but the 'nigerian' cons have come aboard with phish that fuck-up my stats. Grrr.

To protect the innocent and my integrity, I tried to safely edit for content and style. But it's become all pop. No story, no edge. It's no longer the raw observational writing of one cross-classed chick with a brain disease. No, it's not the positive relational device it set out to be. It was a fucking good start, though.

I bequeath to readers the rather mediocre but meaningful video "Holy Diver" by Killswitch Engage. It's the epitome of metal-meets-medieval times.

"To reincarnate, hit the 'Re-start' button"

- Uta Urban

Dicky Moe

2008-11-22T00:00:00.000-08:00

Tom and Jerry in "Dicky Moe" or THE STATE vs Dicky Moe

In celebration of some wicked PMS, I'm posting one of the most grotesque Tom and Jerry cartoons I could find - "Dicky Moe." Better yet, I've posted a weird visual deconstruction of it that's quite good in its own right. Kind of 'bad trip' funny.

Backstory:

Moby Dick is the classic hard-to-read novel about a hubris-infected sea captain who ultimately destroys himself by becoming one with the object of his hate/desire - Moby Dick. He's obsessed with Moby, a mysterious big white whale (sshhh! it's a projection of his own ego). He tries and tries but cannot capture or kill the whale. Instead he gets himself all wrapped-up around it with the rope of his own harpoon. The big whale dives him to-death. Glub, glub.

"Dicky Moe" is the Tom and Jerry cartoon directed by Gene Dietch. Deitch is responsible for the "Were-the-artists-on-LSD?" batch of episodes from the early 60's. If you've ever watched Tom and Jerry cartoons, these are the most frenetic, unsympathetic, gratuitously violent and hostile of all. Certainly some specific inspiration for itchy and scratchy.

Deitch animation is interesting too. Note sleep-deprived Tom's heavy black eyebrows which are arched in permanent agitation like all other characters, and the flat Picassoesque caricatures of human beings with their huge proboscuses and cat-hating sneers, primitive growls and 2 word sentences. Lots of humans hating-on the cat stuff. It's not right.

Interestingly, Jerry the mouse remains his usual cute self. Superego mouse.

What is THE STATE? Can't find much info. Agit-prop conception or industrial band. Someone can educate me. Anyway, it works. The person who did this did some other darkly funny weird crap if you feel like sniffing around YouTube awhile.

Brenden's last wish for Nickelsville

2008-11-09T10:09:00.000-08:00

KOMO/CNN news

KOMO News - Dying boy's l ast wish "Feed the Homeless"

A little kid from Lynnwood, WA saw people in the Nickelsville tent encampment who were trying to outsurvive the Seattle chill. He wanted to do something - and he did.

This morning his wish was broadcast around the world.

He's an angel.

The Youth are Starting to Change . . . Together

2008-10-12T10:33:00.000-07:00

Alright, alright. The last few weeks I've been bloggin' elsewhere, but it's all good. Now I've got a stack 'o stuff filled with enough observational mirth-wrath to fill a month of blank dates.

Here's a trippy video sent to me by Norm. Watch numb glammed-up kids evolving into KISS-love riot-glitter-throwin'-ever loving CHANGE making futurists.

God bless the little millenials. Generation X'ers are too cynical to pull-off a revolution on their own. This is it.

And it's cute.

And I can't get the song out of my head.

The Great Gig in the Sky

2008-09-16T23:44:00.000-07:00

from phone cam - clicky on it for bigger pic

Pink Floyd keyboardist Richard Wright died today at age 65. He composed the timeless "The Great Gig in the Sky" from Dark Side of the Moon.

Mike called me tonight and urged me to come to his apartment right away. As I walked in he said "do you remember the 70's album cover from 'Yessongs' ?" (I recalled some interesting squiggly tornado shapes across a vast landscape).

"Yeah, I think so. By the way, did you hear about the latest Dow Jones dump? How about that guy from Pink Floyd? "

"Look out the window. "

Every single cloud across the sky looked like a cyclone. An effect created by dark rain-filled cores falling through low-pressure bottoms, it was the epitome of a Pink Floyd album cover: photographic, conceptually provocative, disturbingly surreal.

Last night Tim and I watched the movie "Donnie Darko" (just as I had with Mike one year ago). Afterward, we interpreted the meaning of the cauldron-like cloud formations Donnie observes across the horizon as a jet engine falls out of the sky and The End of the World arrives again. This beautiful little movie almost went straight to video before it literally became a cult classic. It was overshadowed at the time of its release by a different beginning of the end - 9/11/01.

Bend your mind further with this 'Great' synch to The Wizard of Oz

Barracuda!

2008-09-07T10:54:00.000-07:00

"Barracuda" by Heart - 1977

Yeah, "Barracuda" is unquestionably one of the best power ballads in rock history. The 'hook' is a Led Zeppelinesque gallop of guitars followed by a 3-octave leap and free-fall into Ann Wilson's fierce vocals. It's a true story about deception and greed in the music industry.

Ann and Nancy Wilson of Heart are suing the Republicans for using the song "Barracuda" to trot out McCain VP select Sarah Palin at the Republican National Convention. The attempt to associate "Sarah - who the fuck are you and what are you doing here - Palin" with Heart's libertine shout-out is so well-contrived and darkly ironic I can hardly stand it.

"No right no wrong
selling a song-
A name, whisper game . . .

If the real thing don't do the trick
You better make up something quick
You gonna burn burn burn burn it to the wick
Ooooooh, won't you BARRACUDA?"

Sarah Palin: women's rights annihilator, evangelical Protestant extremist, future book-burner, and by-default potential leader of the most-powerful-nation-in-the-universe-as-we-know-it. Holy fuck. Her recent big experience comes from governing a low-pop state whose economy is based almost entirely on OIL, OIL people, OIL relationships, OIL presidents . . .

Republican PR engineers are master barracudas. She's a barracuda being groomed for public consumption.

Doesn't grow very big. Edible. Tastes like tuna.

Sayonara

2008-09-02T15:07:00.000-07:00

snow falls soundlessly
but eventually deafens all
given enough time

Ballads - Part Deux

2008-08-17T00:48:00.000-07:00

Another post about weird ballads. Ballads are story songs.

Ouch my eye hurts. Is it glaucoma or MS or my contact lens prescription? Why must I be allergic to marijuana? I'm going to use some visual imagery to work the virtual ice-pick out of my eye (10 minutes pass). Ahhhh. That's better. I know - I'll write about story songs in pattern-matched pairs! How delightfully random . . .

The Night the Lights Went Out in Georgia - Vicki Lawrence
Vicki Lawrence of The Carol Burnett Show and Mama's Family fame did this when she was a young filly. Song about a dirty sheriff who kills an innocent man and gets away with it.

I Shot the Sheriff - Bob Marley, Eric Clapton
Dirty Sheriff John shot his deputy and some hapless Rastafarian guy saw it go down. The Sheriff has to shoot him to shut him up, but the Rasta guy shoots him back in self defense. Death row for the poor mon. Bummer. (I can't confirm he's Rasta. So's in my imagination, jah).

The Night Chicago Died - Paper lace (another 70's song)
Based on Valentine's Day Massacre '29 in Chicago, or something like that. Dad's a cop. One night he's suddenly called out with the force to encounter a bloody shootout between top rival mobs. BTW the cool 'hook' in the song is the synthesized sirens and syncopated shouts. Anyway, dad comes home alive, and the mob gets the Big Irish Holiday. (That's old timey slang for when the police shut down an establishment)

Ride Captain Ride - The Blues Image
Trippy 70's song. "73 set sail that day on the San Francisco Bay. . . here's what they had to say . . . calling all around the world to a distant shore . . .we can sail our lives away and be free once more! RIDE CAPTAIN RIDE On your mystery ship!" That's hippie talk - whatever.

Here's the apocryphal true story: 73 novice young guys in sailing camp took a big sailboat into the bay when a squall rolled-in and became a major storm. The captain was below deck screwing some chick, drunk out of his gourd. The storm became an F5 situation, but the kids managed to bring the sailboat in without sinking. Huzzah.

Gordon Lightfoot - The Edmund Fitzgerald
Another true but sad story about a commercial ship, the SS Edmund Fitzgerald that got caught by a freak wave on Lake Superior and sank. 29 killed.

Michael Jackson - Billie Jean
Guy falls in lust with a hot chick from a dance club. His mama told him not to womanize, and remember to wear a raincoat. Billie Jean shows-up 9 months later with a kid that looks like him. In an alternate Maury Povich TV Show universe a DNA kit proves it's not his and he becomes a superstar.

House of Pain - Faster Pussycat vs A Boy Named Sue -Johnny Cash
Two songs about a boy raised without a father.

In the first one a guy implodes from low self-esteem and a strong sense of abandonment.

In the second one, he finds his old man, explodes in a fit of rage then beats the shit out of him fair 'n square for such a downright dirty trick.

Do 'Ya Think I"m Sexy - Rod Stewart VS The Revolting Cocks
Modest young gent meets a pretty lassie at dance club. What an ideal setting for meeting new people! They excuse themselves to go fulfill their urges.

Difference between the 70's and the 90's - in the Revolting Cocks version they use a condom.

How Soon is Now - The Smiths
"I am the son and heir of a shyness that is terminally vulgar. . . you shut your mouth how can you say I go about things the wrong way? I am human and I need to be loved just like anybody else" = Morissey

This is what it really says: "When do I want to hook-up? How soon is now, man? Shyness runs in the family and I'm a freakin' mutant. HEY, you shut your fucking mouth! (takes another swig of Heineken) Where do YOU get-off telling me I'm going about it all wrong? I'm human. I exist. But no matter how how many times I come here, stand around the same goddamn nightclub all night, I leave alone" Waaaaaah. I wonder why. (Morissey rocks)

Alone Again, Naturally - Gilbert
Another maudlin 70's song. Some self-indulgent bloke reflecting on grief and loss incurred to date. Probably sharing it with his imaginary college girlfriend. I swear that's how people under 25 "connect" - (don't be fooled, it's not the sex). They light smelly purple candles, drink imported beer and eat cheetos while comparing notes on all their waah-waah horrible life history so far. They bond. Waaaaaaah. Fuck. Snore.

Ubermensch - Turbonegro
Ubermensch refers to Nietzche's superman. Ubermensch is not otherworldly man, antichrist, or something that exceeds mankind's potential. It's something more like the man-centric Christ or Superman. Maybe Satan incarnate. Evel Knievel in this case. Ok, it's not really a ballad, but I've never heard a progressivey rock song (particulary a recidivist dark rock song ) that recollects an event in a linear fashion. I don't even know what I'm saying. Ya dig?

Take a Bow - Muse
Another contemporary progressive rock song that's easier to follow: "Mr. World Leaders, you're gonna burn for your countless sins, particularly for all the lives you put at stake in the Middle East for the sake of money and oil. (Alright, maybe you won't burn-up before The Ralean overlords take over the world, but they will be very disappointed if you muck this one up too. Bad form, lads).

My eye feels better. I'm going to put this baby to bed.

RISK and Choice. I'm onto something . . .

2008-08-08T23:59:00.000-07:00

Risk - the game of world domination and chance - was my biggest computer preoccupation in 1992. I played it on my husband's Atari ST. Black and White.

I was obsessed. It was so simple, so clean (so oldschool). I particularly loved salting continents with those pleasing little cannon icons. I made some pretty little well-organized arrays, but I totally lacked any sense of strategy. Whatever. My telekinetic powers would suffice. With a few random and risky moves I'd eventually multiply square footage captured on every continent until it was simply impossible to lose. WORLD DOMINATION. HAH! It gave me thrills to watch measly patchwork nations fall into solid blocks of blackness thats spread and grew like a global oil spill. My world domination oil spill.

In actuality, 4 out of 5 times, I got my ass kicked. It would be a sparring match that lasted about 6 seconds, about as long as a nuclear blast. With a rapid-fire CHSCK CHSCK CHSCK CHSCK sound it laid waste to my conquests flipping them all to white like ash. I don't know how computer logorithms work - especially with a 8mhz processor - but it was brutal. Still I went back again and again . . .

My husband was the game master. We split-up for awhile, but when we got back together I asked him to dig out our ole game crack. Said he'd erased our only known copy of the game a few years before. I was peeved, but I understood. We both loved it but it was a real time suck.

I had a Chinese-American friend who saw things in terms of win or lose. Get a promotion? "Hey, I win!" Virus takes out your hard drive? "Eh, I lose." I appreciated his depersonalized perspective. Probably picked-up some of his parent's Buddhist sensibilities. Hey, why romanticize it? Family of hard-working well-to-do pragmatists. He's probably fucking rich by now.

Another friends sees things in terms of lucky vs unlucky. It doesn't strike a chord with me unless I'm totally blown away by my own good fortune, 'cause it just sort of leaves me out of the equation.

Then there's the religious thing. God smiles or God smites you. If I had a dollar for every time someone suggested I read the story of Job, I'd be rich and lucky. Did I ever find that story remotely sympathetic or rational, much less comforting, when I realized I'd been handed a lump of shit to deal with? I think not.

Recently, I started to accept the "choices "thing, though. It's the current psych paradigm that we have choices we make and "own" no matter what the circumstance, no matter how dreadful. If we get tastier choices? Well, less inherent risk of suffering. If we have shitty choices that don't look like choices, but just a horrible state of affairs, well, we can consider our response a choice. It's not a mindfuck, not really.

See, point is we can own the best possible outcome no matter how choiceless it seems, or how shitty a choice it was, rather than be a victim of circumstance. It's not about being responsible for something you have no control over. And no, it's not in any way about disregarding victimization or injustice. It's about taking control of your circumstances where you can. If we go at life with a loving mindset and desire to reduce suffering and create happiness (and use our head to the best of our ability) we can be confident and empowered because we've done our best. Even when we risk making the wrong choice - or the best choice available totally bites. Ok. I get it.

I bet I could play RISK way better now, because I'm not so afraid of owning my choices. I rather relish them.

(By the way, they discontinued the ATARI ST in '93)

Jack Nicholson's UnOily Rap

2008-08-01T23:00:00.000-07:00

In an interview with The CBC, Jack Nicholson - wickedly cool gent that he is - demonstrates his hydrogen-powered ride and raps about the upcoming Oil Crisis.

It's 1978.

Cripes. What the hell have we been doing since?

*Check-out the clear-as-glass explanation of how solar panels work!*

Using the energy of a STAR, The Sun, to power the Earth for MILLENIA? Arguments about the high cost of putting-up solar panels verus pulling-up the last oil during one human lifetime just don't fly anymore. Screw dystopia. I want shiny panels.

SHRAPNEL

2008-07-25T21:11:00.000-07:00

In 1997, I was off-work with a bad work injury, I split-up with my husband, and dad died leaving my sister and I oddly discarded. I also felt for the first time the subtle physical licks of multiple sclerosis not-yet-diagnosed. I was ripe for a nice fantasy.

With the dark came some light. Husband gave me a nice parting gift: a computer game called Zork Nemesis. I'd played an old-fashioned text version out of M.I.T.'s mainframe some years before, but Zork Nemesis was light-years beyond it. Created in '95, it was one of the first and best games of its generation - a game played on the latest level of home computers capable of processing elaborate 3D worlds in real time.

There were beautiful, mysterious worlds filled with well-crafted challenges and tasty mystical references. There were palaces, mountainscapes, laboratories, caves, machines, waterways, gadgets, chutes, ladders, puzzles, deserts . . .all delivered with a nice dose of wit. I was an observer, a technician, a traveler, the apprentice - and eventually the hero. What a nice place to be.

And I admit the escape might have saved my life a night or two. In fact, I told my friends if I ever met the person who designed it, I'd gladly shake their hand and thank them (or something like that).

A few years later I met an electronic music DJ via a website called Groovetech. We'd chat between sets and became fast friends. He revealed that the DJ gig was a nice pastime, but he developed computer games. Here's where synchronicity rocks - It turned out, along with Nick Sagan (Carl Sagan's son), he was one of the fundamental designers of my beloved Zork. His day job since '95 has been CEO of super successful Zombie Studios, right here in Seattle.

Over the past several years, I watched Mark do what he loves to do, and absorbed everything he shared with me about the industry. He watched me face-down some major challenges and gave me a hand-up by teaching me lucrative game design skills I could build-on , despite the MS. That was a straight-up gift.

This week he's in San Diego promoting one of the projects he's built with Nick Sagan and writer Zack Sherman - a graphic novel that has good odds of becoming a feature film like Frank Miller's SIN CITY or '300. It's about a female rebel relegated to one planet to lead an army against the Empire with only her cunning and some bitchen' weapons to protect her. It's called SHRAPNEL.

I've had minimal input, but I'm in there somewhere. I'd like to think so, anyway. Right-on, dude.

FRENCH GLAM kind of day

2008-07-18T11:23:00.001-07:00

Sebastian Tellier - Divine

I got 8 hours of sleep last night. 8 FUCKING HOURS. And my fever is gone. And the Pike Place Market didn't fuck my ears awake with their painting project at 4:45 a.m. And I'm running a nice bath accompanied by a hit of vapid electronic music with dark overtones.

My glam To-Do list:

Drop-out of school and read the book instead.
Pick up some new prescriptions and a needle-full of epinephrine just-in-case.
Do laundry. (I wear what people give me. I'm down to clown-shaped clothes).
Call my attorney.
Call my trust.
Call the film guys I've been putting off and find the rest of the tapes.
Write a bevy of emails.
Call MOTHER (makes you shiver too? I LUV borderline personalities)
Call my niece. She's my age. We connect.
Start writing my book grant.
Drop off my friend's hard-drive.
Throw-away 3 boxes of biz documents that have aged properly. Sayonara.
Warm-up the management while I curse the administration into darkness.
Drop-by my ex's and treat him like a friend until it sinks in.
Love-up my cat and clean Killer the Betta fish's bowl.
Think about planning that trip to L.A. and picking-up a used surfboard - a 6ft mini-log like my
old Velzy . . .pearl white with the rosewood stringer and box skeg . . .y'know

That's enough.

I Got a Fevah

2008-07-10T20:18:00.000-07:00

Christopher Walken's Advice for Free Time (clicky clicky)

Alright. I'm crawling back out of my virtual sick-bay. Haven't written much lately, but the friend-now-boyfriend "outed" me here at Apesma'sLament. In rare form, I channeled a poor mans' Janice Joplin. Eh, with the evil comes the good. Or is it with the good must come the evil?

But I just can't just sit here. Things to do, people to see, tangential observations to dispense on the inquisitive and the willing. . . I'm full of piss and vinegar, enthusiastic, fucking motivated. I've got some new things to tell.

In the meantime, I've been cruising favorite sites on the internet. Here's a classic that cannot be revisited enough:

Christopher Walken on SNL - Behind the Music: Blue Oyster Cult 1976

Reminds me, I used to do this great Christopher Walken imitation. A few years ago I shaved my hair short in a lesbian flat-top. Little natural droop to eyelids, little jowl to the cheeks (I'm almost 40 yrs old dudes- whatever). I'm a chick, but I can channel Walken better than Janice, I think. Some other time.

But what's up with the Walken's permanent eyeliner look and the funky alliteration? A few years ago, my cinematographer buddy "MK" was in Central Park watching Christopher Walken go all Dyonisian, dancing around in circles on the lawn as he recited his lines. It's a method, but he's really like that. Superfreak. Supercool.

And now, thanks to that other enveolpe pusher, Tim "Don't-stop-saying-'Fuck'em'" Harris, we know I sound like a wah-wah barfly when I'm feelin' puny.

Americans Die Homeless, Cops Arrest Ministers, Rad Cheerleaders

2008-06-23T15:12:00.000-07:00

What's the world coming to?

Stop Seattle Mayor Nickels' clandestine sweeps of homeless encampments in Seattle.

The shelters are filling to capacity and there's nowhere else to survive. It's happening across the nation.

This is the Real Change Organizing Project's demonstration at City Hall on June 8th and 9th. 150 present and 15 arrested. Filmed by yours truly.

Dig those Radical Cheerleaders!

CAMP4UNITY

Fibs

2008-06-06T22:49:00.001-07:00

Here are the best creepy fibs I was ever told as a kid:

Age 3 - The monsters don't live in the closet, they live in that bush outside your window

Age 4 - The roots of the old willow will reach up into toilet bowl and drag your little bare butt body down into the sewer

Age 5 - Smart girls don't need babysitters

Age 6 - That's polio in the gutter and if you walk across it you'll DIE (it was old anti freeze and I walked around it for, like, 3 months)

Age 7 - My sister and her husband performed deep abdominal surgery on the cat, on the kitchen table late at night then sewed it up themselves (my cousin was full of creepy shit)

Age 8 - Tom and Jerry cartoons from the late 60's were the dark byproduct of LSD (they were kind of hyper violent and frenetic then - maybe it was PCP)

Age 9 - Cats and Skunks can make babies. Don't bring one home.

Age 10 - My best friend's uncle was Elvis Presley, and his daughter was Blair from The Facts of Life TV show. They were always hiding under her bed, so I never met 'em.

Age 11 - Strawberry leaves kill Mexican migrant worker children who ate them. (right-wing horror)

Age 12 - I was not a love child (I could count)

Age 13 - Douching prevents pregnancy (didn't believe that either, Dad)

Age 15 - Asian girls labia are horizontal (can't believe I even wondered - my friends were Asian)

Age 16 - My next stepmom was never a man; she was just in a bad car crash. (fooled a helluva lot of people)

Age 17 - My rich boyfriend never went #2. Weird elitist teen denial (can't believe I even wondered)

Age 19 - Those big black striped yellow trash cans under the freeway overpasses hold nuclear waste and country trucks collect them at night. (My husband was so deadpan that I just believed him. Ok. They were collision bumpers by the cement supports).

After that, the fibs were all transparent - or political. Even in my 30's they still try to pull the wool over my eyes . . .

The Real Truth

2008-06-05T22:35:00.000-07:00

Good friends and mentors are pretty good at giving you the truth, especially when their ego is not involved - like telling you how well or badly someone else treats you, or about a positive change you've made, or how those jeans really make your ass look.

And truth from the mouths of babes? Of course. Pithy kids are angels in training. Once a little boy said to me "Your arm is cool and fluffy." He was referring to the thick soft scarring that envelopes my right arm. Why yes, come to think of it, it is cool and fluffy. And it does provide much comfort on hot days when I rest my head on it. I've been at peace with it for years. Kids rock.

But the greatest truths come to us in dreams. Yes, dreams are the high octane vehicle of the big esoteric message. See, I thought by age 28 I was going to be a doctor who rode a motorcycle, had a home in the city AND the country and would to elaborate performance art for intellectual kicks. Pretty cool, huh? Well, those particular goals seemed to dissipate with some quick life changes. I got sad. Dreary week-after-week I prayed and angsted then finally screamed at the Universe "What the fuck am I supposed to do NOW?!"

*Sigh* Meaning arrived in a short-order dream one night and scared me straight. There stood a frumpy 55 year-old black social worker who wore a cheap purple polyester suit and flouncy white blouse (nice stereotyping) and grayed bun pulled so far back on her head that her eyes bulged out. I froze with dread and respect as she looked me straight in the eye and said:

"DEEEEEEEDS. YA GOTTA HAVE DEEDS!!"

It took some figuring-out, but I do a lot more deeds now. And I'm active. And I do art, and I perform for groups in ways that aren't always obvious or what I expected. And I give other people good real estate investment advice while I stay pretty simple and content in a little studio sized area which I call "my pod." And I ride other people's motorcycles. Still wear my old motorcycle jacket, though. I'm ok with it.

I don't know why I thought of that. A lot is going on in my world, I guess. I feel peaceful tonight.

Rhapsody in BLUE, MAN

2008-06-03T01:42:00.001-07:00

This is a synthesthete's dream!

Cherry Poppin', Daddy

2008-06-01T20:53:00.001-07:00

Cherry Poppin' Daddies - "Zoot Suit Riot"

Today I spoke at the Sound Alliance coalition's Founding Assembly on behalf of the Real Change Organizing Project. It's where all sorts of organizations band together on common causes. Power in numbers. There were about 1,800 people including The Governor of Washington State and long list of people with big clout who look shorter in-person.

And I popped my public speaking cherry again!! This time it was in the "on a stage in front of a large group" cherry. I didn't choke. I didn't speed talk. I didn't hold back. I did knock-out some misty eye and a crackle in my voice. Naw it wasn't fake - you know I'm chock full of wah-wah about my grievances. Like piss, I just held it until it was time to let go.

RCOP is the advocacy action arm of the Real Change Community Paper where I help out. RCOP contributes our membership to this organization and helps support its platforms on specific issues related to housing, healthcare, human rights,worker rights, immigration rights and conservation. . . In exchange, our agenda of actively securing rights like housing for people who are homeless can be worked-into the latest big action points.

Today would have been my father's 81st birthday. A week from today is the anniversary of his death. Last year I finally accepted my status as a member of the "lower class." Tonight on June 1, 2008, I accept that I'm a "Fucking Liberal!"

I miss you, my misguided old friend. This one's for you Daddy . . .

Gall

2008-05-06T21:01:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, I wore a t-shirt that a family member secretly sent me as a joke. It bore the image of my brother-in-law "G" in his best bare-chested mountain man pose. I call it "Gall."

When I met him 20 years ago, "G" was in the middle of "courting" my sister away from her first husband - via the chiropractors table. It was a time for a change but Dr. Love didn't stop there. I could put more in this blog to villify him, but if I'm found out (and shelter is hard to come-by) I may never have the last-resort good fortune of living with them and dodging his Captain Stabbin' style verbal advances.

You see "G" is the human embodiment of unmitigated "gall." Per Merriam-Webster's dictionary: gall (n.) - "brazen boldness coupled with impudent assurance and insolence"

I'm not one to say "I can thank some sonofabitch for screwing me because I'm a better person for it" OR "If we didn't have such hellish suffering, we wouldn't be able enjoy the good times" but "G" gets a micron of credit for the power of gall he has demonstrated:

His first words to me were "So is your mother really a transsexual?"

I remember very well the karate wedding he designed for himself, his karate posse in full regalia (my shy sister standing solo in her aerobics tights) and his boisterous recollection during the wedding ceremony "How we surely made a joyful noise unto the lord from our bedroom this morning!"

Newsflash! My adult niece does have DS lips (but you don't get to say it, Creep)

And one fine re-enactment for the local news: he single-handedly captured and threw down in a ravine a 17-year-old Mexican boy who'd just escaped juvie jail (I would have pissed my pants and yelled GET THIS OLD FUCKER OFF OF ME!!)

The darker bits don't get written here, but you get the idea. "G" has gall. He became a well-known athlete in his neck of the woods, roped-in my hottie sister, got himself half a house and and three-quarters of an identity. So "G" gets his money for nothing and chicks for free. My sister deserves better.

But I no longer envy his gall. I want some. Wanna use it for good, mostly.

Soooo, instead of telling him he's a fuckwad to his face, not because I don't have Gall, but because it's POINTLESS - I write it here in my diary as a spell of justification while I exploit him with his own image and stories for the amusement of myself and others.

Multiple Sclerosis is a sonofabitch disease. I've surrendered my path to professional mastery and wealth, achievable dreams and the possibility of motherhood for one big thing - a risk-filled, identity-banging joyride to god. Or whatever I can stand. This takes GALL.

Thanks dude. Go fuck yourself. Here's a t-shirt.

MAY DAY

2008-05-01T10:14:00.001-07:00

Straight-off my wall into blogger glory.

(double-click on it for big view)

This posterized gem was crafted by artist Rene Garcia in 2003. 3 ft wide 6 ft tall glitter on plywood. Painstakingly applied glitter. The owners of Roq La Rue Gallery hand-carried her home to me wrapped in black plastic. Nice.

Compared to his other fantastic work, this piece is simple. It's eye-candy. Glam pop. But still I find it intellectually compelling . . .

Is she on a military mission? Planned bomber dive or saucy base-jump? Maybe the plane's going down in flames and she just dodged a bullet with nothing but her cool stockings and sunglasses to protect her - and one impossible chute rig (Hey, I watched "24" once. It could happen).

*Sigh* maybe it's just a nice piece-of-ass dropping into the L.A. Coliseum during halftime.

Today is May Day. Longshoremen are marching to protest The War. There's an Immigration Rights march. The list goes on in the U.S. and throughout the World.

Washington is doing massive scale terrorist drills today May 1 - May 8. The target is "Seattle". The Mayor's office says Seattle 'opted-out' of the exercise. Can they do that? Other agencies like the Washington Military National Guard and FEMA say they're going to do them at bases and factories about 50 miles outside of town. (This is all public info, BTW). I hope they aren't going to practice in-town.

Already, Tuesday morning the police closed-down streets around the Federal building where someone dumped a duffel bag at the door; marked the spot with orange safety cones. It messed up morning traffic and the news helicopter woke me up. Turned-out to be nothing. Like I said, I hope they aren't going to practice in-town.

I got no plane.

Might Like You Better If We Slept Together

2008-04-21T23:31:00.001-07:00

WELL, a month passed and I'm back to my blog. A lot of dumb stuff happened and I needed rest from everything. So here I am again.

During this time I got my heart checked-out. Good and strong. Odd rhythm, but it's strong.

Took a leave from art school because the classes are too accelerated at 5 weeks a session. You can't possibly catch-up if you miss say 3 days. I'll hang-out at the studio and do my own stuff for awhile.

With the multiple elevator outages keeping us out of our apartments most of the night, the ceiling caving in in front of my door, and the new tenant who is a flagrant dealer with buddies in-and-out at 5 am ( and purposely transferred into this building by the managers here at el fucko Pike Market Seattle) . . .eh, I digress.

My broken foot is better and I worked-up to walking to 2 miles a day without my ass supersizing during down-time. Sweet.

And I bought my neighbor's television with part of my food money, threw on some cheap noise-cancelling headphones and WATCHED TV ALL FUCKING NIGHT LONG. I liked it. A lot. Here's some of what I discovered:

JP Patches was/is Seattle's favorite clown. Had TV show for years which I never saw because I was stuck with that freak firecrotch Bozo the Clown, in L.A. But Patches ain't no a creep clown - he's cool. He's kind of like mellow Captain Kangaroo but a little more sophisticated and wry (even a little sadistic towards the sidekick cross-dresser clown friend "Gertrude" - subtle - don't mean nothin').

70's College Channel Anthropology Videos What could be more boring at 2 a.m. than watching people watching other people in faded film clips? But it was cool! I learned how a Puerto Rican New York City cab driver "reads" people's body language and dress to predict good fares (and how to talk with both hands and mouth full of cotton while steering).

I also learned how to approach a primitive South American Indian tribe. You enter the village calmly, then walk directly to the middle where you stand frozen in war pose with a long spear. Mostly naked except for tennishoes. Make sure to have weapons, baubles and goodies to give 'em while they figure you out. Then you're a fucking god. Just like anywhere else, really.

Thank you Arts Channel for playing some relaxing weird shit overnight. Those German and English video animations of opera. Totally trippy (go to Kultur.com to score some). And ice skating ballet dancers, silent film from the20's featuring real cabaret singers and Faust stuff and priests like I see on the screen at industrial music night in the clubs.

HOUSING documentaries. Lots of them. Seattle Channel played a Mayor Nickels' sunshine-up-the-ass documentary about what the City of Seattle is doing to help nice but dumb women who make shit choices for partners that beat them then take their cash and hopeless black men who drink too much but we love 'em anyway so we'll give every one of them bitchen' apartments. Oh yeah, they're also available for dumb Mexican girls who don't feel like going to work or school. Indians too! YES I'm being deeply sarcastic *sigh*

The video made it look like Seattle has lots of nice new options for a few people they subtly framed as minority superlosers with shit judgement. It was just a colorfully painted thinly-veneered skew on the lives and mindset of a few real unrelated people who've lived their lives reluctantly and apprehensively in abject poverty - then won the lottery on a nicer-than-average filmable subsidized apartment in Seattle. My heart goes out to the people they interviewed. They made them look like grateful fuckups instead of reluctant victims with few resources in a broken system. Fucking-A . . .

Law and Order Special Victims Unit. Law and Order shows ad nauseum. My friend says it's disturbing normalization of horrific fictional crimes. Perhaps. I say we see and live with messed-up situations and messed-up people every day, ourselves. I can't even believe some of the choices I have to make, given the options. But the TV situations are mostly more than a notch or two worse than mine and they get 'handled' by smart sexy people. It's also a great escape and a subliminal shot at hope and resolution. Cindy Williams as a borderline personality Münchhausen's Syndrome killer grandma who ends up in the slammer? (Today is my mom's birthday - that episode was totally cathartic) .

No 9/11 Documentaries? Hmmmm, that's odd. Oh, of course. It's an election year .

The Dalai Lama Q&A session with Ann Curry dressed head to toe in black (and impossibly tall black bondage high heels) and Dave Matthews of the Dave Matthews Band. Dave Matthews was weird as fuck. Never listened to his music. Is he always that weird? Like Full Metal Jacket Weird? Anyway, I was bored and confused by them but I grokked the charm and wonder of Himself. And his assistant/ translator? Totally fabulous. I was blown away watching him in action. He filled-in gaps in the conversation as though he and Dalai Lama were of one thought. No "monkey mind" there.

Where's the fun stuff, you ask? The 40 year Old Virgin (2005). That was one of the best sleeper comedies I'd seen in years. Smart and charming. That's how I like 'em.

YAAAWN. Time for bed.

Yeah, I find reality an interesting buzz to fall asleep to when better options aren't present.

"Faces of Death" the Remake

2008-03-25T17:11:00.001-07:00

4,000 dead American men, women, parents, children, children of vets, friends, relatives, friends of friends . . .see anyone you know?

photo courtesy of The Huffington Post

Archie in a Different Class - Pulp's COMMON PEOPLE

2008-03-24T14:31:00.001-07:00

Archie vs Pulp

Awesome. After I relax and smoke a fag, I'll go redraw some more angry "fry lines" above my head.

Bunnies and Nazis and Eggs - Surprise!

2008-03-23T10:01:00.000-07:00

I went through a concentration camp phase when I was a kid. Happened somewhere between Little House on the Prarie and The Chronicles of Narnia. I'm not alone. Kids who are chronically abused often live-out escape internalizing fantasies that are way better or way worse.

The book that moved me most at that young age was Twenty and Ten by Claire Huchet Bishop. I knew it as "The Secret Cave". It's the story of a French Catholic school that successfully hides a group of Jewish children during WW2 German occupation. The 3 best parts of that book are: 1) the secret cave 2) the climactic moment at Christmas when a tiny boy interrogated by Nazi soldiers innocently reveals his Judenkind friends as Mary and Joseph (their Jewish names would've been a dead giveaway) 3) Soldiers bribe the kids with Spanish Oranges and hard-to-get chocolate which they could hide in the cave.

Secret cave, thwarted Nazis, yummy treats? A bitchen trifecta!

Oranges and chocolate. Savored. This impressed me. I was tiny and didn't get much good food to eat, so I ate everything I could get my hands-on. Here's where my fantasy met life - and it was good:

Mom was violent, manpulative, irrational and unpredictable. Scary, yeah. But every once in awhile she did something cool. (I have her to thank for Mad Magazine, Johnson's Catalog of Novelty Gag Gifts, and 'grab bags')

One day she came home from her hospital job in a rather sunny mood. She was dragging a black hefty bag stuffed full of something about the size of me. I was wary. She smiled and said "This is all for you" (It's all for you,Damien!). Said the contents were left on the hospital floor and they weren't allowed to take them back. State Law. I thought about it a moment . . . and decided she wasn't THAT nuts and hauled the load downstairs to my room.

It was the day after Easter. I wasn't disappointed. I opened the bag to find about 90 chocolate bunnies in all different shapes and sizes. There were "Willies" and "Buddies" and a few foot-tall "Petes", vanilla lambs with wild sugar-bead eyes - those were really good, and tall solids in painted foil, female farm bunnies named "Jill" with sugar hats, and lots of solid amorphous german-style chocolate bunnies (those were eyeless and had imprinted lines for fur).

I was in heaven.

A sensitive type, I felt eating heads first was merciful but ruined a bunny's identity. So I started with the sides and feet. How nice. The lambs were weird, but vanilla was my favorite. I chewed the eyes-off then moved to the shoulders and haunches a few days at a time. Holding-back was a struggle. The solid eyeless bunnies had no personality so I ate them in little bits using a paring knife. No problem.

It took me almost a year to finish the whole bag. I kept it hidden in my bedroom closet, of course.

30 years later and I've switched to egg-shaped candies. Cadbury. Solid sugar dioramas with chicks inside. Coconut loafs. I could give a crap about chocolate bunnies but I dig the eggs. What changed? Media sensitivity? Hormones? I dunno. I still like good surprises.

Beatles Bollywood

2008-03-21T01:13:00.000-07:00

This is what happens when I try to post something profound. And it dumps.

You get Indian Beatles.

Ballads Put a Shiver Down My Spine - Part 1

2008-03-16T01:35:00.000-07:00

Ballads are story songs.

American Folk, Rap and Country-Western are some of the best. The 1950's and 1970's put up some good melodrama. 90's the ballads are a little heavy, but they're good too.

Here's the dark backstory on some of my favorites:

"Sweet Betsy from Pike" (old western) Go west, young man. People were DESPERATE to get out of the life-shortening squalor of East Coast industrialized cities - and find gold. So Ike crosses the Blue Mountains with his lover, Betsy, 2 yoke of oxen, tall shanghai rooster, big spotted hog, etc. Puts her through fucking HELL. Makes her crash in all sorts of inhospitable places on the cold prarie. Even pimps her drunk to strip tease for the wagon train. When they finally arrive in California, he leaves her. She says "Good-bye ya big Lummox" (Lummox, heh). Prarie life is tough. Tulee-bango-dee-die.

"The Night They Drove Ole Dixie Down" - The Band, Joan Baez
When you kill something bad, sometimes you take something good down with it. C'est la vie.

"People Who've Died" - The Jim Carroll Group
With speedy punk tempo, Jim reflects on good young friends and the senseless ways they kicked-the-bucket during his heroin-wrecked youth. A great homage. Leo Di Caprio played him in "The Basketball Diaries" (Jim had a cameo as a sleezeball addict).

"Life in the Fastlane" - The Eagles' Hotel California
Brutally handsome thug meets a terminally pretty party girl and they hit the wall together. "Are ya with me?" They o.d. on coke.

"Hotel California" - The Eagles The album analogized the dark side of drugged-out scenester life in the 70's. And Hotel California, the song. Remember how "They cut it with their steely knives, but just couldn't kill the beast?" Nooo, it's not satanic verse. They were talking about serving those voracious cocaine habits. Hey, check-out the demon looking at you from behind the upstairs banister. Open the LP jacket, you paranoid coked-up freak. It's there.

Ode to Billie Joe - Bobbie Gentry Bobbie Gentry sings the part of a young girl who plays stupid during family talk around the dinner table. Apparently a local fella killed himself by jumping-off the Tallahatchie bridge. Seems he had a girl on the bridge with him the night before, though, and rumor is and they we seen dropping a small package off of it. (I think it was a stillborn baby). In the movie version, Billie Joe was turning-up queer. The sheriff and his cronies were too, but on the down-low. And they planned to keep it that way. Billie Joe's days were numbered. Self-hate sucks.

El Paso - Marty Robbins
Bad things happen in Western towns. Marty Robbins aka "nice gringo cowboy" hits on a hot tamale in an El Paso cantina. Muy delicioso! But her Mexican boyfriend shows-up and shoots him dead before he gets to first base. "One final kiss and Felina, good-bye." Marty Robbins dated a woman from my work. How obscure is that?

Timothy - The Buoys
Three boys get trapped in a mine. 2 survive the ordeal, but where's Timothy? Did they have nothing better to do in the cynical 70's than worry about CANNIBALISM?

Livin for the City - Stevie Wonder
Nice country boy leaves his nice dirt-poor family to find his future in New York. As he steps off of the bus, brothers ask him to hold something a second while they run the other way. Drugs. Country boy is collared and ends up a hardened shell-of-a-man after years in prison. Spike Lee's "Jungle Fever" uses it to soundtrack Wesley Snipes famous walk to the Taj Mahal drug flophouse where he finds his messed-up brother - and a ruined young girl.

Play that Funky Music - Wild Cherry
White rocker guys stand out like a sore thumb at a small black disco. Tension rises. But they knock out the best funk of their lilly-ass rocker lives! "Play that funky music til you die, til you die". (Ooooh the drama). I've been here. I was an uppity young white girl from L.A. in a low-brow Bakersfield trade school. I was confronted by a knife-carrying, ex- gangsta moll from Detroit. I wrote her a personal containing the dirtiest, multi-stanza'd lyrical insult you ever heard. Then I held my breath and passed it to her, crossed my fingers and waited to die. It was a respect thing. We became friends and went shopping together for clothes.

Teen Angel - Mark Dinning
50's boy asks a girl to go steady with him. Their car stalls on the train tracks - and she runs back to get the bling. Found her cold body with the promise ring "clutched in her fingers tight." Hmmm. Did they have nothing better to do after the comfortable 50's than drive the fear-of-stupid into suburban teens?

Tangled Up in Blue - Bob Dylan
Self-involved asshole meets a wild girl, then marries too young in an act of youthful rebellion. They go their separate ways. Years and many women later, he runs into her in a tittie bar where she unknowningly bends down to tie his patronizing stupid shoes. He reflects, all misty-like. She's like "whatever". (That's one story arc in this beautiful piece).

Miss Otis Regrets - Cole Porter
30's high-society lady plugs her cheatin' lover and sends a polite note that she won't be able to make it to the tea social. She has a last minute engagement with the gallows. Pure class.

It Was a Good Day - Ice Cube
"It was a good day. Didn't have to use my AK" (That's a gun)
Ahhh, L.A. memories. The '92 riots, recession, gentrification and gangland. Basketball, MTV, suspicious police . . . The Goodyear Blimp flew over us and smiled on rich and poor, people of all colors alike as we tapped knuckles in a power greeting of solidarity! Yeah right. Hard rap about a rare violence-free 'Day in the Life'. South Central style. Getting real . . .

MTV Warns About a Police State

2008-03-12T16:25:00.003-07:00

I don't care who did it. It's effective.

If you are keeping tabs on reality, and you get your info from fairly reliable sources like, uh, your grandparents (for starters) - HELLooooo! This isn't far-off.

The Diving Bell and the Butterfly

2008-03-10T01:12:00.000-07:00

Day 19 of not enough sleep.

I have the TV and computer drive turned-on 'round the clock. They block out the construction noise by day, and the insensitivities of the Steelhead Diner. Steelhead lets their cleaners drag furniture across the concrete floors of the building they share with my apartment, every night, between 3 and 4:30 a.m. The restaurant is a big moneymaker for Pike Market, so this will take awhile to get resolved. For now, I'm mostly living in my bed to make-up sleep and crawl-out for only the most important gigs.

Sometimes you can't change the world around you, so you have to rest. Just rest and go "inside" for a little while. Thinking it timely, last night I read Jean-Dominique Bauby's "The Diving Bell and the Butterfly"

Bauby was 43 years old and executive editor of Elle Magazine's French edition when he had a sudden life-sucking stroke. Just like that, he went into coma for a month then awoke completely paralyzed in what's known as a "locked-in" state. Left with only the use of one blinking eye, a well-developed sensory memory, a small army of nurses and family - and one very patient transcriber - he wrote a 28 chapter novel about this experience that sold 150,000 copies the first week it was published. He died 3 days after its release.

It only took me 45 minutes to read, but I went through the gamut of strong emotions. I was deeply moved, of course, by the beauty and the despair of his recollections. I was jealous of his support, however limiting and painful his circumstances (I'm a creep). I envied him his great cosmopolitan memories and capacity to string things together with such clarity. I felt empathy for his unwelcome helplessness and a world that had shrunken to seemingly nothing.

I don't know if I could be so tough. Will I have to be so tough? Maybe.

There are people who could find fulfillment in such a painful and limited existence without writing a book on their protracted deathbed. I asked Mike, who's a very mobile quadriplegic, if he would accept staying alive if he went into that locked-in state. He said "yeah, I would" and I believe him. He's really worked some things out.

I think I could too, except for one thing: I have a nervous system that's been through a cheese grater of years of child abuse. That didn't get me down until my brain became a minefield full of lesions. I've got to do something to smooth my feathers before I get to that place. Should things go South.

But first I have to get some sleep. Gotta get the keyed-up pain and panic and experience with social systems out-of-my-control back under some sense of control. I need a plan. Maybe write that book I've been pressed to do. First I think I'll get back to regular meditation, and continue to redirect the "fierce" inside that keeps me moving.

Book of Tao, here I come . . .

Spidey Senseless

2008-03-01T03:04:00.001-08:00

Spiderman is my favorite superhero. I like that he's a dork. A cool down-to-earth dork. When he gets bit by a climbey radioactive spider - instead of turning into a lit-up, creepy, climbing dork, he acquires cool threads and swings around spewing silk and dork witticisms. Sounds like my type. We could do coffee.

Japanese Spiderman 1978
watch it for the music, if nothing else

Brown Recluse Man. Now that would be interesting. I got bit by a brown recluse spider when I was 15. What if I turned pooh brown with fur and had to go live in my closet or something. Hours spent in the dark, sitting very still, then suddenly THWOMP! I jump a mouse. Yay me. Hmm. Then creep under some bedcovers waiting for the next big thing. . .until someone rolls-over and crushes me.

What a rip-off. (Actually dying from the bite would have been a rip-off). Anyway, I still have the scar where I got bit and the flesh necrotized and had to be cut away. It's on my ankle, hidden in my boot.

Wow. My foot got to be Brown Recluse Man.

Still in medication-adjustment week of spotty upyours' entries. More later.

The pro slipped-it-in after Spike Lee opened his mouth. Pause.

2008-02-24T03:09:00.001-08:00

I was looking hard for Spike Lee on Bill Maher, then accidentally came across this clip. Aside from Spike sounding kind-of faded, I didn't see what was so funny.

Heh-heh. "Pause" means "Oops - didn't mean anything homosexual by that."

God forbid, I must be some old school homo 'cause I had to look-it-up in the Urban Dictionar y. High-five to that jiggy sportscaster for watching Spike's ass. Pause.

"I was looking hard for Spike Lee on Bill Maher (Real Time With Bill Maher), then accidentally came across this clip. Pause."

HEYYY, I didn't plan that! Were I a straight dude, I'd be saying "PAUSE" after every other sentence.

Whatever, phobes.

Dark Star Birthday Blowout

2008-02-22T00:27:00.000-08:00

DARK STAR. My friend Norm just sent me this cool link. Classic. Piece of dialogue between worker dude and the terminally irrational self-imploding computer. Eat your heart out "2001"

Dark Star

2/21/08

In 1945, The United States dropped two bombs on Japan. "Big Boy" incinerated almost everything and everybody, including itself, when it hit Hiroshima.

Nagasaki was different. We hit it with our first big dirty bomb. This one scattered un-detonated radioactive fragmented uranium for miles. The public was told, essentially, there were two kinds of atom bombs, and by using one of each at each location, we could minimize the risk of one kind not working. In actuality, the "dirty bomb" was an experiment with radiation poisoning on living subjects. Top Secret for a long time. It was a test-run, but it made a huge half-life of a footprint, to say the least.

Yesterday was my birthday. First thing I read in the BBC news feed was that we'd finally blown-up our own errant spy satellite. China who's done this too, claimed we were doing it test our gear and bare our chops in a most threatening way. We said we just wanted to blow-it-up before it screamed through the atmosphere spewing irradiated top secret bits god knows where. Who knows which is true? Probably both.

At 6:51 pm, there there was a lunar eclipse. I wanted something cool on my birthday and that would do nicely. Nice clear night. So I crept out and looked southeast for awhile. Watched the moon fade-out to black then saw it gradually come-back, a soft glowy grey-orange ball with lots of curiously sharp detail.

It didn't mean anything to me astrologically. Philisophically? Pretty fucking cool. Our little earth casts a great big shadow on a significant moon, because we block the whole fucking sun. The Sun, whole source of our continued existence. For just a few moments, there were 2 dark sides to the moon.

And the last time this happened, the American government agreed to attack Iraq (with the exception of a few senators and congressmen). There was a quasi gag on the press. Bush was preparing to be voted into office again. Now, 5 years later, Iraq is a fiasco without question. One of the objecting senators is running for president, and people are talking in spite of increased crackdowns on communication.

Now I'm not saying things are getting better. And I don't know what Obama is going to do with the lump of shit he'll be handed when he gets into office. It's like I said before "Change is afoot". Actually I said magick is afoot. Good, bad or both kinds. One thing we all know is that everything that's happening right this minute is a huge catalyst for change, and it will affect us for a very very long time.

Big big change in unexpected ways. I'm 39 years old for the first time and can honestly say I want to live long enough to see the interesting part.

Tuhavi the Gimp Kachina

2008-02-18T22:49:00.000-08:00

I was big into Hopi Kachina dolls when I was 10. Laughed my ass-off when I found this coloring-book drawing in my stuff the other night.

I remember thinking this was the most bitchen' looking Kachina of them all! A real warrior. Look at those crazy upside-down horns (and what's with the pimento olive eyes?)

Well, it turns-out that Tuhavi is the "Crippled, Paralyzed" Kachina. I'm sure I had no idea what I was doing at the time - he just looked cool. (Besides, I was busy being paranoid about the bad intent of the Trickster Kachina).

Anyway, Tuhavi is usually carried around by a blind Kachina. He gives the blind golem Kachina directions so they can get around and hunt.

Going with that, I could write a lot of material on "sharing our abilities". I've got a lot to say about working our assets together to make things happen - particularly when we are (ugh) "disabled."

Eh, I guess it's been done, huh.

Here's the Hano - TRICKSTER Clown of the Winnebago Tribe. This one looks like Michael Jackson. Smooth Criminal.

Ever see the movie "Night Terror" with Karen Black?

Anyway, more to come . . .

Remains of the Day

2008-02-16T13:02:00.001-08:00

"Remains of the Day" is another Merchant-Ivory style film that examines longstanding British classism and the dreadful complications which ensue when you break the status-quo.

From the perspective of head butler "Mr. Stevens" (the inscrutable Anthony Hopkins) we watch the interaction of the perfect head subordinate with his subordinate "downstairs" staff and the imposition of the modest-but-feisty new head maid subordinate (pure Emma Thompson) who'll muss-up his well-folded heart. Then we suffer with him the dilemma of being a high subordinate of longstanding noble service to a superior lordship who's showing Nazi ties.

************************************

A few years ago, when I was strongly encouraged accept help in the form of nurses and chore workers, a poor-but-sophisticated British American friend reminded me "Your nurses and assistants are there to serve you. You must define the relationship. If you let them address you by your first name, all respect is lost. That's when they become familiar and try to take advantage of the situation."

Boundaries in high British style. He had it half-right.

************************************

Fascism - short-term gains. Classism - long-term implosion.

Classism, loyalties, repression, rationalization on the verge of WWII. If you'd like to watch the ubiquitous uglies of classism served in tasty British settings, this is a nice place to start.

02/14 Elevator Down. We are trapped.

2008-02-14T08:41:00.000-08:00

(They have no idea what they're doing)

We're at Pike Market. On the corner of 1st and Pine, downtown Seattle. Houses 5 stories of elderly and disabled people, several in wheelchairs, walkers, use canes. It's been 20 hours.

Yesterday, 2pm, my neighbor got trapped in the elevator and hit the emergency button. Fuck, this guy has been a thorn in my side - but I was already sitting right there in the lobby consoling someone about a death in the building. So I multitasked. I broke Thorn-in-My-Side out of the elevator. He brought me candy.

I called security. "Hey, I just busted this other resident out of the elevator. Can you come soon, please?" Tip: stay really calm when you say had to do something outrageous. It worked this time. I don't love the security here, but working-class peers get things done when administration fails. They at least gave me the phone number for maintenance.

Fucked all of us who have trouble walking. Mike is still stuck on the 4th floor, quadriplegic, wheelchair. Another guy strapped-into his chair and diapered couldn't get back in. There are 35 total, and 10 with chairs scooters, walkers, canes. Most people here have a hard time.

Fucked-up the little community wake I set-up for Nice Old Guy. He died this weekend. I have card sitting right here - and can't get around to get it signed. People are posting poems on their doors for him. Bye Wayne.

Fuck the fire department overlords - you'd think they could assist in this kind of emergency now. But the last time this happened on a weekend and everyone was trapped, and security didn't respond, they essentially said fuck yourself.

"It's an opportunity to get to know your community. Go to their rooms and get their meds" "I am in a resident in with a broken foot in cast and I can't get to them. (FUCK you, we are a community). We are beyond that already, sir"

No help. That actually scared me. I'm more realistic now. No call to 911 unless someone is in the process of burning, flooding or dying. Trapped, away from their accessible potty and home and meds is not enough - Eh, but you already know how Seattle handles things.

As for The Pike Market Administrator, Carol Binder - she refuses to have any direct relationship with this building they run (she's the one NOT dressed like a victorian witch in Pike Market Anniversary pic). Well, she had to sit in the apartment manager's office last night to help people in wheelchairs etc. who couldn't get to their homes or bathrooms. Gooooooooood. Can't wait to see how she spins this.

I continue to keep it legal, calm, friendly as I roll-up a big legal fattie for them. PHWWWWWFWwwww - aaaahhh. Documentation with off-site copy, petitions, news contacts, photographs. Starts with a group letter from the residents. There are a few who can or will risk speaking-up about the ongoing problems here - despite realistic fear of retribution - and it's not just in this building.

Lacing-up my gloves as I wait.

FIX THE GODDAMN ELEVATOR!!

Maybe He Can. The Barack Obama Music Video

2008-02-06T18:44:00.001-08:00

The Obama campaign evokes change. That is for certain.

Tranqued on Google Earth

2008-02-04T00:38:00.001-08:00

Y'know a friend of mine got captured by one of those satellite things. He was just standing on his farm in Provincetown, clothed, when it happened.

ZZZZZZZZZzzzzzzz

I Choose Now

2008-02-02T01:24:00.000-08:00

These have been a couple of grueling weeks. It's been catch-up and quit then try again on everything for so long. Totally reflected by my trip through the creepy medication reaction and subsequent adjustments. (Ajustments, adjustmendts, adjustments. That doesn't EVEN look like a word. I must be tired tonight).

Between jaw-clenching tension, anxiety attacks and a pulse that's changes without warning I'm having some pleasing epiphanies. (I'm pretty good at jumping quickly between heaven and mini-torture. Years of practice). And these aren't just speedy little drug-induced reveries. I'm tasting Satori. Not bad. Tastes like change.

So I scribbled down some ideas, listened to my heart (figuratively speaking), and made some decisions this morning:

First I told my game designer friend I'd have to take a break from work he was trying to give me. Funny, I'm sick all the time yet I forget that it means anything. Like I'm not allowed to take a break - I've never even taken a vacation my whole adult life. Rest a little bit. Just a little bit. Then perhaps I can give it the focus it needs.

Second, I've shoved-down my burning romantic interests in favor of good timing and that ability to focus. I have fun and love and connections. That's enough for now. Besides I always play better piano and guitar when I'm not totally hooked-up. Driven by the delicious tension, I think.

Third, I'm prioritizing this blog and all things creative and compassionate that "light-me-up." It's my life. When the world is difficult and scary and irrational, I take control by getting tough and repairing things. Sort of like in the movie Pulp Fiction - I'm a "fixer"(the guy who tells you how to get that mess out of the car - then dumps it). Nice. But I gotta let-up on myself and make like Joseph Campbell. "Follow my bliss" some more.

And as if in a dream, I got this great idea that involves a projection on the wall of a skyscraper in the middle of the city . . .

The Pizza Index

2008-01-25T09:44:00.000-08:00

Friend Ed from Jersey is a bright guy. He uses the price of a slice of pizza to measure the onset of recession. Calls it the Pizza Index. It comes down to the price of a slice of pizza pie.

I was too young to recall the details of the 70's recession, but I remember the big recession in the 90's as it went down in California. It bit the big green financial weenie hard.

My husband 'R' and I were cynical yet enthusiastic young affluent white people. We wanted a future free of our dysfunctional families. And we believed we had the wind of those go-go 80's on our backs. HAH.

Funny, the sight of middle-aged aircraft engineers working at the video stores, white people working taco stands in L.A., and the a shift in social trends that supported the social break-out of Gangsta rap and Grunge didn't make a big enough impression to give us pause. We were too young to fully grasp the trend. There we were. Watching a great big socio-economic equalizer in progress, and fairly unprepared to get kicked on our asses.

R was a sharp young paramedic out of the best school in the country. I was a neuroscience major with a solid taxable work history by the time I was 17. But it meant nothing. NOTHING. 'R' couldn't get hired for anything. Suddenly I was worth minimum wage - $4 after taxes.

It's a warm memory now. . .

Lots of time in motels waiting for interviews. Living on credit and family scrapple. I would sit on a bed in the middle of nowhere, nervously shoveling down Rocky Road bars as I watched M*A*S*H the TV series in it's entirety, Brideshead Revisited, and 11 years worth of Saturday Night Live - all courtesy of Motel 6.

We bought 29 cent tacos in 6 packs (maybe they'll go down to 69 cents this time around) and grabbed a matinee a week. We were tall thin people with little fat tires and stretch marks because of the shit food we ate. Nice.

On one paramedic job lead, we moved to Santa Cruz and lived in an ex heroin addict's trailer in the Redwoods. We found the syringes hidden under the bottom kitchen drawer. But we had a fucking redwood tree in our back yard. How cool is that? And wth one bag of bird seed, we supported a community of 50 squirrels on our roof. I carried Snausages treats in my pocket to lure away the drooling doberman "Dutchess" who used to chase our car up from the hillbillys' house below us. And we were freezing. 27 wet degrees and cheap clothes from the salvation army. Mud and inedible mushrooms everywhere. The best part was when we rigged the cable 150 ft from our hillbilly neighbors' place to watch FOX's Married With Children. Kind of. (I understand both it and the Honeymooners now - great characters in bleak, hopeless, funny situations).

We made Little Caesars' crap pizza and the promotional "chocolate ravioli" last for days. "Cheeser Cheeser" was the jingle. Litttle Cheeser and 29 cent tacos. Recession food.

But the siren call of a real paramedic job led us to Bakersfield. 'R' got a free subscription to JEMS paramedic magazine and 5 free counseling visits. It was all downhill from there.

Recession changes everything.

Last Night Sucked Life

2008-01-22T11:21:00.000-08:00

"Hey Mike, can I sleep here? I don't feel so good." Sure. "Mike is that a train?" I don't hear it. Yeah, I hear it." Listen. God that's loud. Is that a plane?" Nah. It's a train. "Weird I can hear it in the mattress tonight. It's my ear. They put a 2,000,000,000 watt bulb on those lights." "My ears are ringing are yours, Mike?" Comforting conversation about Tinnitus and Obama. "Ok. I'm fine. I'm alright."

I wasn't alright. After 90 minutes of thrashing sleeplessness, the succubus sits on my chest, but it ain't panic this time. My heart raced. Then my right side started to jerk. I took my pulse while I shook and tried to breathe. It was out-of-bounds.

"This is real, Mike. My heart. It hurts. Oh god, I can't make my pulse go down. It's the fucking yeast meds. Fucking insurance changed the brand. Fuck them 3 times over. I'm sorry. I'm going down. I'm sorry. (911 is called). Where's the fucking heat? I'm burning-up. I'm sorry"

I fell on my face for 7 minutes, drug list clutched to my chest until the paramedics arrived. They wouldn't touch the list (next to my boob? - whatever. I'm dyin' here). I managed to flick my wrist and it fell-out.

Apparently, this is my current atheist-in-a-foxhole prayer: "Please help me God - I'm sorry - You're Ok You're OK (I'm talking to myself while the chest feels like it's exploding and my skull is thick - no oxygen).

Pulse hit 160 while I was flat on my face, then came down. Hi-flo oxygen worked. They called me "Sweetheart" (they do that when you're down and getting into some shit). It was a long ride.

At the ER, they did the EKG, monitored me, and brought my heart rate down from a tweaky 160 beats per minute to 92. It was a drug reaction. 6 hours of stuff - and still fighting it tonight - because the off-brand yeast meds didn't cooperate with the esoteric meds I take daily.

They discharged me at dawn, on the broken foot, with 30 or 50 brain lesions (who knows anymore). It was 22 degrees out and I was in a t-shirt and pullover sweater. I told them I couldn't make it to the bus. They sent me anyway. About the point of passing-out I pulled it together and walked back-in. I went to the administration desk and rested my head on it. I quietly told them I was sent out in the cold. I have multiple sclerosis and I can't walk on my broken foot anymore. No ma'am, no one is coming to get me. I live in a low-income building full of crippled people.

The 'low-income building full of crippled people' line got to them. They gave me $4 taxi scrip to get down the hill.

This is the price I (we) pay to live today. It's a crap shoot sometimes.

CANDIDA Magick

2008-01-21T10:29:00.000-08:00

Happy Martin Luther King, Jr. Day. Power.

****************************************
In Apocalypse Now, soldier Martin Sheen creeps through the fog of the Viet Nam War to find some messianic psycho officer gone AWOL. The guy lives in shadow, but has clout and a following. The whole thing is analogous to something much bigger, much darker. Sheen becomes observer and participant in a world-class expose' that hasn't hit home yet. (This is what happens when dark forces runs afoul for too long)
****************************************

Instead of participating in something really good and powerful today, like the Freedom Rally at the State Capitol Building, I'm sitting here at home rambling. My crotch is on fire, I have stomach pains and I'm a week into chills and low-grade fever. No toughing this one out. I've got a major yeast infection. So I've been taking codeine and shoving yogurt in every orifice for the last 2 days until my prescription is ready. And it's 29 degrees out this morning and people are freezing. The tranny regular is working the corner (has shelter). Don't get beat-up or freeze.

This got me thinking about women who are homeless and/or enduring situations without meds or connections. Here I am bitching about the chills while I sit on the phone giving a nurse directions for my prescription. On a federal holiday. Could be worse.

Coincidentally, I just got a wrong-number call on my cell from an African-American woman looking for some help. Said her adult son broke into her window, ended-up in the hospital then disappeared on the street last night. She was tired, stoic. I told her who I wasn't, we talked a minute, then laughed at the absurdity of the system (hospital told her to call this number). I redirected her to the police and Seattle Mental Health, though both of us know it's a federal holiday and some phones aren't being answered. I saw irony.

Then that had me thinking what connections or remedies are there for anything? What's going on? My tired thoughts morphed into the subject of power, access, and the physics of circumstance. Is it time for revolution or witchcraft? Witchcraft. Geez.

Druid mythos and fantasy themes lost most of their mystical glow when I was 25. The real draw back then was the sexy power thing. Wear romantic clothes, be an envelope-pushing mystic healer and gothicky techno space pioneer!! (*gag*) . What I really wanted was to be smokin' hot with a side of power and skills - and handy with consumer electronics. Yeah, I still see magic in things, still practice it in a few non-glamorous ways like cognitive linguistics, art and pseudo-social services. But I'm not into the style thing anymore. Too narrow.

And American magick subculture is so contrived. Don't get me wrong, I'm glad Wicca is legally recognized, finally. But real magic doesn't live in alterno-Old Europe, nor does it require a bucketload of cool purchases like tools and costumes.

3 things (it's always about 3's with these people) 3 things helped me reorient myself with the importance of magick sans the glam:

1) A lot of witches are junior power-mongers and celtic pack-rats. Real witch types aren't that cliche' or gothic. They are good at channeling bad and good, compassionately and dispassionately. They attract what they need while they can. They identify what they can do for others or just themselves without going totally public. Most importantly, they seriously believe they can affect the outcome.

2) I realized that witchcraft and fantasy lore is great escape. Like science fiction, it's also an open venue for exploring some intriguing possibilities. But really. Most people on the planet don't don't give a fuck about Western Paganism or witch shtick. They want to eat.

3) Physics is magic, compassion is magic and power is relative. Real witches resemble Hitler, Buddhists, pacifists who beat-the-odds, the poorest and kindest people among us, torture victims who make-it-out human, Oil suppliers, Geico's ad company, rule-benders, a few dynamic theologians and writers, ourselves under unthinkable circumstances - and the lost pets that found their way home in "The Incredible Journey". Did I leave anything out? All the inexplicables.

So there's magick afoot and it isn't all good. We know several tracks of world-class bad juju are happening right now. It could suck or it could result in a good thing. Probably both. Politics, atheism, world religions, quarks, strings, waves, access, lights-in-the-sky, connections, drugs, 2012 or so, magnetism, stretches, coincidences, relationships, intuition, chemistry . . .(panting and hunched-over with hands on knees) Christ, I'm out of breath.

However you frame it, magic is everywhere. Look closer.

You mean "Kindle" like Fahrenheit 451?

2008-01-17T23:13:00.000-08:00

Feeling too oppressed to write tonight. Check this out:

online so you can read it at work!

"Free" as in software, not as in beer . . .

Amazon Kindle - a threat to ou r First Amendment rights?

The Kindle as censorship fodder: E more vulnerable to Big Bro than P?

Surveillance Cameras shout at you with childrens' voices. Brits. *sigh*

Brits burn-up Surveillance Cameras - *sigh*

political 'Floyd

(Did I mention I like Pink Floyd?)

drum roll puhlease . . .BADADADADADADA DUMP!!

In case ya missed it, here's a list of Rights all Americans Lost during the last 7 years. . .

G'night, Gracie.

Gimme Shelter and Merry Clayton

2008-01-14T21:35:00.000-08:00

I'm really getting into the nitty-gritty of rock. The off-label stuff. Covers. B-side funk. Early rap. Well- spoken word and the parts of punk I ignored during my uppity years. Sleepy folk music, off-label Rockabilly, Skiffle, Cracker rock . . . I set my ego for low and plumb the depths of uncommon greatness. I dig it.

It recently hit me how important backup artists are, and the indelible imprint they leave on a great piece. Their personal contribution is "the hook" that makes a good piece great. I'll gush more about backup artists later, but begin with Merry Clayton and Gimme Shelter.

Born on Christmas Day in New Orleans, the gospel singer would perform the unforgettable backup vocal on The Rolling Stones' "Gimme Shelter" (1969). The song's been covered very well by everyone from Sisters of Mercy to Patti Smith, but the Stones' voudoin sound with Merry on the 2nd track delivers approaching apocalypse best, I think.

The driving ballad expresses all the anger and angst built-up at the end of the 60's social revolution. Love was almost out-of-reach. War unending. Social idealism frayed. Broad-based social injustice would continue, despite being televised to the world every night.

Oh, a storm is threatning
My very life today
If I dont get some shelter
Oh yeah, Im gonna fade away

War, children, its just a shot away
Its just a shot away . . .

Ooh, see the fire is sweepin
Our very street today
Burns like a red coal carpet
Mad bull lost its way

I tell you love, sister, its just a kiss away
Its just a kiss away, kiss away, kiss away . . .

So here we are.

Merry Clayton moved it with every soulful warning, every shout that ripped down the curtain of denial. Her unexpected angry shriek cracks the meter in the third refrain. I wondered who's voice that is that still makes me tear-up and rock-out. It's her song. I sing with Merry when I play Gimme Shelter.

about Mary Clayton
funky16corners

Too Many Cubes

2008-01-11T23:43:00.001-08:00

Too many cubes. Really. I mean, I did this drawing assignment tonight while I watched The Magnificent Seven. 7 cubes would've been enough for this assignment. Whatever. I started writing my blog right-after I finished, but I'm really tired, and it turned into an uninteresting stream-of-consciousness thing that almost bored me. It ended with me recalling Yul Brynner's posthumous "I'm dead because I smoked - please don't smoke " public service announcement. Mid eighties - kind of eerie. Remember that? I wonder if just reading this would make someone put down their cigarette. That's heavy. I smoke a couple of clove cigarettes every year and trainspot when I have something major on my mind, but that's it. Fuck, someone just crashed my blog with a smoking message written in Spanish. I have a firewall. I gotta go to bed. See? Streaming again. . .stream stream streaming. Aw, now I have to pee.

William S. Burroughs Envisions Our Fate

2008-01-10T13:38:00.000-08:00

Burroughs delights us with a click-tongued bedtime story about AhPook!The Destroyer,

explosive Hiroshima, mind-bending Control - and a gargantuan called AMERICAN GREED

Brion Gysin and William S. Burroughs

Mmmm. I taste scorched earth and bitter husks . . .

Crazy Threads that Find Us

2008-01-08T23:13:00.000-08:00

"You Never Call"

This is the first drawing I did with my computer tablet last year. You can see a little bit of Robert Crumb influence in my amateur cartoon (crumbs of R. Crumb). The image is based on a schizophrenic woman and her twin sister who I knew when I worked in a mental home.

I helped run mental home when I was 20. Seriously. I was one of a few staff who took care of 6 severely mentally-ill folks. I stayed-over, alone, 2 nights at a time in a cabin-style house that sat on top of a small mountain hill by San Francisco. It wasn't an unpleasant setting, but it smacked of an Alfred Hitchcock movie.

Of course, it was totally nuts for a 20-year-old to do the job, but there was a recession, and I was pretty old for my age. It also paid a $1.50 over minimum wage.

So I slept there, cleaned, cooked, shopped, drove people around, took them on hikes, defended them from bitchy cafe's owners in North Beach . . . I even facilitated group therapy sessions weekly (that was just bullshit). I also monitored their behavior each night by taking copious patient notes and administering medications. Just barely legal. I was a nice guy though, and they were pretty mellow so we all just went with the flow.

But the staff was totally nuts. Consisted mostly of older psychologists and students working on their graduate degrees - neurotic as fuck. The shift-change in the evenings was the big time for these pro's to self-diagnose and unload about their personal dramedies. I coped by pretending to be the shrink from M.A.S.H. I'd just sit there and listen awhile, then say something obvious like "It sounds like sleeping with your own shrink isn't working for you". (That's when I decided to change my college major from psychology to neuroscience).

The residents were cool, though, and Leo and Tammy gave me some real insights into things:

Leo was an old black man from New Orleans. He had curly long eyelashes, soft gentle features, docile ways - and some serious paranoia with his schizophrenia. He actually wore one of those foil hats to block the mind rays from the television. (Unfortunately the group majority wanted to leave the community TV on all freaking day. Poor Leo).

Not much more than a "Hello" happened between me and him until one 'dark and stormy night' when I heard loud banging-around downstairs. Trees were blowing down outside, but this was coming from the basement where Leo lived. I was thoroughly creeped-out, but I had to check on him. So I went down stairs to his door and said "Hey Leo, how's it going there?" Nothing. "Leo?" He finally said "ffffffffine, oohhhhhh NOOOooooo!!!" Shit. Now I had to go deal with it.

So I slowly entered and adjusted my eyes to the dark, prepared to see some scary shit. What I actually saw was a most fantastic display laid out before me: 12 pairs of nicely polished and laced shoes, some slippers, sneakers, leather moccasins all woven in between each other and arranged in an intricate pattern on his oriental carpet. It was a fucking Shoe Crop Circle! Leo just sat in his robe and jammies, shivering away between the lightening and thunder. Finally said "I'm alright Miss PPPPPPPPP, I'm alright now." I smiled, suggested he just sleep-on-it, then headed back up to bed.

That wasn't so frightening, but his love affair gave me pause until I saw the true affection in it.

Apparently, Leo had some 'secret thing' with the another psychotic resident who looked like Frank Zappa. He and "Frank" left notes for each other said stuff like "YOU DRIP BLOOD IN LOVE. KNIVES - (elaborate poetry) - AND I WANT TO . . ." The best part was the homoerotic drawing of skinny naked Frank with his stringy hair, all bloody, impaled with the knife. I didn't think Leo had it in him. Nothing violent actually happened, though. They were just smitten with each other. I understood. Sort-of.

Tammy was in her late 30's, about 5'9", and her russet-colored hair was almost always in pigtails. She looked like a super-sized Janis Joplin and smoked a hell of a lot. And she must have smoked her ciggies down to the filter, because her fingertips were always orange-brown.

I guess she'd been a prep-school rocker and made a lot of social ruckus before the schizophrenia took over. Her drug-flattened nonsequential speech was rounded out by lisping outbursts of "SICKO!!" and "That's the Truth!" She sounded like Lily Tomlin on Quaaludes.

Over time, I began to notice some connection in her words. When we played the game "Password" she'd give me a stack of hints like "death-wrapped-baby falls-off cart and horses pull black caissons in two pairs" Why of course! I should have known the mystery Password was "baby carriage" (I always lost). What I learned was that there was a "thread" of experience that revealed itself in her agitated phrases.

Later-on I realized this is true for most people, psychotic or otherwise.

My uneducated observation was validated one warm day when her room started to smell like pooh. I mean it really stank. I mentioned it to another manager who said "Yeahhh, well, we can't get Tammy to wash her hands enough. Those brown stains on her fingers are from diggin her crap out of the toilet" (Like what does she do with it?) "Well, last year we found a bunch of fecal babies she sculpted and hid in jars under her bed." Fecal babies.

See, Tammy was an aging, childless, unmarried twin from very cold philanthropic military family. In fact, they owned the mental home just so she'd have a secure place to stay. Dad died too young, a well-decorated Major in the Army. Her fraternal twin sister who visited on rare occasion was not psychotic, but obviously permanently distressed. She remained reluctantly close to the the bullet she had dodged.

It was a good place to learn some things about reality. In retrospect, I dug it.

Spirit of the Goddess Cowgirl

2008-01-07T19:11:00.000-08:00

My neighbor K and I met and became great friends this year.

In addition to disastrous christian inputs and absurd health issues, we have lots of good things in common. Artists, musicians, culturally and socially 'ON' as we can be - we'd sell our own blood to get sushi.

We also have one really weird connection: I'd always heard my dad's best childhood buddy, Jim Elliot, grew up to be a missionary in South America. He was eaten by cannibals. For real.

Well, K grew up as an American missonary kid in Ecuador, and had some first-hand acquaintance with the Jim Elliot was eaten by cannibals family. Over a few nights of conversation and some starvation-earned sushi - the subject of Techno bands, Amy Winehouse, witchcraft and cannibalism came-up. ( You know how those late-night talks go . . .) Anyway. As it turned-out, Jim Elliot wasn't cannibalized - he was speared-to-death! Ach, I've been livin' a lie.

I also learned K has incredibly cool music tastes, plays the harp, and even received a will of art supplies from the fabulous northwest woman who inspired Even Cowgirls Get the Blues . K also sings ancient gaelic ballads, has sung competetively in Scotland. That's how smart, interesting and fucking cool she is.

But she lives in a terrible state of suspense. Literally. She has Cushing's Disease again.

Just like before, a pituitary tumor in her brain is leaving her in a particularly extra-special sort-of-hell. Along with weight gain to twice her normal body weight, insulin-dependent diabetes and joint detioration, she lives in a chronic miscued fight-or-flight response. The pituitary tumor in her brain induces a constant flood of cortisol. Call it "internal shock and awe."

After doctors denied her illness for years, she finally had brain surgery to remove the tumor. Well, it's back. The signs and symptoms are all there. It's obvious. Surgery or radiation is next. The list of what she must "power through" is extensive, but her strength is unfathomably deep.

But the first time she had the disease, it went undiagnosed by Medicare and Medicaid doctors.

Despite invasive tests ( they pushed a collection line up from the veins in her leg to her brain to take samples) and results several-hundred times normal, the physicians suggested that it might not be real. Fuck, it was real that time, and it's taken almost a year for them to accept that she might have it again. Now comes the tests to support their conclusion. Aaarrgh.

Tonight she's in a hotel she can't afford at all, so she can be near a hospital where she will be tested every four hours for four days and nights. It was fight to get the State to help pay for the hotel - they won't admit in the hospital - or go home on the public bus every 4 hours for 4 solid days, with a catheter and an I.V. port, and no sleep in-between . . .

But they couldn't get her a room at the hospital hotel for 1 of the days during 4 days of tests. So she was instructed to sleep sitting in the hospital cafeteria that night. WTF?

It's torture. Her medical condition is extremely serious and uncommon. They way she is treated isn't anymore, at all. It's the power of the corporate dollar and lobby, and its stranglehold and impoverished American medical bureaucracy.

Some of you really get the injustice and the unecessary suffering which exceeds the disease in this supposedly prosperous nation. I'm concerned for her. You should be concerned. It's the system we're allowed now.

Did I mention she also loves neo-classical floral patterns, antique sheet music, writing, blogging, anime, kids and wry humor . . .

K's beautiful blog: Smuaintean-Queltica

Strip Show - The Art of Seduction HOT!!!!!

2008-01-06T12:40:00.001-08:00

i'm workin' here!

c'ya in the a.m.

Abba sings Fernando

2008-01-05T17:37:00.001-08:00

Biorn Ulvaeus said he wrote this love song in Mexico while listening to some old guys blathering about some forgotten guerrilla war.

I think the line about the Rio Grande is a red herring.

Listen to a thinly veiled story of love and camaraderie on the eve of the end of the Spanish Civil War, 1939.

Fantasy Art - How Me Little Brain Got Wired-up

2008-01-03T21:55:00.000-08:00

I'm sitting here waiting for some software to finish installing, so I can make detailed images for video games. Big things and details I can get visually lost in. It's a pleasing task.

While I wait for the overbuilt software to load, I'll take you down a meandering sub-autistic path to the land of 70's graphic arts . . .

Richard Scarry's BUSYTOWN

Everything had a name next to it, even the pig policeman (There was too a pig policeman in busytown. I remember.)

This was the start of my fascination with big pictures with little objects.

The Game of LIFE

For ages what and older? I didn't give a crap about fake money and insurance papers. It had lumpy 3-D hills and pegs for people and babies, flat cars and things that spin!

Monopoly

As an L.A. kid, the Eastern Seaboard names on the properties meant nothing to me. The 20's graphic motif probably stuck with me, though. And I still craved 3-D. Daddy said "Screw empty properties, they're a waste unless you can put rentals on 'em". He was right. Rows and rows and rows of houses. The old shoe was the loser's avatar, but the top hat was ok. Wasn't there a horse? Maybe we lost the horse.

Mousetrap

A primary colors Rube Goldberg 3-D rush. Took hours to put it together and all just to watch the silver ball roll through all these gadgets and make a basket cage drop on the rat. Like a Mad Max RAT Thunderdome. The ball was always getting misplaced so I followed the course with my fingers.

LIFESIZE HUMAN MOUSTRAP GAME

Pinball came later. My favorite is still Bride of Pinbot. When you get a kajillion points, her mechanical eyes open and her head spins and she moans. She also has high heeled metal pumps and workers can climb up inside her (she's a giant robot).

HR GIGER

In the late 70's , my dad took me to the Either-Or-Bookstore in Hermosa Beach, California. There was one well-worn collection HR Giger's creepy sci-fi silkscreens all hyper-detailed and dark as hell. My dad showed me one pic of a wall of bubbling gurgling Edward G. Robinson-looking baby faces. By age 7, I knew Giger had it going-on. Now I'm a big girl and own the book!

AWESOME GIGER WEBSITE AND GALLERY

There were other SF art books everywhere. You could get them for a buck on the bargain table (ach, these gems - where are they now?) I recall one that had a campy picture of a spacelady unzipping her catsuit to reveal her oversized bazooms. Her name was "Styreen Foam". Nice.

Lots of experimental animals, too. What would happen if we cloned a rabbit with a rhinoceros and found it on a similar-but-different planet? Wow. And everything was realistic in a painterly stylized way. Like Gerald Scarfe's magnificent weird animation for Pink Floyd's The Wall, Watership Down and Lord of the Rings (the original animated version for tripped-out kids in the 70's - WE GOT NO VIDEO GAMES YET).

AWESOME GERALD SCARFE's WEBSITE GALLERY

About the same time I was getting into the heavy stuff, I also started drawing little elves and dwarves in multi-stories mushroom houses. For balance, I guess.

Yay, the software is done loading. Back to work.

Next: FUCKING COOL MUSIC ALBUM COVERS

Risk Faith and Snake Handers

2008-01-03T09:21:00.002-08:00

Arthur Reaches Into the Deep Light by Gary Monroe

Once in awhile, the high-schoolers from my middle-class Baptist Church would spend Sunday in a church in a rough part of L.A. (Inglewood, South Central). Our more demonstrative brethren would welcome our white selves, then go about doing their Gospel thing. Lots of syncopated singing, the rare faint, hands in the air. So alive.

We subdued American Baptists only got to experience this ebullient state when we "accepted Christ as our own personal savior" or when we brought someone else to the Cross (it was about 6 feet tall and mounted above the pulpit). Actually, lots of the love was deep and authentic. I saw it and I speak for myself. But by the time I was an adult, I was sure faith was just blind pattern-matching followed by a chaser of heavy emotionalism.

Feeling faith. I felt it once at age 5 when I knelt at the foot of my bed with my mom and 'accepted Christ as my personal savior.' That was good then. Times were very hard and mom exhibited a rare moment of sincere compassion. I felt it at age 5 when I lost a marble (literally a single marble) in an empty room. I prayed for to reappear in front of me, and it did! I promised myself I'd never forget it. That's it. Then faith went away. I outgrew it.

I didn't feel faith at age 9 when I was baptized in the human fish tank at the front of the church. I didn't feel it when I accepted Christ the second time around. I didn't feel it when I encouraged one of my gothic half-Jewish friends to accept Christ, at the Billy Graham Crusade, in the L.A. Coliseum (ach multiple ironies - I'm so sorry)

Still, I wanted faith like I thought I they had at that joyful black church in the tough part of L.A. Like St. Francis of Assisi, like the young Crusaders headed enthusiastically to their annihilation, like a nun. I wanted faith of third-world people who lived with nothing, yet exhibited happiness despite their suffering. Sure, I was kind of elitist and already jaded - but my desire to 'get it' was true. What I really wanted was a life of meaningful purpose - no matter what the reality - crossed with a high level of expression and joy. Little did I know . . .

**********************************

Appalachian Snake Handlers in Georgia, West Virginia, the Southerny states. Maybe I'm romanticizing it a bit, but folks got something going-on.

In my sniffling modern way, I feel for the snake. Of course the children are vulnerable - protect them and keep them far the fuck away from the poison teeth. Other than those practical arguments for abolishing it, I see something good. No, really. Handling poisonous snakes is a pentecostal game of chicken between yourself and god. Have faith in the ritual. If you're supposed to do it, you'll be o.k. If you don't feel the call to do it, then don't do it. Suit yourself. They say that themselves. Sure, there's a hint of legal liability and simplicity their equivocations, but it's as simple as that. I like the tangible way they confront and reinforce their faith. Snake Handlers are risk-takers who seek meaningful experience. I can get behind that.
************************************
So maybe we take big heartfelt risks. We experience loss of security at the same time we cross paths with the unknown, and hope for a meaningful outcome. The opportunities do seem to appear synchronized. The outcomes tend to develop many kinds of love. This emotional feeling and sense of connection - along with the revelation of other people and things I don't know yet - keeps me curious. Because of these things, I envision further possibilities. I can act on these with hope.

For now, I'm going to call that "Faith."

Rockstar in my own Ampitheater

2008-01-01T16:29:00.000-08:00

Hello, pathological optimism. I missed you.

My favorite songs keep getting older - and I stay the same age! I'll always be 17, and 4, and 28, and 99 . . .

Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds - Muddy Water "Mary, grab the baby. The water's rising." Matter-of-fact, ultra-dark blues. Sung by nightclub creeper Nick Cave with German Industrial musician Blixa Bargeld. How the fuck couldn't this be in my top 20?

Simon and Garfunkel - Mrs. Robinson Eternally hip allegory of American culture on the skids

The Babys - Every Time I Think of You Once again, I remove my cornball-filters and go with it

999 - Homicide - Upbeat nihilistic punk, pre-cocaine. Opens with a great Buddy Holly style western riff!

Johnny Nash - I Can See Clearly Now Friend says it sounds like clowns playing calliope (Reggae, man)

The Eurythmics - Love is a Stranger In the rarefied air of 80's euro-disco, Annie Lennox delivers

Art Brut - Formed a Band "I'll write the song THAT MAKES ISRAEL AND PALESTINE GET ALONG!" So dry

Lou Christie, KLAUS NOMI - Lightning Strikes Lou Christie still gets panties thrown at him

Reap the Wild Wind - Ultravox I'm 12. I see running horses and ships sailing over glassy waves of wheat

Garbage - Temptation Waits Captures the delicious madness of abject lust

David Bowie - Queen Bitch Bloke lost the bitch. No, he wants to be the bitch. I wanna be Bowie.

Curtis Mayfield - I'm Your Pusher Superfly and he tells us the sad story why. Can you blame him?

Stevie Wonder - Livin' for The City Another reality hit with a deeply fly electronic piano hook

The Pretenders - Brass In Pocket The business of attraction in British street slang. How REET!

Girl U Want - Devo You want her. You know it. You're fucked.

Breathless - Jerry Lee Lewis, 'X' Yes it's true. Rock 'n roll is the devil's gateway drug to sex.

Heart of Glass - Blondie The Farfisa organ's the hook. Who am I kidding? Debra Harry's the hook.

The Turtles - The Air That I Breathe Really weird and 'groovy'. Uh, love-making? Yeah!

Dirty Vegas - Days Go By Techno-hipster reflects on his ex - and a great Mitsubishi car commercial.

The Cars - Let's Go Youth just out of reach. Paradise was age 17.

Lee Hazelwood - Phaedra Same thing only Nancy Sinatra is the siren, and he's hammered.

The Sex Pistols - Anarchy in the UK Makes more sense every 4 years (in the US)

Muse - Take a Bow Made my list last year with politically astute lyrics like "You're going to burn in hell".

The Turtles - Happy Together It just makes me really happy.

Magrudada - Bloodshot Adult Commitment The title says it all.

Bad Company - Feel Like Making Love Greatest hard rock ballad, period. Surprise, they're British.

Modern Lovers - She Cracked Great punk song about the girl who didn't work out.

Miss Kitten and Thee Glitz - Silver Screen Shower Scene Bass beat and debauchery? Tempty, tempty.

Led Zepplin - Kasmir Takes me somewhere very very very heavy.

Sheila Chandra - And I You Takes me to a place I've never been.

The Who - The Kids Are Alright Breaking Away, Who style.

Cat on Piano Video

2008-01-01T14:13:00.001-08:00

The Year Has Started, Already

2008-01-01T12:21:00.000-08:00

You can read my introspective contemplations

- OR -

You can watch the cat video while you sober-up

I'm really good at what I can do. The rest is a write-off. Moving-on.

There is at least one posse watching my back. I would like the good ones to increase in numbers.

I pretty-much live as though I've already died (SUFI thang).

Reducing suffering, increasing happiness are good methods (Bhuddist thang).

Liberation starting with poverty is an attractive idea (original Christian thang).

It's all physics. Push the envelope. (Physics thang)

I live in humor. That's why I look dark.

I'm a private person. Who would've thought?

This time we split-up while we still loved each other. That's an improvement.

People I love usually love me. People I like usually like me. People I hate is my problem.

Got active for the right reasons.

I lost 60 lbs by eating less crap and keeping really busy.

Sharing ciggies at the train tracks with people more impoverished than me just made sense.

Mirror-dancing, punk and caffiene make a good elixir.

The formula for everything is short - and it's in everything.

I learned how to ride a wave of medicinal shock 4 x daily.

I find most things more interesting than horrific. The torture has been reduced overall.

I'm pissed and redirecting it. That's even better.

Let-go and make-room beats Let-go and let-god, 5 to 1.

This year I finally said "I'm lower class, I have a good ego, my sitch is fucked, let's go" and I'm ok with it.

All I really want is to be part of a good gestalt.

I'm a leader. There are many methods.

I do my best work in pairs.

My best thinking is done in the shower.

I love Low-brow art, anyway.

Americans have been greedy. Myself included.

The best kind of porn is my salvation.

I finally understand YES, STEELY DAN, GANGSTA RAP and TOM WAITS - and don't judge myself for it.

Narrowing the aperture gets you better light.

I'll never be bored.

The State is officially corrupted and I'm on my way.

The difference is what kills us.

A million people in China could give a fuck.

I write, finally.

I shit art.

RS A.K.A "UTA" URBAN

Body Paint

2007-12-31T11:56:00.001-08:00

the Draw (watch-out) : very high thugs-in-suits to nude models ratio

the Hook: lookers, kicky soundtrack

the Redemption: paid talent, babushka and grandkid included in the clip

HAPPY NEW YEAR

Synesthesia, I Love Your Electric Spumoni

2007-12-29T09:38:00.000-08:00

I'm a synesthete. I see patterns and shapes when I hear sounds. Tastes have qualities of shape and color . Even personalities, days of the week, and words have some color or sound or taste association. Letters and numbers have specific colors associated with them and very consistently so. Nope, no extra smells for me - though I could totally see that!

People can get synesthesia after a stroke or while tripping on LSD, but the synesthesia I experience is congenital and not uncommon - about 1 in 100,000 down to 1 in 200 people have it (lots of people don't realize they have it). I was in my 20's when someone pointed out that not everyone sees everything with the all of the 'add-on' features.

My extra sensations are constant, consistent but not exactly like someone else's. For example, I think E is ecru or bean colored. To another synesthete E will always be green. Some people see huge shapes and color right before their face when they hear music. My imagery is more "in the mind's eye" - and just slightly more diffuse, though similarly trippy.

Synesthesia for Kids

There's theory that Sesame Street and alphabet refrigerator magnets have fed into synesthetic kids programming. E for the color of ernie the muppet would make sense to me, but Kermit the Frog is butterscotch and brown in my lexicon. Imagine what video games do - I do all of the time. Far-out, man!

Here's how it also literally looks, sounds, tastes to me . . .

piano is round black and white and red tubes through pools of vibrating black oil

guitar is butter and feather strings in L and G shapes vibrating down through deep rivers

banjo is sparkling threads of silver and gold that fall swiftly on tin triangles

brass instruments sound like burnished gold streams peppered white and black

VCO sine waves are thin green and yellow tubes. Blue air pushes through them at lightspeed.

mom's voice was rubber-bands and cream wrapped around silk and balsa wood

rice tastes like short waterfalls and warm metal bits (never thought about rice - i like rice)

friday is yellow-orange. tuesday and thursday are both red (mix-em up a lot). saturday is brown (brown?!)

beets (which I dislike) detonate a virtual imagery grenade. licorice strips and dirt and metal and cardboard boxes pulverized into microscopic bits. Barf!

Social Injustice is crushed ice floes filled with dark purple-red ribbon, rope twine, stomped grapes and angry children's faces yelling at rusty metal. it tastes like blackjack gum and pig-iron.

Synesthesia in Art

Arthur Rimbaud (also Baudelaire, Franz Liszt, David Nabakov, David Hockney, Leonard Bernstein, Duke Ellington, Amy Beach, Richard Feynman, Rimsky-Korsakov . . .)

Complicated? Busy? A little poetic? Nah. It never gets in the way. And it writes itself! I used to write music in shapes and colors as well as notation. Even I thought that was artsy bullshit until I realized I could read it 15 years later. I also use this handy ability to memorize things like peoples names and where I put my shit. I'll work on remote viewing next.

REZ - the best frigging SYNESTHETIC PS2 game ever made!!!

Nabbing Other People's Dreams

2007-12-27T19:54:00.000-08:00

They say that the dreams we recall are only meaningful to ourselves. It's like trying to share your own in-joke - and no one else 'gets' it.

On the other hand, some dreams are too good not to re-tell. I stole these from my friends:

"When I was 7, I dreamed there was this Jolly-Green-Giant guy, but he was the size of a normal man. He was green and had a thorn growing out of his big toe. He stomped around the family room, bullying people and kicking them with his thorn-toe. Someone went and intentionally broke-it-off and he became tame and nice. He lived in Jimmy Woodward's freezer."

"When I was 5, I dreamed I was in a big factory that had a mechanical conveyor belt running through it. Naked men and women were laying upside-down and flat right next to each other on the conveyor belt. As the conveyor belt moved along, giant ketchup and mustard bottles squirted each of their buns."

"My boyfriend and I went to a college Halloween party where everyone had elaborate costumes. We wore blue jeans and scorched white t-shirts with large burn-holes. On the front of them it said 'HI. WE'RE FROM HELL'

"Then I went into the gym. It was one of those high-school gym floors that pulled-apart and there was a hidden swimming-pool underneath. Todd was making-out with Kim in the bleachers and I just stood next to the pool and looked down. There were two cats sitting at the bottom of the pool. No, not dead or anything. Just sitting there, doing what cats do."

"I stood up from taking a crap and a bunch of spiders crawled out from underneath the rim of the toilet seat. It really freaked-me-out because they were the CLEAR kind."

"I was sitting in the bathtub across from William Shatner. He was about 50 and I was 17. I just sat there and watched while he whacked-off and laughed and purple lightning flashed on-and-off. Filled the tub. I don't know why it was William Shatner."

"The cats looked human. They were tall and furry and sleek with really strong arms. I made-out with them"

"Everyone was sitting in the living room, like normal. It was dark outside and a warm summer night. Then this toothpick came through the window spinning. I think I was the only one who noticed it"

"I think I was 3. I heard a dinosaur stomping down the hall. Everything was shaking. I was afraid it was going to find me, so I hid under the kitchen table behind the tablecloth. 4 great big chunky legs walked-by. Then I woke up and Checkers was sitting on my ear. I could hear my heartbeat."

Grateful Pirate

2007-12-26T13:58:00.000-08:00

happy pirate song

Best booty? From friends in the building. And they gave me:

unsolicited money no questions asked
wine cooler bottled chili peppers
2 disco santa hats
Vietnamese pho soup
Nalley's turkey chili x 3 cans
good pb fudge
3 came home from the hospital ok
private coffee and sbux treats stash
new york times at my door - hand delivered with oranges
phone calls and visits when i looked like hell
poinsettia
christmas card that made sense
invitation to see god from Romanian in bloody jesus "the passion" sweatshirt
3 hugs from people i didn't expect
a nice big fattie of catnip
tons of wet food for the cat
invitations for the cat to drop by anytime

the cat

********************************************

Alright. There's no real order of importance or love in this mini-manifest. It's about me feeling gratitude or letting some things go . . .

Dw Thanks for being the real thing and helping me Rl Thanks for being the real thing and helping us. Ns Thanks for helping me survive 'M & P', Ry Thanks for managing 'M' so I could rest and take care of things. Mk Thank you for keeping close and sharing your incredible secret talents. Always. Ms Thank you for transcending. We'll always be like this (crossing fingers).Kc for being genius and loving. Nh Thank you for your wit and love. Never get you out of my head. Sc Thanks for becoming my partner in crime Ar Thank you for being beautiful smart and kind -more than I or anyone deserves. Mj Thank you for our nightly bedtime chats. It's such a good thing. Always ...Ml Thank you for the friendship and the skills. It's kept me in motion. Em Thank you for being a mensch and a friend. Rs Thank you for sharing and being the best we can be. Cf Thank you for being there. Ro Thank you for trusting my judgment, too. Rs and Ss Thank you for being more friends than in-laws. Gg Thank you for being a godfather. It's ok. Sh for the wake-up call. Rp Thanks for all the fish and then some. Always. RC For letting me walk-in. Th for the warm launch. M&P for being original.

The rest is off-the-record

Peace on earth, Li'l Cheeser and The War to End All Wars

2007-12-25T15:28:00.001-08:00

This 1930's cartoon features "Little Cheeser" learning about the true meaning of Christmas.
It's a world without man. A world at peace after "The War to End All Wars" - World War I.

ADDENDUM: This is NOT Little Buck Cheeser (albeit Cheeser-like).

They are little Harman-Ising squirrels with big ears. Been sitting in my brain core for a very long time with another 'Cheeser toon. Same difference.

Christmas Kinks

2007-12-24T21:52:00.001-08:00

The Kinks do Father Christmas - TURN IT UP!!

Father christmas, give us some money

Don't mess around with those silly toys.

We'll beat you up if you don't hand it over

We want your bread so don't make us annoyed

Give all the toys . . . to the little rich boys.

~merry christmas~

Don't be Afraid of Angels

2007-12-23T14:00:00.000-08:00

Angels are scary at first. Enigmatic, direct, androgynous - they've put people on their knees in terror since the first spaceship landed (or whatever). They're not alluring and beautiful like that 1,400 year old product of Church PR genius.

What is the first thing an angel does when it appears to you? It says "Do Not Be Afraid!"

I learned that in a Christian church today. Yeah, I did it. I went to a Christian church and came out neither glassy-eyed nor scorched. This would be the 3rd time this year, in 20 years (and I had partly political motivations for the other 2 visits). I just wanted to find some real Christmas people.

This morning I woke-up and said "Christmas has turned into a 2 month feeding frenzy. I have to find where they hide the good people. Get a break from the ritualized consumption that surrounds me." Actually I said "Fuck, I feel like it's a good day to to be agnostic and drop-in on a church. I bitch at people for confusing fundamentalism with Jesus Christ, so I might as well get a hit off some real Christians"

The bus was a little late and I walked-in during some beautiful low-fidelity music. Sung right out of the mouths of the people (us). Pastor was funny, erudite, to the point. No glam to this Christmas story: The couple were homeless, shepherds were the town bums, Mary would've been a Nazarian nun if she weren't preggo with GOD, and Joseph was a patient compatriot and partner through it all. It was the birth of something new, real, good during the climax of Rome on the edge of ruin.

The service was thoughtful, poignant and without pomp. I dug it.

Afterward, I caught-up with several friend activists from previous projects. They have the same mindset as myself about helping poor and shelter-less and oppressed in the midst of what's become a ultra-greedy empire ready to hit the skids. After a couple of conversations, I also realized some of the people I know there still possess a healthy pragmatism tempered with love. They have desire to help people who live in poverty get their basic needs met. More help coming. Let them find Christian spirit without having to take bread washed-down with dogma. This ain't no salvation army.

Now that felt pretty holy.

*******************************

Here's a wicked little aside:

As a trained Christian Baptist from my previous life, I'm used to keeping my mind occupied at every moment of a sermon, usually out of boredom and annoyance. There wasn't a need for that today. Still, my mind automatically wandered during one of the songs. ANAGRAMS are good filler. This one took me about 3 minutes to figure-out.

MARS HILL is a Seattle megabucks-and-glam church that rocks pockets through multimedia extravaganza, toadyness, and not-so-subtle bigotry.

These are all words you can make from MARS HILL:

SHILL, HARM, ILL, SHAM, MILL, LAM, RAM, MASH, SMALL, LASH, SLAM, ASH

Today was a good day to go to church.

Season Soul Grabber Done Dirt Cheap

2007-12-22T00:18:00.000-08:00

Tonight I photographed a silent candelight street vigil performed by The Women in Black. They observe and protest the forgotten, needless deaths of homeless people. These unnoticed deaths are on the rise here in Seattle this year.

Over the half-hour I was there, the group grew to almost 50 people. They stood right there in front of the Qwest Telephone Carousel, Santa's hut, and the last minute Christmas shopping frenzy. The general apathy about the vigil was surreal.

The first time I bit back some tears was when two men walked swiftly by me, as I clicked-away, and whispered "Thank you for doing this." Huh. I was wearing my usual black.

The second was at the end when the lead minister read the names of every person who died and cause of death (courtesy of the King County Coroner Record) "James T. poison, Ralph R. suicide, Pat K. hit by train, Juanita M. homicide . . ." Each name was followed by the prayerful utterance " Presente' ". It was a dignified call up to God to receive them.

I stood in back of the group, put the camera down and let a tear or two go. Afterwards, I noticed a tear on the minister's cheek, even as she said hi and casually asked me what I did to my foot (still wearing the dorky cast).

On my way home I passed the overpriced flower shop. I was moved to buy a flower for some reason, so I asked what they had for two bucks. A goth chick I'd never seen there before (dressed head-to-toe in black) showed me some daisies. When I went to buy one, she said she had to first help the man who'd elbowed-up in front of me. He needed them to make a complicated $25 flower arrangement on-the-spot.

AC/DC was playing "Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap" over the sound system. I thought to myself, You've got to be kidding . . .

Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap
Dirty Deeds and they're Done Dirt Cheap

Concrete shoes, cyanide, TNT
Done Dirt Cheap
Neckties, contracts, high voltage
Done Dirt Cheap

Then the credit card machine broke. I grabbed a daisy threw 3 bucks on the counter and headed home. I laughed-my-ass-off all the way.

Successful Advocates are Dreamy

2007-12-20T22:39:00.000-08:00

Last night, at the "Survival is a Right" rally at City Hall, Councilman Peter Steinbrueck let me grab a quickie photo-op of him with awesome political warblers The Raging Grannies. By the way, that's a genuine smile he's wearing. *sigh*. Time to stop throwing around the term "political media whore" so loosely.

It was raining cats and dogs, but he showed-up to speak in front of City Hall, along with Councilman Nick Licata, Alison Eisenberg from the Seattle King County Coalition for the Homeless, David Bloom from the Interfaith Council for the Homeless, and representatives from the Real Change Organization Project (including yours truly). I popped my public address cherry, soaked, with no readable notes. I don't remember exactly what I said, but I didn't choke. A personal victory.

The media blitz we organized was successful too, despite a little manipulation from the Mayor's office. Blitzkrieging - now that's pleasure. Another shared victory.

We got the message out under the eye of the camera, stayed mellow, got the point across, and maintained an overnight encampment in the wet and cold with good spirits. Campers, supporters and even some drop-in people without shelter worked together to pull-it-off. My heart was warmed-up a wee bit, I must say.

*************************************************************************************

Tonight I looked around for stuff about it in the media and the local papers. I heard about the affordable housing protest that turned violent at New Orleans City Hall today. Desperation. I see lots of hate for the homeless, from the Mayor's supposed 'civil servants', even from professional commentators here in Seattle. Ach, the brevity of the moment.

Is Seattle going to go where Rio de Janeiro went in the 90's? Dreadful. It's as though we're developing some 2-tier current-day caste system, sans the colorful "afterlife math" to rationalize it all. Fucking utter darkness.

My glow is turning back to righteous anger that drives the next action. The cranks are turning. This morning, with TV cameras closing-in on the Deputy Mayor, we told them we'll be back every three months until homelessness is ended here in Seattle. Now that's a big order . . .

What the Hell is Compassion

2007-12-16T14:29:00.000-08:00

COMPASSION

Define compassion. I don’t know “Compassion”

The more you give, the more you control how things will be.

Compassion is Power

I’m furious. My anger could light the entire city – but can I save myself?

We’re all angry. Compassion ‘redirects’ your heat.

Compassion is Relief

It’s not enough. I can’t help them, it’s too much.

Every bit you give is a win. Start with a small piece and get wealthier.

Compassion is an immeasurable Gain

Maybe I could just help my own.

Who are your own, and what will they do without you?

Compassion doesn’t judge

It’s hard. I want to live better and leave this all behind . . .

Being compassionate is hard, sometimes. So is sex, birth, death, relationships. Did no one tell you

Compassion Feels Really Really Good

Legacy. I want to leave a difference that lasts. That’s what I really want.

I bet you want to live forever. I bet you want eternal love.

Compassion is a two-way wave that ripples forever

So, compassion means 'putting-out' for other people, but it feels good - and it changes everything?

Yeah. Compassion is Love.

- uta urban thinking it through 12/16/07

My Skeleton, My Friend

2007-12-14T19:52:00.001-08:00

This is my skeleton 12/05/07

The big black spot on my foot is where it broke. I broke it walking in my 'air nikes'. I WALKED too hard. Doctor told me to wear my stormtrooper cast for a month - then go back to my old combat boots because they're better.

I made them give me the film. They were really cool about it and asked me what I was going to do with it. I told them I was gonna make a coffee-table.

I like skeletons. They're so humble. No pretense. I have a 3-foot-tall 'Mr. Thrifty' on my dresser. Give it a hat and it reeks personality.

When I was a little tiny kid, I wondered what the scariest thing was I could think of. At age 5, it was to wake up on a Sunday morning and see that everybody in the whole world had turned into a skeleton with a huge orange afro.

"It's fascinating to think that all around us there's an invisible world we can't even see. I'm speaking, of course, of the World of the Invisible Scary Skeletons."
Jack Handey, SNL

Waah Waah songs

2007-12-13T14:58:00.000-08:00

These songs move me to tears AND MUST ADMIT IT KINDA FEELS GOOD, SOMETIMES.
Nostalgia, Fuck-me, here we go again. . .

Gordon Lightfoot - If You Could Read My Mind (always pulls a tear)
Queen - It's Late (close down the gay bar waaah)
Janis Ian - At Seventeen (feel like a social outcast waaaah)
Thelma Houston, The Communards - Don't Leave Me This Way (dance the pain away waaah)
John Michael Talbot - 91st Psalm (contemplative Jesuit with spanish guitar waaaah)
Hallelujah - Jeff Buckley (he's DEAD? WAAAAH)
Roxy Music - More Than This (the alpha and omega of waaaah)
The Teddy Bears - To Know Him is to Love Him (yearning waaaah)
Patti Smith - Land (visceral life changing experience - waaaaaah)
David Bowie - Heroes (you and me against the world, baby - waaaaaaah)
Scorpions - Still Loving You (rocker nostalgia waaaaah)
Nazareth - Sister Christian (played during 'was difficult but I had to' moment - WAAAAAAH)
The Beatles - Here Comes the Sun (fuck you guitar for making me cry happy tears - Wah)
The Stones - Gimme Shelter (howling for social injustice - Waaaaaah)
Joan Baez and Judas Priest - Diamonds and Rust (can't get it out of my head - Waaaah)
Fountains of Wayne, ELO - Can't Get it Out of My Head (cool nostalgic waaaah)
Boston, Sleater-Kinney - More Than a Feeling (falling back on memory. . .WAAAH)
Pink Floyd - Comfortably Numb (longing for childhood . .WAAAAH)
Leonard Cohen - Suzanne (enigmatic chicks Jesus and more spanish guitar- a trifecta -wah!!)
Peter Paul & Mary - There is Love (crying together in the sack Waaaaaah)
Red Sovine - Teddy Bear (CB truckers - fuck you for making me cry over this maudlin song)
John Sebastian - Darling Be Home Soon (reminds me of some other time - Waaaaaah)
Thin Lizzie - Whisky in the Jar (reminds me of dad's funeral , don't know why, WAAAAAAH)
Soundtrack to Brian's Song (Fuck you football for making me cry - WAAAAAAAAAH!!!!!!)

One great waah waah song looks ahead . . .

Johnny Cash, Merle Haggard, Kris Kristofferson, Willie Nelson - The Highwayman (Reincarnation - Hungry-Man style - God *sniff* that's beautiful - wAAAAAAAAAAHHHH!!)

Ear to Body Ratio

2007-12-10T09:08:00.000-08:00

BREAKING NEWS - BBC World 12/10/07:

This tiny Jerboa was captured on video for the first time.

Zoological Society of London scientist Jonathan Baillie tells the press "These creatures hop just like a kangaroo; it is amazing to watch. Little hairs on their feet, almost like snow shoes, allow them to jump along the sand," he explains. "They are so bloody cute I can hardly stand it."

I paraphrased that last line. Actually, he said "The long-eared jerboa is a bit like the Mickey Mouse of the desert, cute and comic in equal measure"

Big ears release heat and amplify sound.

Other big-eared mammals who've stayed cool and paid attention (clicky clicky): Buddha, Frank Sinatra, Barack Obama, Elephants, Virginia Cave Bats, Frank Zappa and family, Spock (vulcans is mammals), "Little Buck Cheeser" . . .

Judas Priest does Diamonds and Rust

2007-12-08T18:43:00.001-08:00

Ole' Rob Halford. He looks like Anton LaVey now, yet the song's still goddam weeping beautiful.

WAAAAh! *sniff*

Cold Calls with People You Used to Love

It's psy-ops this week. I become an emotional hooker. The sad business of survival.

I think about something else until it's over then take whatever money they think they can give. I need money for groceries, rent, medicine, crutches . . .This won't even cover part of it. I disowned them years ago. Oh god, what am I doing? Deep breath. Relax. I'm doing the right thing.

************************************************************************************

Diamond wedding ring for sale. Antique 1910 Edwardian, 7 rocks in unique platinum criss-cross filigree setting. Have appraisal papers.

(It's OK. I let it go awhile ago. Not even safe for me to wear it around here)

************************************************************************************

Ironically, even after everything you have is gone, the State won't touch the bloody thing.

Kitty Pron

2007-12-07T08:02:00.000-08:00

Like everyone else, I have fantasies. Sometimes these fantasies become secret pleasures. This one has brought me so much pleasure I want to share it over and over and over - and I have! GLEEK!

To turn-out the minds of men, to patiently observe them as they abandon their macho and bow to petty ridicule and smug know-it-allness. To see their egos misplaced, whipped, buried deep like dirty little athletic socks under an aging pile of sweet, sweaty, obsessive, romanticized personal laundry. And all for betterment of their souls. Such a power trip! So easy to access, too. What could be better? What - could - be - BETTER?

(I'm serious. I told you I top from the bottom)

Can't force it, though. Sometimes it takes weeks or months to "ripen". Once it took almost 2 years. 2 YEARS! But it never fails. See, it's hardwired into their brains. You'll find the sweet spot between sectors dealing with vivid pornography, acquisition of housing and aged cheeses, and protection of big-headed babies and actresses (Pam Anderson and Angelina Jolie come to mind).

One or two gooey regions when pricked or stimulated - grow. That's the technical part.

The pinnacle moment? To observe him glassy-eyed, dumb, nose deep in fur for minutes, hours . . .then to barely hear those four little words (oh c'mon, SAY IT~!)

"I love you. Kitty."

Aaaaaaaaaagggghhhh!

He said he didn't like cats. He didn't want a fucking cat. But I told him I told him I told him I told him he'd change his mind. Left little toys around. Begged him to feed it, unhook it from the curtain, 'give her some of your blankie - it's cold'. Sucker. HAH. HAH HAH hah hah!

Doesn't work with sociopaths or dog lovers. Fuck 'em.

Rate My Kitten
i can has cheezburger
Sweet Tired Cat
there are 17 pages of google 'funny kitten' loads

Johnny Got His Gun Christmas

2007-12-06T13:29:00.001-08:00

There are lots of ways you can spend Christmas . . .

BULLSHIT! MRI's & How Things Work

2007-12-04T22:11:00.001-08:00

double-clicky this random pic for HOW THINGS WORK

Yesterday I had to get an MRI of my foot.

At least this time I got picked-up by the bus going up and back.
Last Friday, what with my all-weather army coat and the funky boot- cast I'm wearing, the driver looked at me, refused my board and left me standing there. I was at a medical center on the wealthier side of Pill Hill, but it's also the route that goes into the "rough side of town". The driver thought I was some no good crippled derelict and fled. I flipped her a long, stoic single-bird as she pulled-out. Left me to wait 45 minutes for the next bus. In a cast. It was 32 degrees out. Raining.

Sometimes Seattle has 'nil' dignity.

Sooo, the MRI is the test where they slide you into a big narrow tube that looks like a narrow concentration camp oven (in my mind - but I've heard worse descriptions). The super big donut shaped enclosure around you houses a HUGE jack-hammer of an electromagnet and some cooling bins. The giant magnet(s) travels up and over your cave-tube, back and forth, and charges all the molecular bits of the body part in question. It repositions them ever so slightly while a computer takes digitial pictures. Well it sort of does that, anyway, and reinterprets them in vivid black and white. PRESTO. Detailed slices of you.

It's so strong it will erase your credit cards as you walk by. It can pull a 25 lb oxygen tank from a gurney across the room "TTHHHWAACK". No metal allowed, plz. It will rip your hernia mesh out, and the steel plate in your head will CLUNK lock your face to the inside of the tube. Really. I've felt my amalgam dental fillings tingle, but that's about it.

I had to take a lot of pills to get through it, though. Not because of the concept or the claustrophobia, but the noise. Ach! I can't handle the super decibeled rhythm. It makes my M.S. brain wants to seize with it. WAY too intense. I start to quiver and geek out. But my helpful docs made sure I was super-chilled on a tiny bit of narc, beforehand. I was loaded for a full 8 hours. I think I was still high this morning (I used to have a hollow-leg for booze, but I get sick and totally on my lips with little doses of narcotics - brain disease thing).

Anyway, I told the tech ahead of time that I was loaded, and I'd taken ample precautions to get through smoooooothly. And the tech took the opportunity to teach me how the marker they taped to my foot for a reference point in the MRI (a vitamin E capsule) can also be taped to BREAST for MRI's. *It's the wave of the future, BREAST MRI's* He demonstrated several different ways this is done, and without actually touching me. Apparently, they can even tape a capsule right on the NIPPLE . . .

OK. I called-it. That's when I said to tech dude "WOW, B U L L S H I T ! About the boobs, I mean. Yesterday I watched BULLSHIT! You know, that TV show by Penn & Teller, and they talked about breasts and freedom to see 'em, and how getting exams for breast cancer is really really important, like, 'ya know?!"

All true, by the way.

I think tech dude jumped the shark. Maybe I looked seductive with a stupid cotton smock covering my ass, all relaxed and falling out of my waiting room chair, stoned on narc. (Vulnerability draws out the li'l predator in some folks). I had pinpoints for pupils, but I was laughing on the inside. Yeah, I can be both a-morally amused and fundamentally pissed at the same time. He took the hint with my Bullshit comment.

After that, he was even nicer to me. He let me stand around with him and the other techs until I got just the right radio station to listen to, find out the flood report in Carnation even though I lived 6 blocks away in downtown Seattle, and blah blah blah. . .I made him tuck me in, just-so, and explain it to me once more before sending me in the tube (this is the 6th MRI I've done). Then about 90 percent of the way through a perfect series, I made him stop the machine so he could help me go take a leak. I told him I could just pee right there, no really it's ok . . .

It messes them up, but when ya gotta go ya gotta go.

Don't fuck with me.

Boob faux pas aside, I got through fine. But he and the othertech were really serious at the end and it had nothing to do with me (yes, I walked to the restroom). But I'm a little worried what they saw taking the film. The look on their faces was rather grave.

Tomorrow I have a full-body nuclear bone scan. They will inject a radio isotope in my body and take a super x-ray of my skeleton to see if there are any other hot spots in addition to the mystery matter they found in my foot. I hope it's not cancer or scleraderma (that's where the tissue throughout the bod gets waxy and hardens until you die), or some other life-whacking immune disease that's causing my foot to hurt.

After feeling seriously sick for years, then got an MRI, docs told me I had terminal brain cancer until they figured out it was M.S. I'm no stranger to defending a Woody Allen-level of neurotic anxiety. I have to get up in 5 hours for this 4 hour bone scan thing.

BULLSHIT!

(Thanks for dropping-by all those episodes of Bullshit! this weekend, RS. Helped a LOT :)

Adult Diapers

2007-11-30T08:30:00.000-08:00

Nice Old Guy was out of diapers. Adult diapers.

This is unacceptable. When you gotta go, you gotta go.

It took an hour in phone calls to get the original order interpreted and the prescriptions faxed to the doctor, and then it hadn't been faxed by the diaper supplier, then blah blah blah. He'd already received a "size selection sample assortment," but he can't read the numbers to make phone calls telling them what fits him. In addition to that, his moderate hearing loss makes calls on his poor old broken phone a hassle . . .

I finally got a phone call through to a Nice Young Guy at the outsourced diaper supplier who understood old guy's plight. What a job, taking phone calls for diapers in your early 20's - he gets major points for that. Anyway, this Nice Young Guy worked an emergency delivery of some samples to cover Nice Old Guy until the motherload arrives. I mean the 140 diapers per month courtesy of State Medicaid programs. Adult diapers are too expensive to buy otherwise.

The guy who delivered the unmarked box was pretty cool too. He was surprised when I signed for it, then went-off on how crappy Starbucks Corporation was. WTF? Well, I was holding a generic coffee cup (full of Starbucks - fuck) and he went on about an overlord or union buster or something and how screwed things were getting. 10 minutes. Interesting.

All this just to get an old man some goddam diapers. GODDAM DIAPERS.

I'm not some hipster who can't put a diaper on unless it's for some kink (another blog another day) . Actually, I've had to wear them during bad bouts of MS. Like when I'm laughing at something utra creepy or funny on the phone, and my brain mis-cues my bladder.

MILFs wear diapers sometimes. I'm not a mom, but I hear pregnancy is a strain. Might have an impromptu piddle now and then. Not that big a deal. And feminine napkins are BLOOD diapers. Ewww! (Are you grossed out yet? If you are 12 or over this is old news. . .)

Actually, the worst part of diapers, besides the unshapely bulge and crinkly sound, is the "what if?" What if people knew I have to go to the bathroom more than usual. As if people worry about you and your potty all day. If we weren't in such a pseudo-sanitary society we'd give the fragrant part a "pass" every now and then. Oh no! I have to go to the bathroom unexpectedly so I take care of my shit and go on and have a life.

The fear is that you would be ab-normal. THAT YOU WOULD LOSE CONTROL over a function people have virtually ignored, except for finding a shady spot, for like 30,000 years!

It's a good Buddhisty exercise, wearing diapers. Hell, if everyone wore diapers and dropped acid (or meditated) instead of freaking on their anti-social Christmas buy-a-thons, it would change our perspective on everything.

Or you could become poor . . .

Getting Old Takes a Village, People

2007-11-28T01:24:00.001-08:00

Remember "nice old guy" who needed surgery? Just Lean Baby? Well the pseudo social work coup' coup'd!

No, I'm not a social worker. I just do what I can without busting all boundaries. We friends and family all worked together. And it turns out what I did was critical. And I saw some joy today. Tears of joy. Fuck me. What do I do with that?

For months, I played the scary-nice "bad cop" (topping from the bottom - born to do this) and leaned on overworked social systems in place: doctors, social workers, the state - and their paid assistants. Like I used to be. Shivvver.

It's not their fault they can't get to everything, sometimes for weeks, but when I returned from a meeting or hung-up the phone, it was all F and C-words from my lips.

(BTW, I'm not a bitch on this one. I did much of their work for them gratis. They are not bad, either. With the exception of a burned-out few, they are priceless members of the human race who are overworked and way underpaid for what they do. That said . . .)

I worked the bureaucratic end of it until the last minute, the last night, thinking WTF is everyone doing! Then the next day after surgery, other friends and family sprung him from the nursing home. He got his much needed surgery at the hospital and came straight home to his apartment to recover. Totally unexpected, but everything came together and worked-out. His HOME. Away from the shit food, all-night interruptions, deterioration, moaning and feces, isolation, temporary friendships interrupted by dementia and death (we called it the 'Gulag'). . .His return became a matter of life and death.

This is the American way now. Lots of calls, lots of paperwork, lots of haggling and some risk - all in exchange for quality of life. OR just life. Lot's of prep went into make sure the place was habitable and safe for his return. Finally got his programs going for home care, help with errands and chores, regular food and meals, help getting to the doctor, etc. Retained his identity as a living human being!

Along with some earned trust between all of us - and the powers that be - it got done. Even his doctor apologized for the bureaucracy that kept him in the nursing home 2 months too long. (Ain't those doctor apologies sweet!)

Nice old guy also got that much needed blood transfusion yesterday, and I haven't seen him look better. He's got some kind of life force that's unbelievable. More than all of that, whether or not he ever deserved it, his family is back in his court and practicing their unconditional love. Huh.

His time is short, but what better way to finish his story? Can't think of one in this case. Don't want to think about that 'til later. Now I'm crying.

Anyway, it gives me a little strength. I've been running on fumes this month.

Convincing People

2007-11-25T11:33:00.001-08:00

Convincing People by Throbbing Gristle.

We have an empire that decided to go forward in a state of war.

All systems I rely on to function are broken, unleashed to profiteer, or are cut to fund the war and internal control. I'll elaborate later.

I am really sick today. What can I do for money laying down? I have to keep moving through the pain. I hate being vulnerable. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

Corruption happens because it works when all other systems fail. It works badly.

Welcome to corruption in progress.

Happy Black Friday, Zombies

2007-11-24T01:17:00.001-08:00

It's Black Friday. Day after Thanksgiving when holiday shoppers go apeshit. I live in the thick of it. I crept out to Westlake Center to take some photos for the community paper. Lots of interesting people. Seasonal demonstrators. Bell ringers. Street preachers. Lots of consumption. Hmmph.

But Starbucks was giving away free coffee. I hid my camera and newspaper ID and cut in line for some hits. (I might get gently caned if some people found out how much big corporate coffee I drink. Not really, they're pretty nice) See, caffeine offsets some MS symptoms by making brain synapses fire better - and I can't afford the better $200 per month prescription (Medicare doesn't cover it). Besides, caffeine's tastier in mocha form.

Who am I kidding, I could give a fuck where it comes from when I need it. Alright. So what if I don't ask questions, and discretely supply charity Starbucks' day-olds and swig to low-income, sick, elderly people in my building. So what. Some hardly ever get any coffee or treats. A few fucking TREATS! No kidding. I'm out of food money, myself. Conundrum. Why am I grinding my teeth?

So anyway, there's these zombies demonstrating against the zombie-like mentality of corporate directed consumerism. Oh yeah, I forgot to mention that some goth chick at SBC coffee (owned by Starbucks) thought I was "cool" because I was going to the Zombies buy-nothing protest. So she gave me a discount on a triple mocha. It was a good deal, and I'm out of food money until December. But I needed it. Pitchforking my ass, the conundrums . . .

....................................................................................................................................................................
I went to my friend's company yesterday to get work because I'm out of money for food - and coffee. It's called "Zombie". They make military first-person-shooter video games. He trained me himself in some specialized game design skills this year - just so I could have a chance at a trade if my Social Security gets cut (War is Expensive). And I'm just too goddamn poor now. No violence is portrayed at the level of stuff I do, though I do know how to design bullet holes and stuff like that. Mostly I creep around taking photos of industrial sites then do grunt work to design textures that look realistic (couple of conundrums in there, and a dose of irony, too!)

I suppose some character from a foreign land could get shot through and splattered against a brick wall I made. Until I have it together to work on socially progressive "serious games", this might pay for those expensive medications I've replaced with copious amounts of coffee. Yeah, conundrums do fractal - or do they come in spheres? God I'm tired.
...................................................................................................................................................................

Ok. The buy-nothing zombies were made-up and ready to do their protest. A few were doing an impromptu Michael Jackson "Thriller" dance for themselves. It was pretty funny. I noticed they had this Frankenstein thing going-on. It was a little stiff (no pun intended). I told them I did video game and horror stuff and showed them how they could incorporate some pop-n-lock moves with their shoulder to make it look like it was dislocated. Draggy. Zombie-like. They dug it.

And the grand finale of the day's conundrum-load. After I got the picks I needed, my foot started to hurt like hell. Then it went half-stiff from the MS. Never happened so bad that it was visible - or that fucking painful. My foot started to drag then stiffened-up. For the first time, I couldn't really walk. I'm not kidding - MS sucks. It was getting kind of exaggerated with each step. Literally limping-home like a fucking zombie. It hurt so much I cried. Then I took some different drugs and more coffee and it settled-down.

I'm still gimping around at 4 a.m. I can't sleep from all of the coffee. Pee again? God my jaw hurts.

Bisexual Freak Out

2007-11-21T17:09:00.000-08:00

me at age 12 - what a flamer!

I'm bisexual.

It's 3 a.m. and someone's rearranging their furniture upstairs, so I'll write about this until I bore myself to sleep. Here's what I think about being a bisexual:

I've been bi since I can remember. Kindergarten maybe (there's some fun graffiti in my coloring books). Serious fantasies and crushes in Jr. High. I score right in the middle on the Kinsey scale. My stereotyped models are Frieda Kahlo, David Bowie, Michael Stipe of REM - as well as numerous ambiguous others. Turns out my father was bi.

I think bi's are all missing that mental curtain which divides and defines the gender you're supposed to romance. As a bisexual, I have a yet-unexplained "chemical spark" to the hardwiring - the one that sets-up straights for straight and homosexuals for homosexual. I can hardly comprehend the limitations of either of those orientations. They sound arbitrary to me. Huh, I must be bi.

I look at things differently than homosexuals and heterosexuals. To me, humans is humans and sex is sex. Contrary to popular belief, it's not about doing "everything that moves". It's about being attracted to a composite of someone's personal traits, for better or worse, plus the usual sexy points regardless of gender. And then you date, and then you might focus, and then you have a long-term relationship, and so forth.

Years ago, I asked an open-minded husband of mine what people probably thought of bisexuals. He said people might comprehend "gay" but they don't know what the hell to make of bi's. Superfreaks. Alien. Alright, there's some truth to that. I mean, the part about bi's being difficult to comprehend. It's not like bisexuals can be experimental young "straights" or "gays" forever. I suppose modern humans seek to accept multiple aberrations in each other as we mature, but paradoxes are always an effort to wrap our head around.

Even I, myself, get an odd feeling when a bona-fide bisexual enters the room. My antennae twitch. Suspicion or familiarity? I don't know. Both. To me, it feels like "Hmm, we have something in common, but I really don't know who the hell you are" I look for signs of instability or flakiness, then independence and strength. I suppose some of the vigilance comes from an ingrained notion that bisexuality is strictly curiousity-based - or just a meandering path to a happy gay ending. And this 'bi chic' trend with younger girls. Ugh. Figuring out what you are is great, but the idea that bisexuality will really impress a guy (albeit true, and rarely a dealbreaker) is a pretty insecure basis for hooking someone beyond sex. What a drag if you don't like it.

I'm extra cautious about bi guys, but it hasn't stopped me from dating a few of them. I still smoke 'em out for full-throttle "homo". I find them sympathetic and a little mysterious, but their boundary-pushing it isn't as novel to me as it used to be. Unfair, I know. And if they are new at it, they want to come to me for insights and sympathy. I'm not a queer man, I'm a queer woman. I don't want to live their awkwardness with them, and I'm not really interested in competing with their double-testosteroned guy-connections. I guess I like them best when they are securely bi, exciting, and just a tad distant. Maybe it's similar to how straight women enjoy homoerotic male themes in books or movies (c'mon, you know you do).

I suppose bi women are drawn to friendships with me and I to them, for the same reasons I am intrigued by bi guys. They're interesting. Kind of exciting. They generally permit themselves broader interests. They're more individually developed, and not as concerned with social conventions and affectations that hinder their well-being and accomplishment. There's no need to prove they are butch (relatively mannish) even if they are sort of butch. Lesbians, broadly speaking, are a little more annoying that way. It's also nice that bi women enjoy men as paramours. I relate to that. I'm not nearly as suspicious of bi women as bi men, because their motivations are as easy to smoke-out as any straight guys' when it comes to desire. Sounds petty, but it's true.

On to politics. I'm also out as gay. I figure it's my duty to be "out" in America, unless my life or my partner's would be in jeopardy. Because gay bashing and homophobia are real - I've experienced both - numbers do count. So I stand-up and get counted when the subject comes-up. That's all I have to say on that for now.

Finally, there are some interesting paradoxes with how I'm treated as a bisexual. It's actually my lesbian friends who've said "you're confused, you're just lesbian, someday you'll have to make a choice". Yeah well, I can't do the whole world, can I (whatever). I don't mean to diminish bi-racial issues by including them in my little dissertation, but I'm going to draw the parallel here. You can't really unwind biracial identity, as if it's a choice. Nor why should you. Same with bisexual orientation. In both cases you might choose stick with one companion of any identity, indefinitely because they're a mate. That's it.

In contrast to lesbian friends - and this is weird to me - everyone else suspected I was a little queer all-along. A guy's girl who liked guys. There I am dressing-up in drag even as I innocently practice making-out with my boyfriend "pillow". 25 years later, I'm still categorized with dope peddlers and thieves by my closest siblings. Homophobia is thicker than blood. *sigh*

Weird social politics aside, I'm fine and glad that I turned-out to be bisexual in America. Sometimes life seems slim due to the hand I was dealt. I thank the universe for the breadth of options it extended me with this one.

Her Majesty's Satanic Roll Call

2007-11-17T18:32:00.001-08:00

Have you ever listened to a rock song and said "SHUCKS. That song was really somethin'! How dey do dat?"

More likely it goes like this: (really long pause) . . "Whoaaaa. That was Fucking INCREDIBLE. They make a deal with the Devil or something?" (guffaw, guffaw, cough - silence)

Here's where I'd like to thank the Baptist Church
scare speaker circuit for introducing me to the fundamentals of rock music. I would NEVER have touched Led Zepplin, Black Sabbath, Alice Cooper, Frank Zappa, TheRolling Stones, RUSH, even earliest PUNK, during my formative glam years - were it not for them. True, I was already in-deep with the Beatles. (They are lords on the list, no question, but they get a whole blog to themselves.)

I'm not talking about my favorites though. Some is and some ain't. What I'm talking about is music that's so well put-together in it's time, it's "otherworldly". Here are a few for starters:

Hands-down, the all-time greatest could-it-be-satan inspired song is Led Zepplin's Stairway to Heaven.

As the story goes, they played this for first time in front of a live audience in 1971. It was a very long fantasy rock piece that closed on a single guitar "twang". The end. No claps, no ahhh's. Nothing. "Fuck, it's a dud," said the band, or whatever, until it was pointed out to them that the audience had been rendered speechless. It was that good. The lyrics alone keep will keep idle hobbit busy for another 40 years.

Black Sabbath and Ozzie Osbourne. Aside from the obvious satanic persona he cultivated, Osbourne was truly inspired. Started with 1970's Paranoid. It's was a murderous fast-driving tale which was dark as they came and so unlike anything prior - he had to have some kind of help (go figure). He burned-out. He's still burning out. Now it's his wife, Sharon, who wears the crown. THAT's where the power lies. She's from a music industry family. She's satanic the way Mick Jagger is satanic - inspired businessmen. Ozzfest didn't make them richer. You know how it happened. The comeback? the TV show? Hot Topic clothiers? . . . who'd have thunk it. Check out the Official Black Sabbath and Official Ozzy sites. All swag all of the time. She's a keeper, a gatekeeper, that is.

Deep Purple. All the current Nordic death metaliers (copyright that) have these dudes and their divine backing to thank. Back in '72 Deep Purple wrote a song about a bunch of loaded people and "some dumbshit with a flare-gun" who burns down their party house on a lake in Switzerland. That's it. But SMOKE ON THE WATER, what with its chord changes any Jr. Hi kid can play, has been a satanic entry-level favorite for years. Highway Star introduced the brilliant concept of a cocaine-driven soundtrack to the old trifecta of cars, girls and rock 'n roll. Drug use in excess continued to work throughout later punk ensembles, and up through today's pimped-up and lowered bling-bling-centric hip-hop. They call that a very long "arc"in the business.

Jethro Tull. I'm not the world's biggest Tull fan, but it smacks of satanic. Maybe I mean "Pan-tanic". It begins with meandering flute solos and rennaissance-y twills. YES and the group Emerson Lake and Palmer went there too. But old and new progressive rock can't be satanic. Bands like MUSE shout against the satans of today's world. I declare progressive rock is Chthulu. That's a whole other night's writing. Anyway, the heavy ground they cover belies the relaxed revelry of Tull. Sitting on top of the music are stories of characters like the broken old pervert "Aqualung" who watches "Pretty Penny's" (little girls) and child prostitue"Cross-Eyed Mary" (an innocent) . . . the early list of 'types is long. Too Old to Rock 'N Roll, Too Young to Die! arrived in '76 with a D.C. comics style record jacket that fortold the future of pop culture. It's a rock opera story of a burn-out who is snuffed in a motorcycle crash, reanimated and revives to the same old social crap. It's as good a tale as any Pekar or Clowes graphic novel. So don't let the hippie-shit fool you. Leaping "prog" gnome Ian Anderson has some hard, compelling comprehension of human existence. Maybe that's not Satanic, just prophetic. My head hurts from thinking.

Back to what we know. The Rolling Stones Sympathy for the Devil. Not my favorite song, but their period voodoo bayou rhythm backed lyrics which are still unbeatable. Mick Jagger was an intellectual who could've competed with Richard Branson for world business domination. Instead he continued down the Left-handed path of rock - and did nearly as well! Satanic. In Sympathy', the narrator gives us a quick classical history of the world and his frequent popular appearances. Best parts are "rode a tank, Held a generals rank, When the Blitzkrieg raged And the bodies stank," "Who killed the Kennedy's? After all it was YOU and me," (sad milestone and a huge diversion). Finally, the great reveal - "Just call me Lucifer. . .'cause I'm in need of some RESTRAINT" and the chant "what's my name, what's my game" over and over. I'd call that both inspired and clairvoyant.

The Tokens The Lion Sleeps Tonight (1961), re-released by Robert John in '71. Church doesn't get credit for this one. It's deceptively clean, though really weird. There's this t old star-trekky vibretto and (shhhh) WHITE PEOPLE SANG IT. I didn't know this until I watched another PBS Doo-Wap special this summer. It's satanic how well PBS brings back these old fossils to pull-off a really, really good show. Inspired. Of course they also have Roy Orbison at the Coconut Grove 20 years ago (satanic - you can tell by the black clothing). That will play in their pledge drives for eternity . Eh, I digress.

Anyway, tlst is an off-tempo little African ditty about a quiet village that can sleep because the lion is knocked-out for the night. Let's overlay that song with REAL EVIL among us. Africa is a huge living hell in many respects. Contemporary genocide in Rwanda, Darfur . . . A LION IN THE VILLAGE? (I watched Tears of the Sun last night. Don't mess with my pattern-matching, *sniff*) .

Holy Crap, I manufactured that last coincidence out of my ass. Shit, maybe I'm satanic. Look what I just found : The Lion Sleeps Tonight and Pete Seeger (famous musician activist)

CHAKA

more later . . .

The Kids Are Alright

2007-11-16T16:07:00.000-08:00

photo by Uta Urban
-click to enlarge-

Now you're speaking our language . . .

Seattle students walk-out of school to march against the War in Iraq.

THX Got a Method

2007-11-13T14:15:00.000-08:00

Gonna spoil it bad.

In George Lucas' famous dystopian film "THX-1138", our hero "Tex" (get it, "THX") is a corporate drone who DOES NOT take the pill in order to find his soul. After dreadful retributions from the system for this dissentful act, he flees the Orwellian bubble that hyper-regulated society has become.

In one famous scene, he 'jacks a car and tries to outdrive government proto-stormtroopers on their bitchen' motorcyles. Great high-speed tunnel chase.

But he crashes. Heads to the edge of the "city" on foot.

All along, central systems control monitors the progress of the chase: cost in robolives, time, machinery. In the last 5 minutes of the movie, THX has managed to climb up the internal ladder of an industrial storage tank (roof of the city) with highly-persistent robocops on his ass. Suddenly they stop and turn back. Only one thing saves him in the end -

They run out of money.

Hidden Costs Raise US War Price (BBC NEWS 11.13.07)

Arthur's Lair

2007-11-10T11:25:00.001-08:00

Shalom!

These pics just don't do it justice. 27 old TV's wired together with equalizers, Metallica and Pdiddy showing in multiples, Star of David's and cherubs everywhere, copious red and yellow and blue and green lights, sparking plasma orbs, mirrors on the ceiling, mirrors on the wall, MANY DISCO BALLS . . .

Interestingly, there is more juice running through my computer and nuking my snacks than power this whole show. In their HUD RAGE last month, management told him to take it down.

Friends did the research and put a stop to that. It meets fire code and then some. If the mirrors on the ceiling fall down on his head, it's his own damn fault.

It shall rock forth.

Ed and Arthur

2007-11-10T09:34:00.000-08:00

Ed and Arthur are friends I've made in the apartments. We all hang-out at each others places to chill, socialize, talk about this and that. It's the virtual equivalent of sitting on the stoop with beer and a cigarette.

Ed is a retired Naval submariner who stayed very high-tech. One day while working at Hewlett-Packard, he bent down to pick-up a pencil and his lungs blew out. Emphysema. He's from one of those old neighborhoods in Hoboken, NJ. Tough, educated, intelligent, cosmopolitan - he has real gravitas. You want to learn about anything from Plato to Shinto, just talk to him. We both like music from the CBGB's scene, war history and interesting people. He likes Anime and ancient Japanese culture. We laugh that we have half of each others crap decorating our apartments.

Arthur is the local romantic. Very tall, gentle and incredibly strong, and always in search of peace. Several years ago he found stability and friendship in this community. We call on him to move the heavy stuff for us cripples, a cottage industry around here. He has a thing for big women. They are his Achilles heel, but he's never alone. He also identifies with the Jewish faith and has some MTV style video performance "happening" in his 12' x 14' studio apartment. It's outrageous. Cooler than any nightclub I've ever seen. He likes forthright, respectful, friendly people. I was honored when he let me crawl around and photograph his lair last week.

These are 2 guys I'd pick to watch my back, anytime. In essence, they do that here. We are equals.

Sleepy Jean or Low Income Housing

2007-11-09T03:25:00.001-08:00

You have a choice.

Here's a non-sequitir video of The Monkees dressed as Pirates (!) while they sing "Daydream Believer". That's what I feel like right now. Monkees dressed like pirates singing Daydream Believer, I mean. Tonight's going to be rough. I don't feel so hot.

I tried thinking about all the good things that have happened to me in the past couple of years, but I burned-out. So I might as well vent about low-income housing and HUD.
______________________________________________________________________

I got out of a slum when I was sick because of HUD sponsored housing. For that I'm grateful. But the logic and the redirection of funds during this war state is distressful, to say the least.

(Oh yeah, HUD - sounds like C.H.U.D. - is an American acronym for Housing and Urban Development. HUD is the government program that subsidizes the difference between the going market rate for rent that a landlord could collect, and the reduced portion paid by a low-incomed tenant. It's all regulated, but the landlord gets units filled and paid at the going rate, and the tenant gets a much needed break in rent.)

It's gestapo on the renter's end here sometimes. Budget cuts everywhere for the war affect disabled and elderly first, without prejudice (I'm tired of hearing about that goddam $3 gas, by the way)

In my place, for instance . . .

There are internal cameras and an average of 2 apartment inspections required of everyone each month - in lieu of regular management. 3 privately contracted agencies $$$ do the work of 1 HUD. This is not unique.

Resident concerns about management or administrative errors are handled by the management or HUD subcontractors that represent management. The management will inform the resident of the outcome. They even have a big poster of a castle in the lobby which says we are not run like a fiefdom or some crap like that - like we have representation. I've been through this with them and it is a goddam fiefdom. What gets done here that doesn't involve major repair, we do ourselves for the most part. Unlike a fiefdom, that includes most security and welfare issues as well.

If HUD has an accounting difference with a landlord over accounting involving a tenant, HUD will collect cash first from the tenant then permit the tenant to appeal at a later date. HUD rules.

HUD management is shared with unrelated buildings at 15 hours each per week. Some buildings will use any warm body that's employed with the state to meet the average 3 hours a day supervision.

The health and safety ordinances are frequently ignored or broken - especially with regards to the elevators and the fire exits. We were trapped in the elevator several times yesterday until we introduced maintenance to the problem of being trapped inside the elevator. Luckily I can still kick a door open. They were grateful and it got repaired. I give it a week before it breaks down again.

(Tenants avoid complaining even about minor repairs for fear of retribution. I've seen people in danger ignored by security until we had the fire chief or police contact them during an event. Lame.)

Worst of all, the Section 8 program opens and shuts erratically while HUD apartments sit empty in disrepair, in excess of 20% at many HUD buildings downtown. People without homes will start freezing outside in about 3 weeks.

We are at war. Indeed. It sucks first for poor people outside in the streets, then inside, veteran and non-veteran, sick, elderly, and people living through the vulnerable state of being that comes with poverty. So we clique-up to care for each other as we're able.

If some security officer would look the other way about people who are homeless as well as they do sick residents, or elderly residents who lost their key, or resident corpses - at least our stairwells could be warm to some quiescent person for a night. It's not optimal, but I'm betting on it.

(In all fairness, not all of the management or security or maintenance are that bad. They do the best they can, given the system. Another blog, another night)

Ok, I'm going to sleep in my warm bed and do the Seattle Passive Compassionate Buddhisty thing. Instead of counting sheep, I'm going to think about every single person who isn't sleeping in a bed. That should fill 2,000 nights here, for starters.

No offense to dedicated Buddhists. Where's my tylenol? Where's kitty?

V V V Happy Guy Fawkes Day, USA V V V

2007-11-05T18:44:00.000-08:00

Americans don"V for Vendetta" masks to make a point:

The UNITED STATES CONSTITUTION is actually being rewritten as we speak - and that's not a secret.

Here's whats been reworked so far:

The Defense Authorization Act of 2006 empowers the President to impose martial law in the event of a terrorist incident.
The National Defense Authorization Act of 2007 permits the President to command National Guard troops without the consent of state governors.
The National Security and Homeland Security Presidential Directive gives the President dictatorial powers in the event of a “catastrophic incident.”
The Military Commissions Act suspends the writ of habeas corpus.

Civil Rights Lost Since 9/11/2001:

Defense Authorization Act of 2006: Empowers the President to impose martial law in the event of any incident deemed by the President to be an act of terrorism.
National Defense Authorization Act of 2007: Permits the President to command National Guard troops without the consent of state governors. Overturns the Posse Comitatus Act separating police and military powers and further expands the President’s power to declare martial law.
National Security and Homeland Security Presidential Directive: Gives the President dictatorial powers in the event of a “catastrophic incident.”
Military Commissions Act: Suspends the writ of habeus corpus, a legal action that ensures a person can seek relief from unlawful detention.
Executive Order on 7/17/2007: Those who dissent against the invasion and occupation of Iraq may now have their assets seized.
Protect America Act: Gives Presidential authority to wiretap calls to the U.S. without court oversight, forces telecom companies to hand over records without warrants.
Presidential Signing Statements: have nullified laws passed by Congress over 1,000 times.

Here's a ditty on Guy Fawkes Day as it relates to TODAY Harper's Magazine

"I wish I wasn't afraid all the time, but... I am"
Evie Hammond, "Vendetta"

Happy Guy Fawkes Day, UK

2007-11-05T18:05:00.000-08:00

Brits watch a traditional Guy Fawkes Day bonfire, on a screen , in lieu of real fireworks - for "safety's sake".

Ach! the irony . . .

thank you NYTimes

Who's Guy Fawkes and what does he have to do with the movie "V" for Vendetta?

Pro Mime

2007-11-03T22:53:00.001-07:00

I was a mime for awhile when I was 8. Did "the shrinking box" "carried away by the kite" "blowing-up balloons" etc. Got to wear cool black bell-bottoms and face paint. I dug it.

Serendipitously, I found this creative cool video of "Mummenshanz" performing on the Muppet Show in '76. I dig it now, but seeing them pull their faces-off all eerie-like would've scared me shitpants back then.

Worse-off the Corpse, Better the Remodel

2007-11-02T13:15:00.001-07:00

I'm downsizing my humble 1-bedroom for a humble studio. See, they finally fixed the plumbing without ripping the wall out, but not before I grabbed the opportunity to take-over the very deceased Mr. Sanchez'” little place down the hall.

I have some good reasons for moving down the hall to the little apartment, but to people who say it’s a rip-off (same rent) I tell “hey, they took his body out and brought the biohazard cleaners before they ever remodeled the unit. Carpeted it (no one has carpet), new fixtures, and a new refrigerator that's less than 25 years old. That’s a low-income housing coup.”

See, Mr. Sanchez, a quiet non-English-speaking man, died slowly of systemic heart failure one weekend in May, 2005. His body lay decaying, full of gas, maggots, bacterium in 80 degree weather for 2 months. 2 freakin’ months. Our 'low-income housing for disabled and elderly' administrators missed this - despite reports about the smell "it's just the garbage chute" and lack of rent. And nobody thought that his schizophrenic neighbor "Killing Fields" was talking about REAL flies and worms crawling out from under the door into our hallways.

Here’s a Tip: Listen closely to what schizophrenics have to say. There's a pretty good thread in there. "Killing Fields" talked crazy and pulled-out the occasional machete, but he didn't miss much. Turns out he survived Pol Pot's Khmer Rouge in 1975. He knew what was up.

Anyway, I'm not concerned about the creepiness of it anymore. It's been awhile. The place has alright "vibes". Besides, other residents and I tried get help for Mr. Sanchez before he passed-away. We were just responding to the pull-cord alarm he set-off from his apartment. We had no knowledge of his condition like upper management did. Afterward, I addressed the management on his behalf and other neglected corpse issues here (another blog another day). They fired the dissident administration who agreed it was gross. Got me nowhere, but it’s in print and stored with friends that have more clout than I, at this time.

If there is Karma, Mr. Sanchez moved-on a long time ago and we're square. If there's something else to it, then his ghost should be leaving mints on my pillow at bed-time - and that’s all.

Mr. Toad's Wild Ride

2007-10-30T15:16:00.000-07:00

Virtual Toad 10/2007

I grew-up near Disneyland, California. It was a devastatingly creative wonderland when it arrived on the scene in 1955. By the 70's it was a full-throttle psychedelic trip. I loved the Pirates of the Carribean (before they removed the red-hot hooker), the Haunted House's marvelous camera-projected ride-alongs, the clackety Matterhorn mountain all wookie-fied with Sasquatch in '78 (very hip), and the Main Street Electric Light Parade. Altogether, the stuff of LSD trips for 3 generations.

I only remember being deeply freaked-out as a kid by Mr. Toad's Wild Ride. Built in '71, it was a loosely-based on a Wind in the Willows storybook. A dapper frog takes a crazy jalopy ride through 1910 England. Another Disneyfied funhouse. It was in the little kids rides section of the park, not even an E-Ticket excursion, yet all I remember was full-tilt, frenetic, conceptual, technicolor sensory assault. Maybe I was sub-autistic or something. Who knows. I never read the books. I didn't "get" it. It scared me shitpants.

So there it is. 6 years old, pre-wired by a violent home life and a heaping dose of fundamentalist mythos. Just strap me into a rickety freakshow ride with no controls whatsoever and see where it goes. Nice one for the data banks.

That screwy jalopy made erratic 120 degree turns through black light tunnels, busted straight-through barn doors, drove through mansions, farmhouses, dark forests, gangs of keystone cops . . . strobed lightning and thunder, TNT blasts going-off everywhere (the signs literally said ka-BOOM! DANGER). The whole out-of-control mess culminated in a head-on with a train.

Then I was in deep. Mr. Toad goes to CHRISTIAN HELL. I didn't even know, yet, what Santaria or Vodouin or Zoroastrianism had to offer. Nothing could be worse. Like "Panic Weed," it freaked-me-out badly.

(Panic Weed, a.k.a. Panic Pot is when marijuana paradoxically activates a strong negative "trip". It's a"ZSHOOMP ZSHOOMP ZSHOOMP ZSHOOMP, steel-bands-strappin'-me-down-to-the-couch, man, I'm- gonna-DIE!" panic attack)

I don't remember how 'Toad got out of it. Maybe he drove-through. Despite a campaign to keep the ride open, Michael Eisner permanently ended his trip in '98. Coincidentally, that's the year The Matrix changed cultural history and I fell further into virtual reality. Physics, math, and doing things left handed, just for a change , just made sense (no one heard my brain quietly remapping itself around brain lesions - yet). I had my first panic attack, developed agoraphobia then took a crazy marine taxi driver as a regular lover and paid chauffeur. I also started seeing Christian metaphysics differently - "In my father's house there are many mansions. If there were not I would have told you ". . . John 14:2.

Fuck. Nothing is new.

Discordian Pink Unicornian

2007-10-26T17:27:00.000-07:00

When I was ten, a visiting pastor at our church said "I want you to think about pink elephants. Got it? Ok. You're never going to forget this image"

Fucker. 25 years later and his object-lesson still pops up, though I can't remember what this had to do with the Bible.

Until I finish moving my stuff to my new pad tonight, here's another satirical religious icon you'll forget. Eventually. Invisible Pink Unicorn

Fawning Retard

2007-10-19T23:56:00.001-07:00

'M', my ex-husband, companion, best friend (let's just say we're reorganizing) is a quadriplegic. He sits in a chair like Stephen Hawking, and holds court like Aristotle speaking at a college book store. Our fat kitty-cat's feet need never touch the ground, as he's her personal chauffeur. I think he is just grand, but the differences in the way we do things is - well - irreconcilable.

I hope we are friends forever.

Anyway, that said, and after 3 years together, I'd like to address some issues I have with the visibly wretchedly crippled.

People who are physically disabled in wheelchairs get breaks. They get to be late to appointments. People hold them up as shining examples of humanity when they accomplish the mundane like using mouthwash before sex. Even better if they can crack-out a diploma or draw some good art with their teeth or toes or claw. They get bumped to the head of the line all the time, and even the rush hour metro bus will wait for them to catch-up and get on. People bring them goodies and stuffed animals and put stickers on their chairs because they are "ageless". Non-afflicted friends get them comped into everything, and someone will always pick up their tab at a restaurant if they can't afford it. I've seen a well-to-do cripple or two offered money on the street, just because. Oh yeah, people assume they're all computer programmers, while they figure I'm some weirdo flake because I can still walk. Hmph.

I get little twinges of jealousy because I don't get the kind of attention 'M' does. I "pass". Hey, I'm out there hoofin' it, living with an incurable progressive brain disease, permanently exhausted, half "thick" all the time without some major drugs. . . and all I hear is "but you look so goooooooooood". Meanwhile, wheelchair guy gets to sleep through whatever, and no one says a thing.

A couple of months ago 'M' was in another fluff piece for the Seattle Times. Again. (He's poster boy for super disabled man makes good). I looked at the photo. I was, like, dude! What's with this? You're zippin' along but your head is cocked way to the side. And the dumbass grin!"

"You mean that picture that makes me look like a fawning retard?"

I laughed so hard I almost peed.

The other day 'M' told me some guy passing him said, "Hey, I want a ride like that (brief pause) - uh no I don't". Nice.

Last month he called me from an ambulance "Hiiiii, I fucked-uuup". I just said hand the phone to the medic. Catapulted out of the chair onto 4th Avenue? Unconcious for how long? Yes he should know who I am, by now. Ok. I'll meet him at the hospital.

Hours later, there we are inside his very own ER room, him on the bed waiting for a CT scan, me trying to get comfortable on a doctor's swivel stool. After analyzing whether or not we had prolonged the agony by calling his parents to come down there, debating whether the male nurse was gay or in a rock band, and what his wishes were if he should drop into a coma (fucking stupid) - I thought about how much I really wanted to lay down and rest for a very long time.

Then I thought about things some more, shut the door and said "Hey, want a hand-job?"

Can't get out of bed - Can't get laid?

2007-10-17T11:02:00.000-07:00

The guy in the next apartment, crotchety old fucker, is shouting at the top of his lungs. He does this every week or so. This morning I could actually make out what he is saying . . .

"FUUUUUUUCK" "I CAN'T GET OUT OF BED"

Crotchety Fucker (not that old, he's just crotchety) got a neuromuscular disease in his 30's. His legs are strapped down so they won't buck and he keeps his arms close-in in his motorized chair.

4 days earlier - the manager's office: "Do you know what these notes are about, Uta?"

They found some notes left by Crotchety Fucker's door over the last several months. Really vivid porno stuff. But the handwriting and spelling were perfect. I think it's some disgruntled ex or mad neighbor trying to set-him-off. Nice burn. I thought they were funny, if somewhat sad, and left them there. Neighbor can report them if he wants, but I'm not making that my biz. I'm not going to add to his shame and frustration. Maybe he even likes getting the notes. It's Better Than Nothing.

I think on it a minute, though. Last winter someone got in his apartment and ripped off his cards, keys, etc. Turned-out to be a young psychotic girl who hooks then crashes in odd places in the building when it gets cold. She was hitting on other neighbors, ripping things off, became visibly pregnant then disappeared. Last month I heard a different strange woman shouting at his door. She didn't quit. I figured it was a disgruntled ex. She disappeared.

Conflict-avoidant manager gets my attention again. "He said some neighbor left it" "I checked his paperwork" "It's might be his own handwriting". "We can't have soliciting."

Fuck, that's sad - and resourceful. If it didn't introduce a whole list of other complications like pandering, theivery, drug mules, predators - I'd give him a hand.

Now I start crying because I can move my legs, today anyway, and I'm equally pissed and almost as frustrated. You're on your own for now. Shout away, buddy.

Lines in Nature - as heavy as ya wanna be

2007-10-12T00:06:00.000-07:00

Describe a Line in Nature
(Ripped-off my own homework from art class today)

This is a little abstract, but I see the horizon on the Pacific Ocean every single day. They say what we "look at" is a fixed distance from us, that the earth curves approximately every 10 miles. Supposedly, that's about how far we see before images on the water distort or disappear from view (true of land too). That distance, plus atmospheric and weather changes causes the line of the horizon to distort as well. That's my Left brain talking.

The Right brain perceives a plethora of differences in the horizon line of the ocean without naming it - a horizontal Pure Line, sometimes a Lost and Found Line, a Broken Line, sometimes an absence of the line (as clouds gradient into ocean) - but it's never a perfect division between sun and sky in realistic drawings - only in graphic representations. The curve of the earth isn't really allowed for, either.

I can tell you from surfing and reading the ocean in Los Angeles and Seattle all my life, it changes all the time. On clear waveless days, the glassy ocean ends with a sharp bright edge on the horizon, especially at sunset. That's when the thin lined horizon has an electric quality and bold color. In stormy weather, even without rain or squalls approaching, there is a fuzziness to the line and it's thick, uneven and multicolored with neutrals, grays, whites. In fog, or low clouds, the horizon and the line are gone. The bottom of the cloudbank is the closest you get to a horizon line. During a heatwave, the distortion of the atmosphere makes the horizon "wiggle" a bit. It's "sketchy" and light colored with white highlights.

I never though about it in terms of drawing. It was just a line. But it has a lot of variations considering it's probably the closest thing to a natural straight line in nature I can think of. I can also tell you that even touristy Sunset Paintings, reproduced ad nauseum, know how to depict these variations quite well.

FRESHMAN ART CLASS RAWKS !

2007-10-10T22:13:00.001-07:00

"Cities"
Torn-up pieces of Mainstream Magazines and Newspapers

To enlarge, Click on it

I who have nothing bring you KLAUS NOMI !!!

2007-10-10T03:50:00.001-07:00