Third grade boy- "You look like that actor." Me- "What actor?" Third grade boy- "He's in that movie, uh I can't remember the name of it, but he got shot. You look like him." Third grade girl- "Yeh he does." It's been a couple of months, since I've done any substitute teaching. I wasn't in the mood to teach today. The teacher didn't leave a lesson plan. I let the kids draw for a few hours, while I tried to stay awake. One girl said, "Mr. Greene, so and so said you are falling asleep." I said. "Tell her she's only imagining it." The two stared at me, and didn't respond.
I worked at Nickelodeon from 1994-2001. I did have a year in between in Seattle. I used to say Nickelodeon was a studio of has beens along with up and coming or likely to disappear types. All kinds drifted in and out the studios. One day between shows, a couple of guys were on the sound stage doing some measuring, talking about where sets would go and some other stuff that I didn't catch. I noticed that one of the guys was a grown up Malcolm Jamal Warner, of Cosby Show fame. My friend Steve R. was staring at him, and finally says, "You look so fucking familiar." Warner replied, "Maybe from the Cosby Show." Steve replies, "No, what high school did you go to?"
Another time we had some magician on the show. He was supposedly famous. I don't know. He asked for a couple of prop guys to do something. Steve and I were sent over to help. The guy was very anal, I wanted to leave. He pulls out a bunch of paper work, and asked us to sign a release. Steve R.- "What's this for?" Magician- "I want you to sign this so that you don't give away any of my secrets." Steve- (laughing) "I can't even remember what I had for breakfast."
Tonight I may run into Steve at Taste restaurant along with some of the crew from Nickelodeon. It's the scene of a fundraiser for Brian our friend, who also worked at Nickelodeon and is still hospitalized. I don't want to be overly speculative on his condition, but I'm hopeful. There are signs that seem good, he's opened both of his eyes, but still in a coma. He has slight fever too along with pneumonia. I don't know what all of this pieced together means. I feel like the assessment must be much more complicated than that.
It's nice to see the old crew, but I wish the circumstances were different.
Tuesday, December 18, 2007
Sunday, December 16, 2007
We've Got A Bicycle To Build
I was in Miami for twelve days, working at one of the Art Basel parallel events for a group of art dealers out of New York. I'm still trying to process the experience. I'm working on putting an art show together, probably in April. Some of the artists are people that I came into contact with in Miami.
Housing wasn't provided while I was in Miami. I stayed with my father two nights in Ft. Lauderdale, with Rat Bastard the night of the free Iggy and the Stooges show on the beach. The night before Rat played at Churchill's for free with the Stooges sax player Steve Mackay. I also stayed in a motel on Biscayne Blvd., a few blocks from Churchill's. Jane recommended it. It was cheap, spartan and maybe a little sketchy. Jane provided these disclaimer's before hand. I was looking for a place that would be unaffected by Art Basel. The first few nights, I stayed in the basic $41 a night room, yes I said $41. After staying there a couple of nights the woman at the front desk asked me if I would be interested in an upgrade, for $46 I could get a room with a king size bed. I took it. After getting my first good nights sleep in weeks, I spent a few minutes trying to get the door open. I told the woman at the front desk that they need to tighten up the door handle, she said she would send someone over at 3PM. She also suggested that I leave all my valuables in the car, just in case. "I can't vouch for the locksmith's honesty." Later that night when I tried the door, I thought it doesn't feel loose anymore. It's fixed. The next morning the door wouldn't open, after a few minutes I called the front desk and said I'm locked in the room. A crew arrived within what seemed like a minute. They were trying to pry it open, then the old Asian guy who is part of the family that runs the place yells something to me in a strong accent. I didn't understand him at first, "What?" I asked. "Mister, get away from the door!" I stepped back, the door handle came flying across the room, he'd hit it with a hammer. He still needed a pry bar to get in. I was twenty minutes late for work.
I mentioned I saw Iggy. I also saw Deerhoof, Gang Gang Dance for free, different nights. I missed Japanther. Ariel Pink played downtown for $15.
I got comps for Rat and his girlfriend Veronica for the Deerhoof show. They brought Steve Mackay with them. The show was $15 for people that weren't comped. It was a benefit for an unnamed art museum in New York. It was $200 to get in at 4PM, the price gradually went down every hour or so. At 8:30 it was down to $15. The early $200 were collectors or dealers. The $15 were mostly indie-rockers there to see Deerhoof. The lady at the door works with the museum in NYC. She couldn't find Frank Falestra a.k.a. Rat Bastard or Veronica on the list. My bosses forgot to put their names on the list. I was trying to explain as the rigid woman third degreed Rat and Veronica. Veronica then deadpans, "Have you tried looking under the name Rat Bastard?" Rigid woman didn't find any humor in this, and maybe she wasn't supposed to. Rigid woman is probably unaware of the legend of Rat Bastard. I eventually talked the woman into letting them in.
I got back to Orlando around midnight last Monday. I had barely checked my email for the past couple of weeks. Tuesday morning I went through my emails. Katie Ball sent out an email saying that a good friend, Brian Maguire had been in a motorcycle wreck and is in a coma. A couple hours later Aaron my insurance agent/friend/former and possibly future bandmate called me. He said Brian isn't expected to make it. Aaron was choked up. I started to feel the tears, I felt like I'd lost control of my vocal chords. Brian, may be the best person on the planet. I know you always hear things like that at a time like this. A little over ten years back, Brian gave me his pick up truck. Judith, his girlfriend at the time and a longtime friend of mine, said, "I can't believe you gave the truck to Pat, we could've made some money. Brian-"Hey, Pat's my friend." Judging by the crew at the hospital waiting to see him and the crew at his benefits, everyone is his friend.
I had called Brian before I went to Miami. I asked if he would be interested in working at Art Basel, he said he wanted to take it easy. We talked about building a bicycle when I returned. He said he has a bunch of bicycle parts. He's been building bikes for years. I hope we get to build that bike together someday. He opened an eye yesterday, when a nurse touched him. I suggested that she needs to touch him more. We've got a bicycle to build.
Housing wasn't provided while I was in Miami. I stayed with my father two nights in Ft. Lauderdale, with Rat Bastard the night of the free Iggy and the Stooges show on the beach. The night before Rat played at Churchill's for free with the Stooges sax player Steve Mackay. I also stayed in a motel on Biscayne Blvd., a few blocks from Churchill's. Jane recommended it. It was cheap, spartan and maybe a little sketchy. Jane provided these disclaimer's before hand. I was looking for a place that would be unaffected by Art Basel. The first few nights, I stayed in the basic $41 a night room, yes I said $41. After staying there a couple of nights the woman at the front desk asked me if I would be interested in an upgrade, for $46 I could get a room with a king size bed. I took it. After getting my first good nights sleep in weeks, I spent a few minutes trying to get the door open. I told the woman at the front desk that they need to tighten up the door handle, she said she would send someone over at 3PM. She also suggested that I leave all my valuables in the car, just in case. "I can't vouch for the locksmith's honesty." Later that night when I tried the door, I thought it doesn't feel loose anymore. It's fixed. The next morning the door wouldn't open, after a few minutes I called the front desk and said I'm locked in the room. A crew arrived within what seemed like a minute. They were trying to pry it open, then the old Asian guy who is part of the family that runs the place yells something to me in a strong accent. I didn't understand him at first, "What?" I asked. "Mister, get away from the door!" I stepped back, the door handle came flying across the room, he'd hit it with a hammer. He still needed a pry bar to get in. I was twenty minutes late for work.
I mentioned I saw Iggy. I also saw Deerhoof, Gang Gang Dance for free, different nights. I missed Japanther. Ariel Pink played downtown for $15.
I got comps for Rat and his girlfriend Veronica for the Deerhoof show. They brought Steve Mackay with them. The show was $15 for people that weren't comped. It was a benefit for an unnamed art museum in New York. It was $200 to get in at 4PM, the price gradually went down every hour or so. At 8:30 it was down to $15. The early $200 were collectors or dealers. The $15 were mostly indie-rockers there to see Deerhoof. The lady at the door works with the museum in NYC. She couldn't find Frank Falestra a.k.a. Rat Bastard or Veronica on the list. My bosses forgot to put their names on the list. I was trying to explain as the rigid woman third degreed Rat and Veronica. Veronica then deadpans, "Have you tried looking under the name Rat Bastard?" Rigid woman didn't find any humor in this, and maybe she wasn't supposed to. Rigid woman is probably unaware of the legend of Rat Bastard. I eventually talked the woman into letting them in.
I got back to Orlando around midnight last Monday. I had barely checked my email for the past couple of weeks. Tuesday morning I went through my emails. Katie Ball sent out an email saying that a good friend, Brian Maguire had been in a motorcycle wreck and is in a coma. A couple hours later Aaron my insurance agent/friend/former and possibly future bandmate called me. He said Brian isn't expected to make it. Aaron was choked up. I started to feel the tears, I felt like I'd lost control of my vocal chords. Brian, may be the best person on the planet. I know you always hear things like that at a time like this. A little over ten years back, Brian gave me his pick up truck. Judith, his girlfriend at the time and a longtime friend of mine, said, "I can't believe you gave the truck to Pat, we could've made some money. Brian-"Hey, Pat's my friend." Judging by the crew at the hospital waiting to see him and the crew at his benefits, everyone is his friend.
I had called Brian before I went to Miami. I asked if he would be interested in working at Art Basel, he said he wanted to take it easy. We talked about building a bicycle when I returned. He said he has a bunch of bicycle parts. He's been building bikes for years. I hope we get to build that bike together someday. He opened an eye yesterday, when a nurse touched him. I suggested that she needs to touch him more. We've got a bicycle to build.
Tuesday, November 27, 2007
Thanksgiving
When I was eleven years old we left Cleveland and my father. My mother and brother are the other two thirds of we. Last week my mother said, "you know Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday."
My father had asked my mother to wire some money to him so he could see the scandalous Oh Calcutta! in New York. I think everyone was naked in Oh Calcutta!. We knew he wasn't attending alone. We were aware that he had other women. My father had relocated us to Cleveland from Detroit, after losing his corporate job in Detroit. He was arrested for writing some ungodly amount of bad checks. I think he did about eight months in the state prison. He says the state prisons are much worse than the federal prison's.
My mother worked about three low paying jobs while my parents pretended that my father was in the Army. He was allegedly in a supply unit in Thailand, that was a support unit for another unit in Vietnam, during the Vietnam war. My brother and I remember letters from my father, read to us by my mother, about life in Thailand, the beautiful jungles, the breathtaking Watts, beatific people and other stuff that could be picked out of a Fodor's travel guide.
My mother says my father never wrote us. My father says he doesn't remember any details. He normally has a good memory.
Tension was building in our unhappy household. I learned later that I get along with my father when I don't expect anything out of him. Maybe I learned this from the Thai people.
After his release my father was reading Playboy religiously, watching Hee Haw and going to the Catholic church almost every day. I wasn't even sure if he believed in God. I think he was baptised. He also became our scout master. My brother was in the Cub Scouts. I was a Webelo, go ahead make the jokes. My father would speak to several troops in the gym of our school. He could probably speak about anything. He would talk a little about scouting. He was so charismatic and funny that people started to show up to hear him speak, people that had nothing to do with scouting.
A few years later my father explained to me that he was doing all of this for the benefit of his probation officer. He quit the scout master gig after about three speaking engagements, he was getting too much attention. He also said he hated being a scout leader.
In Cleveland my father had quit his job as the shop foreman for the rust proofing shop. He was now working at home. One day a kid at school asked me what my dad does for a living. I said. "I don't know." When I got home, I told him that a kid at school asked me what he does for a living. He said. "Tell that kid to mind his own fucking business."
We fled to Ft. Lauderdale, all we had was what we could carry. I had my entire baseball card collection, over 4,000 cards. My mother made sure I had clothes. We stayed at my paternal grandmother's house for six months. The last day of school in Cleveland my brother and I beat up a couple of school bullies during lunch. I guess we were angry. I wouldn't apologize, so I stayed after school for a couple of hours. My brother had given them an obviously insincere, "I'm sorry." He was sent home right after school. He waited for me. He told me that I was stupid for not giving in.
After the divorce was finalized, we were living in Winter Park, FL. My father was doing 15 months for mortgage fraud, in a federal prison.
My father had asked my mother to wire some money to him so he could see the scandalous Oh Calcutta! in New York. I think everyone was naked in Oh Calcutta!. We knew he wasn't attending alone. We were aware that he had other women. My father had relocated us to Cleveland from Detroit, after losing his corporate job in Detroit. He was arrested for writing some ungodly amount of bad checks. I think he did about eight months in the state prison. He says the state prisons are much worse than the federal prison's.
My mother worked about three low paying jobs while my parents pretended that my father was in the Army. He was allegedly in a supply unit in Thailand, that was a support unit for another unit in Vietnam, during the Vietnam war. My brother and I remember letters from my father, read to us by my mother, about life in Thailand, the beautiful jungles, the breathtaking Watts, beatific people and other stuff that could be picked out of a Fodor's travel guide.
My mother says my father never wrote us. My father says he doesn't remember any details. He normally has a good memory.
Tension was building in our unhappy household. I learned later that I get along with my father when I don't expect anything out of him. Maybe I learned this from the Thai people.
After his release my father was reading Playboy religiously, watching Hee Haw and going to the Catholic church almost every day. I wasn't even sure if he believed in God. I think he was baptised. He also became our scout master. My brother was in the Cub Scouts. I was a Webelo, go ahead make the jokes. My father would speak to several troops in the gym of our school. He could probably speak about anything. He would talk a little about scouting. He was so charismatic and funny that people started to show up to hear him speak, people that had nothing to do with scouting.
A few years later my father explained to me that he was doing all of this for the benefit of his probation officer. He quit the scout master gig after about three speaking engagements, he was getting too much attention. He also said he hated being a scout leader.
In Cleveland my father had quit his job as the shop foreman for the rust proofing shop. He was now working at home. One day a kid at school asked me what my dad does for a living. I said. "I don't know." When I got home, I told him that a kid at school asked me what he does for a living. He said. "Tell that kid to mind his own fucking business."
We fled to Ft. Lauderdale, all we had was what we could carry. I had my entire baseball card collection, over 4,000 cards. My mother made sure I had clothes. We stayed at my paternal grandmother's house for six months. The last day of school in Cleveland my brother and I beat up a couple of school bullies during lunch. I guess we were angry. I wouldn't apologize, so I stayed after school for a couple of hours. My brother had given them an obviously insincere, "I'm sorry." He was sent home right after school. He waited for me. He told me that I was stupid for not giving in.
After the divorce was finalized, we were living in Winter Park, FL. My father was doing 15 months for mortgage fraud, in a federal prison.
Tuesday, November 20, 2007
Oswald The Rabbit
One of my first memories is of my mother watching tv while ironing my father's shirts, listening to the updates regarding the JFK assassination. I was five years old. I remember thinking everyone wants to be president someday. I asked my mother why anyone would shoot the president, she said something like, I don't know, it doesn't make any sense.
Thanksgiving falls on the anniversary of the JFK assassination this year. I read something of note recently, especially if you live in Orlando. Walt Disney flew over Orlando looking for land several times, the first was the day Kennedy was assassinated. I'm not suggesting anything more than a coincidence. Something else that is funny though, Lee Harvey Oswald shot Kennedy. Disney had a hit cartoon Oswald The Rabbit.
Thanksgiving falls on the anniversary of the JFK assassination this year. I read something of note recently, especially if you live in Orlando. Walt Disney flew over Orlando looking for land several times, the first was the day Kennedy was assassinated. I'm not suggesting anything more than a coincidence. Something else that is funny though, Lee Harvey Oswald shot Kennedy. Disney had a hit cartoon Oswald The Rabbit.
Tuesday, November 13, 2007
The 53rd Hostage
We sat in the back of a deuce and a half (two and a half ton truck), dressed for battle, M-16's, M-60's, hand grenades and other weapons were loaded up. It was full alert. In a few weeks I was scheduled to get my discharge from active duty. My Army contract stipulated that I had three more years of inactive duty. I didn't take that very seriously until we went on full alert.
In a few weeks the impetus for the alert, the Iran Hostage crisis would be over. The last 52 hostages would be set free. I believe they were released on Reagan's inauguration day, January 20th, 1981. It was also the day that I was released from the tyranny of the military.
I'm not sure how long our alert status lasted. It seemed like a week or so. Many of us waited in between breaks of smoking hash. Hash was ubiquitous in the military in Germany at the time. I was telling my friend David about my experiences in Ludwigsburg, dealing hash, selling black market cigarettes and whisky. He said you should watch Buffalo Soldier with Joaquin Phoenix, it sounds like a similar experience. I did watch it. I think it failed to capture the humor, but it captured some of the detached behavior. I was never so pissed off at humanity in my life as I was in the Army, but I also laughed a lot. I made two trips to rehab, the first for alcohol, the second for heroin. For the first one I poured a beer on a lieutenant's dress black shoes, while he was wearing them. I said I didn't really remember the incident, that helped me avoid a court martial, the alcohol made me less accountable. A few months later I tested positive for opiates, heroin. I wasn't addicted. I probably snorted and smoked it about 50 times in two years, but never shot it up. I wasn't addicted to anything in particular. I liked to get high.
Being on alert waiting, and maybe going to war, I always thought of myself as a pacifist, but at 22, high on drugs, just waiting for any new episode in life, I thought maybe, I need to go to war, as a rite of passage. Even then I was aware of how self absorbed that sounds. There is no way that I can really place myself in that reality vicariously. I wanted to write a novel, I thought I have to experience everything. If I had gone to battle, I may have ran.
I was in a military intelligence unit. We did have a few bright lights of humanity. Most of them were regularly disciplined. There was one guy, William, he was a little older around 25. He had been a high school English teacher. He joined, because he couldn't figure out the next step in life. He had a huge book collection, and more books were constantly coming to him in the mail. He was the professor to a few of us, from the San Francisco area, he directed me to several transgressive writers. I guess that fit. I remember reading a Henry Miller book, I think it was Tropic of Cancer. I came across the word weltschmerz. I thought that it was interesting that a German word was in his story, then I realized the word is also in the English dictionary. It translates into world pain, welt-world, schmerz-pain, suffering. When a local would come up to me and ask wie gietz? (How are you?), I would respond Ich habe weltschmerz (I have world pain). It was a great ice breaker.
I thought I might see the hostages at the airport in Frankfurt. They were transiting through Germany. I didn't see them.
I can't remember exactly where the bus ride started, but we were headed for Ft. Jackson near Columbia, SC, to finish processing out of the Army. I hadn't been in the states in over two years, billboards everywhere, everything looked ugly to me. I wanted to go back to Europe.
My family and friends met me at the airport in Orlando. I was happy to see them. My brother said, "The 53rd hostage is home."
In a few weeks the impetus for the alert, the Iran Hostage crisis would be over. The last 52 hostages would be set free. I believe they were released on Reagan's inauguration day, January 20th, 1981. It was also the day that I was released from the tyranny of the military.
I'm not sure how long our alert status lasted. It seemed like a week or so. Many of us waited in between breaks of smoking hash. Hash was ubiquitous in the military in Germany at the time. I was telling my friend David about my experiences in Ludwigsburg, dealing hash, selling black market cigarettes and whisky. He said you should watch Buffalo Soldier with Joaquin Phoenix, it sounds like a similar experience. I did watch it. I think it failed to capture the humor, but it captured some of the detached behavior. I was never so pissed off at humanity in my life as I was in the Army, but I also laughed a lot. I made two trips to rehab, the first for alcohol, the second for heroin. For the first one I poured a beer on a lieutenant's dress black shoes, while he was wearing them. I said I didn't really remember the incident, that helped me avoid a court martial, the alcohol made me less accountable. A few months later I tested positive for opiates, heroin. I wasn't addicted. I probably snorted and smoked it about 50 times in two years, but never shot it up. I wasn't addicted to anything in particular. I liked to get high.
Being on alert waiting, and maybe going to war, I always thought of myself as a pacifist, but at 22, high on drugs, just waiting for any new episode in life, I thought maybe, I need to go to war, as a rite of passage. Even then I was aware of how self absorbed that sounds. There is no way that I can really place myself in that reality vicariously. I wanted to write a novel, I thought I have to experience everything. If I had gone to battle, I may have ran.
I was in a military intelligence unit. We did have a few bright lights of humanity. Most of them were regularly disciplined. There was one guy, William, he was a little older around 25. He had been a high school English teacher. He joined, because he couldn't figure out the next step in life. He had a huge book collection, and more books were constantly coming to him in the mail. He was the professor to a few of us, from the San Francisco area, he directed me to several transgressive writers. I guess that fit. I remember reading a Henry Miller book, I think it was Tropic of Cancer. I came across the word weltschmerz. I thought that it was interesting that a German word was in his story, then I realized the word is also in the English dictionary. It translates into world pain, welt-world, schmerz-pain, suffering. When a local would come up to me and ask wie gietz? (How are you?), I would respond Ich habe weltschmerz (I have world pain). It was a great ice breaker.
I thought I might see the hostages at the airport in Frankfurt. They were transiting through Germany. I didn't see them.
I can't remember exactly where the bus ride started, but we were headed for Ft. Jackson near Columbia, SC, to finish processing out of the Army. I hadn't been in the states in over two years, billboards everywhere, everything looked ugly to me. I wanted to go back to Europe.
My family and friends met me at the airport in Orlando. I was happy to see them. My brother said, "The 53rd hostage is home."
Monday, November 12, 2007
The Heir
My friend Ken lived in the student ghetto in Gainesville. We would lift weights on his porch. Our workout was a fifteen minute workout dragged out to about two hours. We smoked pot, nursed beers, listened to records, talked about books, movies, women etc.. I was a recent arrival in town. I had noticed this guy walking around. He looked to be in his 40's, disheveled, wearing a dusty denim shirt. It looked like he might be living on the streets, except he was built like a body builder. Maybe he had just become homeless, I thought. I saw him near Ken's apartment, then I realized he was Ken's neighbor. Behind Ken's place was a two story tenement. I saw the mystery man coming in and out of there. Homemade weights were on the cement slab near the outside staircase, metal poles with industrial sized cement filled tomato cans attached to both ends. There were plastic gallon milk jugs filled with cement too.
One day while having our relaxed workout, the guy yells from the top of the stairs to us. "Hey. I'll be right over. I'm going to work out with you guys." This was the first time we had heard him speak. His voice raspy, sounded like years of booze and cigarettes. A few minutes later he came down. Our workout went from smoking pot and listening to the Clash, to "Come on motherfucker, you can fuckin' lift that, don't be a fuckin' pussy."
He introduced himself to us. He said his name was Billy Soul. I kept thinking of Billy Jack, an awful part reactionary, part hippie movie. I have to admit, I liked the movie when I was a kid.
We continued to workout with Billy. Our workouts became intense. He was part Vince Lombardi, part Charles Manson. We were terrified of him. He was humorless. He would stare into your eyes and yell, "Come on you fuck, lift that." One time I was doing a military press. I had lifted the weights from the ground up to my chest. Billy closed in on me. His face was about two feet from mine. His eyes aimed at mine. He turned towards Ken and said. "Look into this motherfucker's eyes. He's immortal." I started to laugh. I lost control of the weights and dropped them. "How the fuck did you drop that? Fuck!" We were afraid to laugh around him. Life was not a joke to Billy Soul.
Billy Soul was one of those infamous university town types. He was banned from the Plaza Of The America's on the University of Florida campus. He used to bring his weights there and workout. He hassled the Christian street preacher's. He hassled the Hari Krishna's, all political organizations, fraternities, sororities and everyone else. He used to eat the Hari Krishna free lunch and then yell to them, "You're a bunch of dumb motherfucker's for feeding me."
We heard stories that Billy's family was wealthy. I didn't believe it at first, but it was confirmed soon. Billy asked Ken to pick up a check from his father in Winter Park. Ken told me about the mansion that his professorial father lived in. According to legend, Billy's dad had been a physics professor at the University of Florida. While conducting some experiments, he developed something that would change the world, the weenie heater. You know the thing that rotates hot dogs at the 7-11 and keeps them warm. He had become very wealthy from the weenie heater.
A couple years back I read that Dr. Sewell, Billy's father had passed away. I thought about how terrifying it was to workout with Billy. I thought about the time when my then girlfriend Leah came by Ken's. As soon as she left, Billy asked is she Spanish or Italian?" I said her grandmother is Italian." "I bet she would fuck all of us." "She's my girlfriend." "I know. I like her."
We used to jog through the student ghetto. Billy would jump fences and chase dogs with the beware of dog sign on the fence.
I wonder what he would do with a fortune? I kind of miss those days in Gainesville. I was going to be a bunch of things some day. I remember listening to the Clash, I'm So Bored With The USA. I felt like something was happening in the world.
One day while having our relaxed workout, the guy yells from the top of the stairs to us. "Hey. I'll be right over. I'm going to work out with you guys." This was the first time we had heard him speak. His voice raspy, sounded like years of booze and cigarettes. A few minutes later he came down. Our workout went from smoking pot and listening to the Clash, to "Come on motherfucker, you can fuckin' lift that, don't be a fuckin' pussy."
He introduced himself to us. He said his name was Billy Soul. I kept thinking of Billy Jack, an awful part reactionary, part hippie movie. I have to admit, I liked the movie when I was a kid.
We continued to workout with Billy. Our workouts became intense. He was part Vince Lombardi, part Charles Manson. We were terrified of him. He was humorless. He would stare into your eyes and yell, "Come on you fuck, lift that." One time I was doing a military press. I had lifted the weights from the ground up to my chest. Billy closed in on me. His face was about two feet from mine. His eyes aimed at mine. He turned towards Ken and said. "Look into this motherfucker's eyes. He's immortal." I started to laugh. I lost control of the weights and dropped them. "How the fuck did you drop that? Fuck!" We were afraid to laugh around him. Life was not a joke to Billy Soul.
Billy Soul was one of those infamous university town types. He was banned from the Plaza Of The America's on the University of Florida campus. He used to bring his weights there and workout. He hassled the Christian street preacher's. He hassled the Hari Krishna's, all political organizations, fraternities, sororities and everyone else. He used to eat the Hari Krishna free lunch and then yell to them, "You're a bunch of dumb motherfucker's for feeding me."
We heard stories that Billy's family was wealthy. I didn't believe it at first, but it was confirmed soon. Billy asked Ken to pick up a check from his father in Winter Park. Ken told me about the mansion that his professorial father lived in. According to legend, Billy's dad had been a physics professor at the University of Florida. While conducting some experiments, he developed something that would change the world, the weenie heater. You know the thing that rotates hot dogs at the 7-11 and keeps them warm. He had become very wealthy from the weenie heater.
A couple years back I read that Dr. Sewell, Billy's father had passed away. I thought about how terrifying it was to workout with Billy. I thought about the time when my then girlfriend Leah came by Ken's. As soon as she left, Billy asked is she Spanish or Italian?" I said her grandmother is Italian." "I bet she would fuck all of us." "She's my girlfriend." "I know. I like her."
We used to jog through the student ghetto. Billy would jump fences and chase dogs with the beware of dog sign on the fence.
I wonder what he would do with a fortune? I kind of miss those days in Gainesville. I was going to be a bunch of things some day. I remember listening to the Clash, I'm So Bored With The USA. I felt like something was happening in the world.
Drinking Buddies
Chris Garlington of Death By Children fame mentioned Harry Crews' latest book, An American Family: The Baby With The Curious Markings. It was published by the small press Blood And Guts in LA. Chris spoke of the myth of Harry Crews. Crews hangs out with Sean Penn. Thurston Moore wrote the blurb on the cover of his latest book, and there was the short lived band by the name of Harry Crews with Thurston's wife Kim Gordon, Lydia Lunch and Sadie Mae. I told Chris my story about Harry Crews.
I lived in Gainesville, FL during 83-84. I was working at a restaurant downtown. I bartended, waited tables, was a maitre' d, prep cook or whatever they needed. It was one of the nicer places in town. Our manager was kind of a pain in the ass. He was patronizing, but had moments of sensitivety. He always arrived for the evening shift with a copy of the New York Times. I read the Times most days, but he would explain how well rounded you can become by reading the Times daily. This was a little annoying, but he also would give us chores that he was supposed to do, he was very flirtatious with most of the women that worked there, he was a good looking guy, but very cheesy. He was disliked by most of the workers, not hated, just disliked.
Harry Crews frequented the place for dinner, usually staying after to drink a little. A young woman or two normally tagged along. Our manager worshipped Harry. He was constantly trying to give him some new beer that came in or whatever. Harry didn't give him the time of day, unless a snarl or a grunt counts. Many of us found this unrequited relationship amusing.
The restaurant closed every night at 11PM. Sometimes after closing time the owners or the manager would lock the doors, and have a private party with a select few. I was never interested in hanging out. One night while Harry was at one of his favorite drinking spots, Lillian's Music Store, he ran into the crew from our restaurant. I guess Lillian's had closed, so our manager got his big chance to impress Harry. He brought him and a few others back to the restaurant and opened up the bar to them.
The next evening I came into work for the dinner shift. The manager was grumbling, "Fucking Harry Crews. That motherfucker, who does he think he is?" He repeated this several times. I asked. "What's up? I thought you loved Harry Crews." The chef had walked out to get something to drink. He despised the manager. The manager glared at us. "You want to know what's up? Come with me." We followed him out to the street. It was nearly dusk. He pointed to the building next door. It was being remodeled. Drywall sheets were covering the window frames. There was a very large hole in the sheet of drywall next to the front door. "You see that? Harry fucking threw me through the drywall. He's fucked up. He's got mental problems. He's a drunk." We laughed a little. The manager stormed back inside. He was about six feet tall, 180 pounds. It was quite a toss.
About an hour later. Harry Crews came strolling in. He looked up at the manager for a moment. "Hey sorry about last night." He kept walking and sat down.
I lived in Gainesville, FL during 83-84. I was working at a restaurant downtown. I bartended, waited tables, was a maitre' d, prep cook or whatever they needed. It was one of the nicer places in town. Our manager was kind of a pain in the ass. He was patronizing, but had moments of sensitivety. He always arrived for the evening shift with a copy of the New York Times. I read the Times most days, but he would explain how well rounded you can become by reading the Times daily. This was a little annoying, but he also would give us chores that he was supposed to do, he was very flirtatious with most of the women that worked there, he was a good looking guy, but very cheesy. He was disliked by most of the workers, not hated, just disliked.
Harry Crews frequented the place for dinner, usually staying after to drink a little. A young woman or two normally tagged along. Our manager worshipped Harry. He was constantly trying to give him some new beer that came in or whatever. Harry didn't give him the time of day, unless a snarl or a grunt counts. Many of us found this unrequited relationship amusing.
The restaurant closed every night at 11PM. Sometimes after closing time the owners or the manager would lock the doors, and have a private party with a select few. I was never interested in hanging out. One night while Harry was at one of his favorite drinking spots, Lillian's Music Store, he ran into the crew from our restaurant. I guess Lillian's had closed, so our manager got his big chance to impress Harry. He brought him and a few others back to the restaurant and opened up the bar to them.
The next evening I came into work for the dinner shift. The manager was grumbling, "Fucking Harry Crews. That motherfucker, who does he think he is?" He repeated this several times. I asked. "What's up? I thought you loved Harry Crews." The chef had walked out to get something to drink. He despised the manager. The manager glared at us. "You want to know what's up? Come with me." We followed him out to the street. It was nearly dusk. He pointed to the building next door. It was being remodeled. Drywall sheets were covering the window frames. There was a very large hole in the sheet of drywall next to the front door. "You see that? Harry fucking threw me through the drywall. He's fucked up. He's got mental problems. He's a drunk." We laughed a little. The manager stormed back inside. He was about six feet tall, 180 pounds. It was quite a toss.
About an hour later. Harry Crews came strolling in. He looked up at the manager for a moment. "Hey sorry about last night." He kept walking and sat down.
Sunday, November 11, 2007
The Senior Circuit
In 1977 I went to see Led Zeppelin play Tampa Stadium. I was little put off by the $10 ticket price. Ten dollars for one band, that's a lot of money, are they fucking kidding? Now I hear about a reunion. I have no problem with idea of watching senior citizens play music. I think they should stick to chamber music or polka. I can't imagine watching the Who, The Stones or Zeppelin at this point. I think most reunions would be anticlimactic, assuming there was something in the first place.
In 77' about eight of us piled into my friends faded green Chevy van. He had swapped it for four pounds of pot. Extending from the dashboard to anywhere else in the van was an ingenious piece of mind altering gear. My friend called it the dash pipe. As far as I know he invented it. It was a pipe (for smoking pot) attached by a suction to the dashboard, about ten feet of surgical tubing served as the stem. The person riding shotgun normally lit the pipe, while the tubing was passed around the van. My friends brother asked me if I wanted to try angel dust. I did. I remember being pretty disoriented, but cogent, at least I think I was.
Led Zeppelin played three songs. I was stunned by Jimmy Page's guitar playing while he played Nobody's Fault But Mine. It was starting to drizzle a little. After the third song, the rain came down a little more. Robert Plant came out and said something like we'll be back in thirty minutes, our equipment is wet. I went to the bathroom during the break, the rest is a little confusing to me. A little while after I came out a small riot was developing into a bigger one. Bottles were being thrown. Cops were upset. I was nervous, perhaps paranoid, and I couldn't find any of the people I came with. Someone came out and announced that the concert was now officially cancelled. It looked like the end times. The crowd was out of control. I was alone, or at least I couldn't find my friends, I had smoked PCP. I walked to the parking lot and decided to just wait. I thought maybe I would eventually see the van or my friends. It seemed like almost everyone had left, when I spotted my crew.
I never did PCP again. It's funny. I haven't done anything more than pot since the 80's. I haven't smoked pot in awhile. Now when I hear someone has done a line of coke I worry about them. Then I remember things like smoking angel dust.
In 77' about eight of us piled into my friends faded green Chevy van. He had swapped it for four pounds of pot. Extending from the dashboard to anywhere else in the van was an ingenious piece of mind altering gear. My friend called it the dash pipe. As far as I know he invented it. It was a pipe (for smoking pot) attached by a suction to the dashboard, about ten feet of surgical tubing served as the stem. The person riding shotgun normally lit the pipe, while the tubing was passed around the van. My friends brother asked me if I wanted to try angel dust. I did. I remember being pretty disoriented, but cogent, at least I think I was.
Led Zeppelin played three songs. I was stunned by Jimmy Page's guitar playing while he played Nobody's Fault But Mine. It was starting to drizzle a little. After the third song, the rain came down a little more. Robert Plant came out and said something like we'll be back in thirty minutes, our equipment is wet. I went to the bathroom during the break, the rest is a little confusing to me. A little while after I came out a small riot was developing into a bigger one. Bottles were being thrown. Cops were upset. I was nervous, perhaps paranoid, and I couldn't find any of the people I came with. Someone came out and announced that the concert was now officially cancelled. It looked like the end times. The crowd was out of control. I was alone, or at least I couldn't find my friends, I had smoked PCP. I walked to the parking lot and decided to just wait. I thought maybe I would eventually see the van or my friends. It seemed like almost everyone had left, when I spotted my crew.
I never did PCP again. It's funny. I haven't done anything more than pot since the 80's. I haven't smoked pot in awhile. Now when I hear someone has done a line of coke I worry about them. Then I remember things like smoking angel dust.
Modern Florida
Yesterday I went to Sarasota with Summer, Emily and the recently resurfaced Francis. We did a driving tour of Sarasota Modernist architecture. We downloaded the tour from a realtor that specializes in selling Sarasota Modernist School houses. Today I found another website that lists many more structures with addresses and short bios on the architects.
I've been a long time fan of the Sarasota Modern work, but I had only seen pictures prior to yesterday. My friends Matt and Jessica did the tour a couple of months back. Jessica wrote a great article for The Orlando Weekly about the tour.
Sarasota seems like a curious town of money and some progressive highlights like the architecture, but like a lot of places in Florida and the rest of America, you can see an architectural marvel across from a McMansion. We saw a few of these examples. One of my favorite houses was the Hiss Studio by Philip Hiss. It's next to another great one The Umbrella House by Paul Rudolph. Then there are some horrible attempts to better something great. The tour mentions horrible additions. Read Umberto Eco's Travels In Hyperreality, he talks about this. California and Florida are the worst offenders, according Eco. He's probably right.
Sarasota is also the home of The New College. Hiss helped start the school, a quirky but highly respected place of higher learning. I.M Pei designed one of the dormitories. I'm not sure it's one of his better works.
I hope to go back to Sarasota soon. It was getting dark, so we headed home.
If I do have a regret about the trip, it would be not purchasing a Fudge-A-Gator or the smaller Junior Fudge-A-Gator. Francis was inspecting all the merchandise in the store where tourists buy bags of oranges, Emily bought a bag. I guess she's a tourist. She lives in Brooklyn. I told Francis that the Fudge-A-Gator might melt in the car. I could tell my pragmatism made him sad. At least we know there is a Fudge-A-Gator within 45 minutes of our home. What is a Fudge-A-Gator? It's a gator made of fudge. Summer bought a plastic gator that has a mouth that can be controlled. She played with it while she was driving. I had an orange and vanilla swirl ice cream cone.
Today I went to the library. I live a mile from the library. It's a very nice walk, around the lake. It was around 70 degrees and sunny. I stopped off to see Jane's new office. It was built in 1960. It's one of my favorite modern designs in Orlando. Jane's busy painting and making the building a place where someone might be excited about coming to work. While we were talking I noticed that she was wearing a St. Petersburg shirt, very strange, I had a St. Petersburg shirt on too. The shirts look very different. Hers was the Russian city, mine the Florida one. I've always wanted to go to St. Petersburg Russia. I read an article a few years ago about Brian Eno living there.
I've been a long time fan of the Sarasota Modern work, but I had only seen pictures prior to yesterday. My friends Matt and Jessica did the tour a couple of months back. Jessica wrote a great article for The Orlando Weekly about the tour.
Sarasota seems like a curious town of money and some progressive highlights like the architecture, but like a lot of places in Florida and the rest of America, you can see an architectural marvel across from a McMansion. We saw a few of these examples. One of my favorite houses was the Hiss Studio by Philip Hiss. It's next to another great one The Umbrella House by Paul Rudolph. Then there are some horrible attempts to better something great. The tour mentions horrible additions. Read Umberto Eco's Travels In Hyperreality, he talks about this. California and Florida are the worst offenders, according Eco. He's probably right.
Sarasota is also the home of The New College. Hiss helped start the school, a quirky but highly respected place of higher learning. I.M Pei designed one of the dormitories. I'm not sure it's one of his better works.
I hope to go back to Sarasota soon. It was getting dark, so we headed home.
If I do have a regret about the trip, it would be not purchasing a Fudge-A-Gator or the smaller Junior Fudge-A-Gator. Francis was inspecting all the merchandise in the store where tourists buy bags of oranges, Emily bought a bag. I guess she's a tourist. She lives in Brooklyn. I told Francis that the Fudge-A-Gator might melt in the car. I could tell my pragmatism made him sad. At least we know there is a Fudge-A-Gator within 45 minutes of our home. What is a Fudge-A-Gator? It's a gator made of fudge. Summer bought a plastic gator that has a mouth that can be controlled. She played with it while she was driving. I had an orange and vanilla swirl ice cream cone.
Today I went to the library. I live a mile from the library. It's a very nice walk, around the lake. It was around 70 degrees and sunny. I stopped off to see Jane's new office. It was built in 1960. It's one of my favorite modern designs in Orlando. Jane's busy painting and making the building a place where someone might be excited about coming to work. While we were talking I noticed that she was wearing a St. Petersburg shirt, very strange, I had a St. Petersburg shirt on too. The shirts look very different. Hers was the Russian city, mine the Florida one. I've always wanted to go to St. Petersburg Russia. I read an article a few years ago about Brian Eno living there.
Friday, November 9, 2007
Kings Of The Road
No Country For Old Men opened today. It's the Coen brothers film adapted from Cormac McCarthy's novel by the same name. The only McCarthy book I've read was Blood Meridian, a brutal brilliant work set in the mid 19th century. Word is, that No Country isn't any tamer.
It was filmed in and around Marfa, Texas. Paul Thomas Anderson's There Will Be Blood comes out next month, an adaptation of Upton Sinclair's Oil, was also filmed in and around Marfa, in and around the same time the Coen brothers were filming.
Marfa resembles a Mexican town more than an American one. In 1999 when I visited Marfa, the only chain restaurant in town was a Dairy Queen. The large collection of permanent outdoor contemporary sculpture is the first indicator that this an atypical place. Art Forum and many other art publications continually write about it. The first weekend of October is when the annual open house happens. This has become a major pilgrimage for anyone interested in contemporary art. Eight years ago when I was there, it seemed a lot more mom and pop. I stayed with some artists that I just met.
After I left Marfa I took a bus into Mexico. I used the 100 pesos that the woman from Molly's in New Orleans gave me. She said, "Good luck." I converted a little money at the border, but not too much. Border crossing's are a good place to get ripped off. My bus ticket to Chihuahua was exactly 100 pesos. I spent the night there. I bought a black and white postcard of members of the Tarahumura tribe participating in peyote rituals. I still have the postcard, somewhere. The Tarahumara are known for running long distances, sometimes more than 100 miles in a day. I've heard a couple of stories about the tribe members. I can't substanstiate the stories, but I like them anyway. One was the 1968 Olympic story. The Mexican government finally took an interest in the tribe when the Olympic Games were held in Mexico City in '68, so they went down and recruited three Taruhumara's to run the marathon. They asked the tribe elders for their three best distance runners. The three ended up finishing way behind any of the medalists. When the government questioned the poor results, the elders asked why they asked for distance runners when the race was only 26 miles. Another story I heard was that some big running shoe company went to Mexico after hearing about the Taruhumara's legendary distance running. They also asked for three runners to run in a 100 mile ultra-marathon in Colorado. When the three got to the race they didn't want to wear the shoes that the company gave them. They said they preferred to run in sandals. Finally they agreed to wear the shoes, within a couple of miles their friends passed their sandals onto them, their running shoes were discarded. The three also stopped to smoke cigarettes and drink beer while the other runners were taking water breaks. At the 50 mile mark runners were given light snacks to replenish. The Tarahumara's had steak, fries, beer and more cigarettes. At the end of the race they came in 2nd, 3rd and 4th. They weren't all that interested in winning. They were more interested in sticking together. I can't supply footnotes for these stories.
My friend Dave left Orlando a little over a year ago on his bicycle. He was headed to Los Angeles. He's in Tucson. I think he may have met a woman or joined a band or got a job in a coffee shop or all three. He bicycled through Marfa after hearing me talk about it. He said he'd live there if he could figure out how to pay the bills.
It was filmed in and around Marfa, Texas. Paul Thomas Anderson's There Will Be Blood comes out next month, an adaptation of Upton Sinclair's Oil, was also filmed in and around Marfa, in and around the same time the Coen brothers were filming.
Marfa resembles a Mexican town more than an American one. In 1999 when I visited Marfa, the only chain restaurant in town was a Dairy Queen. The large collection of permanent outdoor contemporary sculpture is the first indicator that this an atypical place. Art Forum and many other art publications continually write about it. The first weekend of October is when the annual open house happens. This has become a major pilgrimage for anyone interested in contemporary art. Eight years ago when I was there, it seemed a lot more mom and pop. I stayed with some artists that I just met.
After I left Marfa I took a bus into Mexico. I used the 100 pesos that the woman from Molly's in New Orleans gave me. She said, "Good luck." I converted a little money at the border, but not too much. Border crossing's are a good place to get ripped off. My bus ticket to Chihuahua was exactly 100 pesos. I spent the night there. I bought a black and white postcard of members of the Tarahumura tribe participating in peyote rituals. I still have the postcard, somewhere. The Tarahumara are known for running long distances, sometimes more than 100 miles in a day. I've heard a couple of stories about the tribe members. I can't substanstiate the stories, but I like them anyway. One was the 1968 Olympic story. The Mexican government finally took an interest in the tribe when the Olympic Games were held in Mexico City in '68, so they went down and recruited three Taruhumara's to run the marathon. They asked the tribe elders for their three best distance runners. The three ended up finishing way behind any of the medalists. When the government questioned the poor results, the elders asked why they asked for distance runners when the race was only 26 miles. Another story I heard was that some big running shoe company went to Mexico after hearing about the Taruhumara's legendary distance running. They also asked for three runners to run in a 100 mile ultra-marathon in Colorado. When the three got to the race they didn't want to wear the shoes that the company gave them. They said they preferred to run in sandals. Finally they agreed to wear the shoes, within a couple of miles their friends passed their sandals onto them, their running shoes were discarded. The three also stopped to smoke cigarettes and drink beer while the other runners were taking water breaks. At the 50 mile mark runners were given light snacks to replenish. The Tarahumara's had steak, fries, beer and more cigarettes. At the end of the race they came in 2nd, 3rd and 4th. They weren't all that interested in winning. They were more interested in sticking together. I can't supply footnotes for these stories.
My friend Dave left Orlando a little over a year ago on his bicycle. He was headed to Los Angeles. He's in Tucson. I think he may have met a woman or joined a band or got a job in a coffee shop or all three. He bicycled through Marfa after hearing me talk about it. He said he'd live there if he could figure out how to pay the bills.
Sunday, November 4, 2007
Potchie Neighbors
When I was about six or seven my brother, had a powder blue stuffed kangaroo, that came with permanent boxing gloves. My brother is two years younger than I am. He named the kangaroo Potchie Neighbors (I think that's how it's spelled). When my brother got angry with anyone, he threatened them with Potchie. I was attacked by Potchie many times. My brother would swing the soft pugilist at my head and chest while I pushed them back. I didn't take Potchie seriously, this made my brother even more angry. The attacks became more aggressive. I made the mistake of laughing at Potchie. I think my brother took this personally, he may have viewed Potchie or Potch as he became known as a kindred spirit. Pretty soon my brother gave up on trying to scare me with Potch. I tried to be more empathetic towards their relationship, referring to Potchie as if he were one of us.
A few months later my mother told my brother that Potchie needed to be thrown away. He had become a regular companion of my brother. Potchie had become passive for the most part, he was more like another kid in the neighborhood. He had accumulated a lot more dirt than most kids. He was filthy, and some of his stuffing was starting to fall out. My brother decided that a bath would take care of everything. Mud and stuffing filled the tub. Potchie was a mess. My mother was not pleased, she took Potchie out of the tub, to an undisclosed location. We never saw Potch again. My brother called her a murderer. My brother learned to live without Potchie, eventually he forgave my mother, but Potchie has never really left my families life.
When I was 18 I was staying with my father in Ft. Lauderdale. My father signed up for one of those record clubs that used to be advertised in magazines. There were always ads like get 11 records for $1.99. The catch was that the company would keep sending you records after the 11, they were usually more expensive than any stores prices, plus shipping. So my father joined the record club. He decided to resurface the name of Potchie Neighbors. He put Potchie's name on the application, listing his employment as a traveling salesman. My father got his records and was inspired to sign up for other record clubs using Potchie's name.
When my father is waiting for a table at a restaurant he gives the hostess the name Potchie Neighbors. I remember one maitre' de asking, "Is that Italian?"
A few months later my mother told my brother that Potchie needed to be thrown away. He had become a regular companion of my brother. Potchie had become passive for the most part, he was more like another kid in the neighborhood. He had accumulated a lot more dirt than most kids. He was filthy, and some of his stuffing was starting to fall out. My brother decided that a bath would take care of everything. Mud and stuffing filled the tub. Potchie was a mess. My mother was not pleased, she took Potchie out of the tub, to an undisclosed location. We never saw Potch again. My brother called her a murderer. My brother learned to live without Potchie, eventually he forgave my mother, but Potchie has never really left my families life.
When I was 18 I was staying with my father in Ft. Lauderdale. My father signed up for one of those record clubs that used to be advertised in magazines. There were always ads like get 11 records for $1.99. The catch was that the company would keep sending you records after the 11, they were usually more expensive than any stores prices, plus shipping. So my father joined the record club. He decided to resurface the name of Potchie Neighbors. He put Potchie's name on the application, listing his employment as a traveling salesman. My father got his records and was inspired to sign up for other record clubs using Potchie's name.
When my father is waiting for a table at a restaurant he gives the hostess the name Potchie Neighbors. I remember one maitre' de asking, "Is that Italian?"
Tuesday, October 30, 2007
Confessions Of A Public Radio Freeloader
When I was in the fourth grade I dropped Catholicism from my life. I skipped catechism or CCD, whatever they call it these days, Sunday school for Catholics. We lived in Detroit, there were so many Catholics in Detroit at the time, that we had Catechism after school on Monday's. That was at a public school. The cafeteria served fish on Friday's. I remember asking why the collection plate is so active at church. Can't they worship in someone's living room? I suggested this to the priest when I was ten. My mother elbowed me to shut up. I just thought it might cut costs. Oh yeah, back to my departure from the church, I skipped the holy class to play little league baseball, my true passion. The next week I told the nun who was my teacher that I was playing baseball. I knew the truth was the best way. She scolded me and said something like I might end up in Hell if I continue to be so carefree about my faith. My heathen father was constantly talking about how unstable nuns are. I don't remember him using the word celebate, but it was in the air.
Today and yesterday,my local NPR's pledge drive has been interrupting programming. I keep hearing people come on and say, you are listening for free. They talk about people paying for cable, but they're not willing to pay for NPR, or buying goods that are advertised on radio or tv, so they are paying for shitty radio or tv indirectly.
I'm not a good person. I've never given money to the station (I don't have cable though). The guilt strategy is so awful. Is there a better way? I don't know. It reminds me of my brief career as a Catholic, all the guilt. It seems to be the antithesis of what NPR offers. You get something intelligent, then they expect you to fall for their pleas for money. All those years of freeloading has helped develop my critical thinking skills enough that I won't fall for the guilt tactics.
Today and yesterday,my local NPR's pledge drive has been interrupting programming. I keep hearing people come on and say, you are listening for free. They talk about people paying for cable, but they're not willing to pay for NPR, or buying goods that are advertised on radio or tv, so they are paying for shitty radio or tv indirectly.
I'm not a good person. I've never given money to the station (I don't have cable though). The guilt strategy is so awful. Is there a better way? I don't know. It reminds me of my brief career as a Catholic, all the guilt. It seems to be the antithesis of what NPR offers. You get something intelligent, then they expect you to fall for their pleas for money. All those years of freeloading has helped develop my critical thinking skills enough that I won't fall for the guilt tactics.
Free Harry Gordon- Telepath
My way to Marfa via Austin wasn't hurried, not much of my life is. I stopped in New Orleans for a few days. I stayed in the seedy India House, a hostel with some single rooms. I stayed in a single room. I was traveling solo. I think I was getting over some romantic detour. I don't remember specifics. I just remember that being the situation. I went out by myself sitting at Molly's in the Quarter. I haven't been there in about three years, but they had a great jukebox. As I sat there drinking my beer staring into space, a young woman asked me if I would buy her and her girlfriend (in the romantic sense) one beer between the two of them. I bought them both a beer. I had some sort of feeling that this wasn't their everyday routine. We hung out all night and ended up sharing a plate of hashbrowns at the Clover Grill around 4AM. The next afternoon the ladies came by the India House and took me to lunch.
After I bought the women their beer, they led me from the bar to a table by the front window. I was introduced to several locals. While I was in the middle of conversation and introductions, I noticed a very old man glaring at me from the bar, at least it looked like he was glaring at me, it became apparent soon. He shuffled very very slowly over to me. When he reached me he said faintly in what sounded like an old Brando, "I know you, you know me." I said. "I don't live here." "You know me, I know you." "I don't live here. I don't know anyone." "You know me. I know you." He stared at me and shuffled back to his barstool. Everyone at the table looked at me, in a what was that sort of way. I told them it didn't make sense to me. I looked back at the man. He looked at me with some contempt as my tablemates laughed. After a few minutes the man shuffled back to our table. The routine was repeated. His voice more powerful, but still barely audible. He shuffled back to his stool when I reiterated that I've never seen him. He had a look of hate as he stared at me from his stool. About three minutes later he returned. His shuffle was almost painful to watch. I was feeling uncomfortable, annoyed, empathetic and entertained. He repeated his you know me thing. I repeated my, I don't know you. Then he stopped looking me in the eye and said, "You don't remember this?" He started to move his arthritic body with an emphasis on his hips, he was gyrating, his movements sexual. "I'm sorry it doesn't ring a bell." He looked at me with disgust and went back to the bar. I headed to the Clover Grill with my new friends.
Earlier that day I was walking by the courthouse. I saw an old man (not the hip gyrating guy), who looked like a prophet. He was holding up a sign that said. Free Harry Gordon- Telepath.
After I bought the women their beer, they led me from the bar to a table by the front window. I was introduced to several locals. While I was in the middle of conversation and introductions, I noticed a very old man glaring at me from the bar, at least it looked like he was glaring at me, it became apparent soon. He shuffled very very slowly over to me. When he reached me he said faintly in what sounded like an old Brando, "I know you, you know me." I said. "I don't live here." "You know me, I know you." "I don't live here. I don't know anyone." "You know me. I know you." He stared at me and shuffled back to his barstool. Everyone at the table looked at me, in a what was that sort of way. I told them it didn't make sense to me. I looked back at the man. He looked at me with some contempt as my tablemates laughed. After a few minutes the man shuffled back to our table. The routine was repeated. His voice more powerful, but still barely audible. He shuffled back to his stool when I reiterated that I've never seen him. He had a look of hate as he stared at me from his stool. About three minutes later he returned. His shuffle was almost painful to watch. I was feeling uncomfortable, annoyed, empathetic and entertained. He repeated his you know me thing. I repeated my, I don't know you. Then he stopped looking me in the eye and said, "You don't remember this?" He started to move his arthritic body with an emphasis on his hips, he was gyrating, his movements sexual. "I'm sorry it doesn't ring a bell." He looked at me with disgust and went back to the bar. I headed to the Clover Grill with my new friends.
Earlier that day I was walking by the courthouse. I saw an old man (not the hip gyrating guy), who looked like a prophet. He was holding up a sign that said. Free Harry Gordon- Telepath.
Germans And Japanese
I've just been hired to work a couple of weeks with NADA (New Art Dealers Alliance) out of New York City. I'll be working in Miami most of the first part of the month for Art Basel, the huge contemporary art fair. NADA represents artists and galleries from all over the world. I noticed one the places it represents is the Marfa Ballroom in Marfa, Texas.
In 1999 I made a pilgrimage to Marfa. It's 60 miles north of the Mexican border,sitting a mile high above sea level, 200 miles from El Paso (the nearest city), 100 miles from Big Bend National Park, the place where Giant, James Dean's last film was made, the mysterious Marfa lights and a mecca for contemporary art. Late Minimalist Donald Judd bought lots of land in an around Marfa. I think he may have started buying land in the 60's. There is a public sculpture by Claes Oldenberg in town, works by Judd, Dan Flavin, Roni Horn, Ilya Kabakov on permanent display all over town. The Marfa Ballroom is more recent. It's been around for a couple of years. Sonic Youth, Yo La Tengo, Smog and a who's who in hipster rock have played there. Deerhoof is playing the opening for NADA in Miami.
I was Austin which I think is at least an 8 hour drive from Marfa. My plan was to rent a car and drop it off near Marfa, then head to Chihuahua Mexico and ride the Copper Canyon train from there to Los Mochis, then take a ferry to La Paz taking busses back up to the states. I ended up making my planned Mexican trip. I was told the closest place I could drop off a rental car was El Paso. I didn't want to go to El Paso yet. I took the Greyhound. Marfa doesn't have a bus station or at least it didn't. The bus driver asked where I was going as we drove through nearby Alpine. I told him Marfa. "Marfa? You want to go to Marfa? The only people I've ever dropped off there are Germans and Japanese."
In 1999 I made a pilgrimage to Marfa. It's 60 miles north of the Mexican border,sitting a mile high above sea level, 200 miles from El Paso (the nearest city), 100 miles from Big Bend National Park, the place where Giant, James Dean's last film was made, the mysterious Marfa lights and a mecca for contemporary art. Late Minimalist Donald Judd bought lots of land in an around Marfa. I think he may have started buying land in the 60's. There is a public sculpture by Claes Oldenberg in town, works by Judd, Dan Flavin, Roni Horn, Ilya Kabakov on permanent display all over town. The Marfa Ballroom is more recent. It's been around for a couple of years. Sonic Youth, Yo La Tengo, Smog and a who's who in hipster rock have played there. Deerhoof is playing the opening for NADA in Miami.
I was Austin which I think is at least an 8 hour drive from Marfa. My plan was to rent a car and drop it off near Marfa, then head to Chihuahua Mexico and ride the Copper Canyon train from there to Los Mochis, then take a ferry to La Paz taking busses back up to the states. I ended up making my planned Mexican trip. I was told the closest place I could drop off a rental car was El Paso. I didn't want to go to El Paso yet. I took the Greyhound. Marfa doesn't have a bus station or at least it didn't. The bus driver asked where I was going as we drove through nearby Alpine. I told him Marfa. "Marfa? You want to go to Marfa? The only people I've ever dropped off there are Germans and Japanese."
Monday, October 29, 2007
He Had It Coming
I keep running across the term near miss, usually in the news, sometimes in conversation. I always want to correct whoever uses it, but I know they are backed by Merriam-Webster etc.. The term will never make sense to me. Why is a near miss a miss, shouldn't it be a hit? Why is a near hit a miss, because that makes sense. I can't find near hit in the dictionary. Maybe I have the wrong dictionary.
Wrongful death. I've always liked that one. It sounds like the opposite of, he had it coming.
I was just looking at the Columbia Journalism Review language corner, they haven't come to terms with near miss either.
Wrongful death. I've always liked that one. It sounds like the opposite of, he had it coming.
I was just looking at the Columbia Journalism Review language corner, they haven't come to terms with near miss either.
Sunday, October 28, 2007
The Killing Machine
I made a point of checking out Janet Cardiff and George Bures Miller's video, audio multi-media installations when I was in Miami. The exhibit will be at the Miami Museum of Art through January 20, 2008. I was doing some research on the two. I thought I'd read that they are married. The wikipedia entry for Janet Cardiff lists George Bures Miller as her partner. I don't think I'll ever get used to calling someone that you are probably sleeping with, a partner. The word partner conjures up images of bookkeeping, not sex. It seems like whenever I tell anyone how I feel about the term partner, I get emotional responses like, "Would you rather use the term lover?" I would rather hear or use the word lover, or just about anything else other than partner. In many cases nemesis may be more accurate.
Cardiff and Miller's ten installations are vague dreamlike narratives with tones of secrecy, temptation, something sinister, provocative, sensual and funny. I think it's probably the work of very intimate partners.
The Killing Machine is the name of one of the installations and the name of their exhibit.
Yesterday I dropped in on the war protest in Lake Eola's park. I am opposed to the war, but I'm too cynical to protest, and am suspicious of easy solutions. The march started around the time the rain came down. I left the parade and headed home, getting drenched walking the few blocks home.
Cardiff and Miller's ten installations are vague dreamlike narratives with tones of secrecy, temptation, something sinister, provocative, sensual and funny. I think it's probably the work of very intimate partners.
The Killing Machine is the name of one of the installations and the name of their exhibit.
Yesterday I dropped in on the war protest in Lake Eola's park. I am opposed to the war, but I'm too cynical to protest, and am suspicious of easy solutions. The march started around the time the rain came down. I left the parade and headed home, getting drenched walking the few blocks home.
Money In The Street
I rode my bicycle to a Halloween party last night. I went with Emily, the Kerouac House writer in residence. On our way over I saw some trash in the street that I mistook for money. I stopped to look at it. I saw a dollar bill nearby. Then I saw another dollar bill and another. I eventually found a $5 bill and four $1 bills. I decided immediatley that it needed to be recirculated. I bought 4-pack of La Fin Du Monde, and had 49 cents change. I told Emily about the time I was kicked off of a train leaving Copenhagen. I didn't have a ticket. I had left my money at the farmhouse in Denmark where I was staying. After I was kicked off of the train I found some money in the street. It was enough to get a sandwich, a beer and a bus ride near the farmhouse. Another time I found $23 floating in the ocean. I took my friend to happy hour on our way home. I tried to make a rough estimate of how much money I've found in my life. I've estimated that it's around a dollar a year. I was thinking about how exciting it is to find a few dollars, but if you find a lot of money, the excitement might be combined with terror or guilt. I found $9 last night, but it would have been ridiculous to look for the person who lost it. It was on the side of street that can get a lot of traffic, and it's $9. At what point or what sort of circumstances does the innocent find become something more? My head hurts a little today.
Saturday, October 27, 2007
Hwy 714
A couple of nights in my friend's Summer and Steven's Ft. Pierce condo on the beach flashed me back to the 70's, when I was sort of a caretaker for my godfather's house on the Indian River in Palm City not far from Ft. Pierce, but closer to Stuart. My duties were to clean the pool, run errands in exchange for a place to stay, a little pay, and more pot than I could smoke. I lived in the servant's quarters. I'm not joking. The house was a sprawling ranch house on 55 acres with its own bridge going to the house. It was purchased because of its limited access and that it was on the river that goes into the ocean, by my godfather a disbarred lawyer. He'd done some time with my father for mortgage fraud. They were indicted on 154 counts of fraud, and convicted of two. There were 35 guys involved. My godfather and father ended up doing 15 months in a mininum security prison. They used Don King's lawyer. My father said they were in jail with some of the guys from Watergate. In prison they made plenty of contacts for their new career, smuggling pot. It paid a lot more than being a lawyer, according to my godfather.
Occassionally I was asked to leave the house for a few days, when a shipment was coming in. I wanted to be a smuggler. My father made sure that I didn't get involved. My life goals were not beyond the immediate. I think I wanted to be Jack Kerouac or Bob Dylan when I was 19.
I got a phone call one morning while I was staying in the servants quarters. It was really early around 5AM. My father was calling from a fish camp on Sebastian Inlet. He said you need to come get me. He gave instructions of where to park and wait for him to come out of the woods. I didn't ask any questions. I pulled up to the fishcamp, he came out of the woods wearing all black, with black shoe polish on his face. He jumped in, wiped his face off with a beach towel I had in the back seat (I was a surfer. I always had beach towels).
I want to give the ride back a soundtrack. I keep thinking Neil Young's Hello Cowgirl In The Sand was playing from my eight track player. I remember my father telling me to turn it down. He explained to me how the boat broke down a few feet from the shore. "We lost shitload of pot." I'm not sure how much a shitload is. I didn't ask, specifics seemed irrelevant. I'd remembered him telling me how he'd left a Cessna 402 full of dope on a Georgia highway. I asked him what happened when the cops found the plane, couldn't they trace it back? He laughed. "Good luck with that shit. If they can find out who the owner of Just Messin' Around Inc. is, they can, it's my Cayman Island company. The Cayman Island people will tell them to fuck off."
A few weeks later I was told to go away for a few days. I went up to my friends trailer just north of Sebastian Inlet where I had picked my dad up. I lived off of peanut butter and honey sandwiches, beer, pot and surfing.
I called my father a few days later. He said I could come back. We met up at Skyline Chili in Ft. Lauderdale or maybe it's Pompano. My father was late as usual. I didn't care. I always have reading material on me. Sometimes I'm glad when people are late, I read.
My father was visibly preoccupied when he walked into Skyline. A few minutes later, he told me my godfather was busted with some ungodly amount of Quaaludes. I keep thinking the number was 100,000. I'm not sure if that was it. A few months earlier he had been busted with 10 tons of pot. He used his lawyer training to get off on a technicality. The feds were watching him pretty closely. There were so many above the radar types in South Florida at that time. He was discreet about his business activities, yet ostentatious, and according to the IRS records, unemployed.
Like the guy in the movie Traffic, my godfather fled. He was apparently in South America for a few years living with a surgically reconstructed face and spending his days painting. He was always interested in art. He turned himself in four years later, did about four years time and became a pious Christian. I used to get letters from him. I haven't seen him since.
A few days ago I was on my way to Miami on I-95. I passed the exit for Hwy 714, Martin Hwy. I thought back to when I was 19, my godfather, me and few others posed for a photo standing in front of the Hwy 714 sign. It was the number that was on the Quaalude. We all thought this was amusing at the time. Now it seems more aligned to wearing a pot leaf on your t-shirt. I barely I want to admit to my participation in such inside joking.
Shortly after my godfather became a fugitive, I moved into my father's place on the intercoastal in Pompano. I spent my days looking for an escape. I became paranoid about being raided, I think justifiably. Suitcases of cash were stacked in my father's bedroom. If I wanted to go to the store, I opened a suitcase and took some money out.
I tried to get a job on a ship or a cruise boat or anything. I didn't have my own money. I ended up going for a last resort option. I joined the Army. It was a shorter stint than any of the other military branches. I was too young for Vietnam, but I had vowed early on if the war was still going when I turned 18, I would burn my draft card and go to Canada. I had done a book report in the 10th grade on Abbie Hoffman's Revolution For The Hell Of It. I was the most imperfect candidate for the military.
The recruiter promised me a slot in military intelligence. I was already aware of the oximoron. My father was pissed. He said it was the waste of my mind.
I barely listened to the recruiter's attempts to pursuade me. I had already made up my mind up. He took me to some equivalent to the Sizzler Steak House. It was funny, because I'd been eating at the most expensive restaurant's in South Florida.
The recruiter gave me a ride home. I don't remember why I needed a ride, my father had several cars and I had a car.
We pulled into my fathers driveway. The dark blue Cadillac limo that my father had received as a collateral payment on a debt was in the driveway, along with his Mercedes, his van and a motorcyle. He had two lots. Some bikinied beauties were wandering around the yard, some others could be seen on his 45' yacht. The recruiters jaw had started lower as we turned into the neighborhood. We sat in the driveway. A couple of women waived to me. The recruiter looked over to me completely slack jawed and asked, "you live here?" "Yeh, it's my dad's place." "Why do you want to join the Army? I'm from a poor family in Arkansas. It was my best opportunity.You're joining the Army?" "Yeh. I need a change."
I saw my father in Pompano this week. His existence is Spartan. He spent his money on drugs and alcohol. He doesn't seem bitter at all. He said to me the other day. "I've never needed much."
Occassionally I was asked to leave the house for a few days, when a shipment was coming in. I wanted to be a smuggler. My father made sure that I didn't get involved. My life goals were not beyond the immediate. I think I wanted to be Jack Kerouac or Bob Dylan when I was 19.
I got a phone call one morning while I was staying in the servants quarters. It was really early around 5AM. My father was calling from a fish camp on Sebastian Inlet. He said you need to come get me. He gave instructions of where to park and wait for him to come out of the woods. I didn't ask any questions. I pulled up to the fishcamp, he came out of the woods wearing all black, with black shoe polish on his face. He jumped in, wiped his face off with a beach towel I had in the back seat (I was a surfer. I always had beach towels).
I want to give the ride back a soundtrack. I keep thinking Neil Young's Hello Cowgirl In The Sand was playing from my eight track player. I remember my father telling me to turn it down. He explained to me how the boat broke down a few feet from the shore. "We lost shitload of pot." I'm not sure how much a shitload is. I didn't ask, specifics seemed irrelevant. I'd remembered him telling me how he'd left a Cessna 402 full of dope on a Georgia highway. I asked him what happened when the cops found the plane, couldn't they trace it back? He laughed. "Good luck with that shit. If they can find out who the owner of Just Messin' Around Inc. is, they can, it's my Cayman Island company. The Cayman Island people will tell them to fuck off."
A few weeks later I was told to go away for a few days. I went up to my friends trailer just north of Sebastian Inlet where I had picked my dad up. I lived off of peanut butter and honey sandwiches, beer, pot and surfing.
I called my father a few days later. He said I could come back. We met up at Skyline Chili in Ft. Lauderdale or maybe it's Pompano. My father was late as usual. I didn't care. I always have reading material on me. Sometimes I'm glad when people are late, I read.
My father was visibly preoccupied when he walked into Skyline. A few minutes later, he told me my godfather was busted with some ungodly amount of Quaaludes. I keep thinking the number was 100,000. I'm not sure if that was it. A few months earlier he had been busted with 10 tons of pot. He used his lawyer training to get off on a technicality. The feds were watching him pretty closely. There were so many above the radar types in South Florida at that time. He was discreet about his business activities, yet ostentatious, and according to the IRS records, unemployed.
Like the guy in the movie Traffic, my godfather fled. He was apparently in South America for a few years living with a surgically reconstructed face and spending his days painting. He was always interested in art. He turned himself in four years later, did about four years time and became a pious Christian. I used to get letters from him. I haven't seen him since.
A few days ago I was on my way to Miami on I-95. I passed the exit for Hwy 714, Martin Hwy. I thought back to when I was 19, my godfather, me and few others posed for a photo standing in front of the Hwy 714 sign. It was the number that was on the Quaalude. We all thought this was amusing at the time. Now it seems more aligned to wearing a pot leaf on your t-shirt. I barely I want to admit to my participation in such inside joking.
Shortly after my godfather became a fugitive, I moved into my father's place on the intercoastal in Pompano. I spent my days looking for an escape. I became paranoid about being raided, I think justifiably. Suitcases of cash were stacked in my father's bedroom. If I wanted to go to the store, I opened a suitcase and took some money out.
I tried to get a job on a ship or a cruise boat or anything. I didn't have my own money. I ended up going for a last resort option. I joined the Army. It was a shorter stint than any of the other military branches. I was too young for Vietnam, but I had vowed early on if the war was still going when I turned 18, I would burn my draft card and go to Canada. I had done a book report in the 10th grade on Abbie Hoffman's Revolution For The Hell Of It. I was the most imperfect candidate for the military.
The recruiter promised me a slot in military intelligence. I was already aware of the oximoron. My father was pissed. He said it was the waste of my mind.
I barely listened to the recruiter's attempts to pursuade me. I had already made up my mind up. He took me to some equivalent to the Sizzler Steak House. It was funny, because I'd been eating at the most expensive restaurant's in South Florida.
The recruiter gave me a ride home. I don't remember why I needed a ride, my father had several cars and I had a car.
We pulled into my fathers driveway. The dark blue Cadillac limo that my father had received as a collateral payment on a debt was in the driveway, along with his Mercedes, his van and a motorcyle. He had two lots. Some bikinied beauties were wandering around the yard, some others could be seen on his 45' yacht. The recruiters jaw had started lower as we turned into the neighborhood. We sat in the driveway. A couple of women waived to me. The recruiter looked over to me completely slack jawed and asked, "you live here?" "Yeh, it's my dad's place." "Why do you want to join the Army? I'm from a poor family in Arkansas. It was my best opportunity.You're joining the Army?" "Yeh. I need a change."
I saw my father in Pompano this week. His existence is Spartan. He spent his money on drugs and alcohol. He doesn't seem bitter at all. He said to me the other day. "I've never needed much."
Sunday, October 21, 2007
Miami
Miami. I'm going back Wednesday for a few days.
In the process of getting plenty of documentary footage of the noise scene, I was recruited by the shadow puppet ladies for a performance. I was asked to be a part of their shadow puppet show while the Laundry Room Squelchers played. The thought crossed my mind that I might be violated, or at least I hoped so. I was the only male puppeteer. The performance was improv. I don't have the video footage of it, but I'm sure there would be a general agreement that it doesn't look like the work of grown ups. I used one of those stuffed horses on a stick as a prop for awhile. I ended up giving several female performers piggy back rides while the light cast our shadow to the audience and the squelchers supplied a chaotic soundtrack. The sheet was pulled down eventually exposing us. There was plenty of unabashed butt slapping, faux mayhem inappropiate laughter and puddles of sweat. It gets hot on Churchill's outdoor backstage, but I was not violated.
On the way over to Little Haiti, where Churchill's is located Mr. B a drummer who plays in several bands from several barely related genre's told us how he had met a man, the topic of the hour, with many aliases, who was apparently dubious in every way. There were plenty of stories of get rich quick schemes, bad art, couch surfing, speculation of axes to grind, auxillary personalities, hero worship and poorly articulated dreams.
He met the man whose real name is still a mystery, from a domanatix acquaintance, "she's Asian", B. said, stressing that Asian domanatrix's are in demand and that they are tougher to find than one might suspect.
I admit my knowledge of supply and demand is rudimentary so I didn't delve. I don't want to look stupid.
In the process of getting plenty of documentary footage of the noise scene, I was recruited by the shadow puppet ladies for a performance. I was asked to be a part of their shadow puppet show while the Laundry Room Squelchers played. The thought crossed my mind that I might be violated, or at least I hoped so. I was the only male puppeteer. The performance was improv. I don't have the video footage of it, but I'm sure there would be a general agreement that it doesn't look like the work of grown ups. I used one of those stuffed horses on a stick as a prop for awhile. I ended up giving several female performers piggy back rides while the light cast our shadow to the audience and the squelchers supplied a chaotic soundtrack. The sheet was pulled down eventually exposing us. There was plenty of unabashed butt slapping, faux mayhem inappropiate laughter and puddles of sweat. It gets hot on Churchill's outdoor backstage, but I was not violated.
On the way over to Little Haiti, where Churchill's is located Mr. B a drummer who plays in several bands from several barely related genre's told us how he had met a man, the topic of the hour, with many aliases, who was apparently dubious in every way. There were plenty of stories of get rich quick schemes, bad art, couch surfing, speculation of axes to grind, auxillary personalities, hero worship and poorly articulated dreams.
He met the man whose real name is still a mystery, from a domanatix acquaintance, "she's Asian", B. said, stressing that Asian domanatrix's are in demand and that they are tougher to find than one might suspect.
I admit my knowledge of supply and demand is rudimentary so I didn't delve. I don't want to look stupid.
Friday, October 19, 2007
Rat Bastard
Rat Bastard is the godfather of the Miami noise scene. Yesterday Greg Leibowitz and I were headed to the discount car rental place by the airport. We were on our way to see Rat.
I was feeling a litle light headed. I had been loading some things into my hatchback, and banged the top of my head on the bottom of the hatchback. A few seconds later, I felt something on my forehead. I rubbed it thinking it was sweat. It was blood. I walked into my bathroom and saw blood running down my forehead. I took a clean towel and held it on the wound. I was already running late to pick up Greg, but I was wondering if I might die.
I stopped bleeding for the most part a few minutes later. My bathroom looked like a crime scene, so I had to clean it up.
I have some hypochodria tendencies. The thing about being a hypochondriac is that it's hard to tell whether your worries are rational. Anyway that was yesterday. The cut looks a lot better. It's a little difficult to see it through my mop of hair, that has been mistaken for a wig (see, Are You Wearing A Wig?).
We're listening to old Miami noise, and getting a lesson fron Rat on the history of it, and getting lots of sidebar info. This is good because Greg, Nelson Hallonquist and I are making a documentary of the Miami noise scene. Rat has all kinds of stories like the guy holding a gun to his head threatening to kill him, if he doesn't stop playing. He kept playing. The guy came back a week later and said"sorry about last week I was really drunk."
I was feeling a litle light headed. I had been loading some things into my hatchback, and banged the top of my head on the bottom of the hatchback. A few seconds later, I felt something on my forehead. I rubbed it thinking it was sweat. It was blood. I walked into my bathroom and saw blood running down my forehead. I took a clean towel and held it on the wound. I was already running late to pick up Greg, but I was wondering if I might die.
I stopped bleeding for the most part a few minutes later. My bathroom looked like a crime scene, so I had to clean it up.
I have some hypochodria tendencies. The thing about being a hypochondriac is that it's hard to tell whether your worries are rational. Anyway that was yesterday. The cut looks a lot better. It's a little difficult to see it through my mop of hair, that has been mistaken for a wig (see, Are You Wearing A Wig?).
We're listening to old Miami noise, and getting a lesson fron Rat on the history of it, and getting lots of sidebar info. This is good because Greg, Nelson Hallonquist and I are making a documentary of the Miami noise scene. Rat has all kinds of stories like the guy holding a gun to his head threatening to kill him, if he doesn't stop playing. He kept playing. The guy came back a week later and said"sorry about last week I was really drunk."
That Was Back When I Was In College
"I had a friend in college who died. He couldn't afford a regular funeral, so we gave him a Viking funeral." This was told to me in ubermonotone, by an acquaintance. I'm reluctant to call her an acquaintance. I know her.
"Is that legal?" Asked acquaintance number two. I'm only slightly more comfortable calling him an acquaintance.
"No it's not legal. We sold his body to the medical school, because he was in premed. Then one of the guys in the medical school gave the body to us, so that we could give our friend a Viking funeral."
"Wait, what's a Viking funeral again, and why is illegal?"
"It's when you take a body to sea, burn it along with the boat. It's totally illegal."
"But why?"
I stepped in on this one. I have to claim that I had some accountability in getting this conversation going. I was telling the guy that I saw a casket next to a dumpster the other day, so she stepped in with the Viking funeral bit.
My response to, "But why?" "You ever watch the Sopranos? You don't want people coming by your house to pick you prematurely for your own Viking funeral, do you?"
"No shit." His responds and laughs.
"Yeh that was back when I was in college, in the 80's. I did some crazy shit." She explained.
"Is that legal?" Asked acquaintance number two. I'm only slightly more comfortable calling him an acquaintance.
"No it's not legal. We sold his body to the medical school, because he was in premed. Then one of the guys in the medical school gave the body to us, so that we could give our friend a Viking funeral."
"Wait, what's a Viking funeral again, and why is illegal?"
"It's when you take a body to sea, burn it along with the boat. It's totally illegal."
"But why?"
I stepped in on this one. I have to claim that I had some accountability in getting this conversation going. I was telling the guy that I saw a casket next to a dumpster the other day, so she stepped in with the Viking funeral bit.
My response to, "But why?" "You ever watch the Sopranos? You don't want people coming by your house to pick you prematurely for your own Viking funeral, do you?"
"No shit." His responds and laughs.
"Yeh that was back when I was in college, in the 80's. I did some crazy shit." She explained.
Thursday, October 18, 2007
I've Never Seen La Chinoise
When I was ten years old I played my first year of little league baseball. I lived in Detroit with my family. We were there for a couple of years, because of my father's job.
I was horrible. I didn't really understand the concept of hitting a baseball. I became a decent hitter later on. My brother said that my batting stance didn't really resemble any major leaguer's, it was more like something inanimate, say furniture. I used to look back and imagine myself looking like I was waiting for a transmission from somewhere else.
Today I read in the latest New Yorker that Jean Luc-Godard's 1967 Maoist film La Chinoise is showing in New York City. This reminded me of a story regarding transmissions from somewhere else that I read years ago.
I read about Godard using an earpiece to feed Anne Wiazemsky her lines in La Chinoise. I'm not even sure if it's true. I think it is. I've read more recently that Godard used this technique with several non-actors. The motivation for the transmissions was that an actor will look startled or confused while listening to the incoming message. This could be an asset during certain scenes.
I've never seen La Chinoise, but there is supposed to be an earpiece aided scene, where Wiazemsky has a political debate with another actor. I've heard jokes about politicians going their entire career receiving similar transmissions. I think they were jokes.
I was horrible. I didn't really understand the concept of hitting a baseball. I became a decent hitter later on. My brother said that my batting stance didn't really resemble any major leaguer's, it was more like something inanimate, say furniture. I used to look back and imagine myself looking like I was waiting for a transmission from somewhere else.
Today I read in the latest New Yorker that Jean Luc-Godard's 1967 Maoist film La Chinoise is showing in New York City. This reminded me of a story regarding transmissions from somewhere else that I read years ago.
I read about Godard using an earpiece to feed Anne Wiazemsky her lines in La Chinoise. I'm not even sure if it's true. I think it is. I've read more recently that Godard used this technique with several non-actors. The motivation for the transmissions was that an actor will look startled or confused while listening to the incoming message. This could be an asset during certain scenes.
I've never seen La Chinoise, but there is supposed to be an earpiece aided scene, where Wiazemsky has a political debate with another actor. I've heard jokes about politicians going their entire career receiving similar transmissions. I think they were jokes.
Wednesday, October 17, 2007
Are You Wearing A Wig?
I left off in my previous post with the kid from the blue mini-van having a celebratory hug on returning to kindergarten from his fifth suspension in five weeks.
The kid that he was hugging could be called his protege. He has taken to growling and throwing things at adults too. The first week I was at the school, the protege just sat and stared at me for awhile. Then he said. "Are you wearing a wig?" I said. "No." "Are you sure you're not wearing a wig?" "Yes, I'm sure." "I think you're wearing a wig." "I'm not." "Can I touch your hair." "No." "I think you're wearing a wig. Do you drink beer?" "No teacher's don't drink beer." "Yeh right."
The kid that he was hugging could be called his protege. He has taken to growling and throwing things at adults too. The first week I was at the school, the protege just sat and stared at me for awhile. Then he said. "Are you wearing a wig?" I said. "No." "Are you sure you're not wearing a wig?" "Yes, I'm sure." "I think you're wearing a wig." "I'm not." "Can I touch your hair." "No." "I think you're wearing a wig. Do you drink beer?" "No teacher's don't drink beer." "Yeh right."
A Blue Mini-Van
I was driving down Magnolia, by the downtown library and I saw this kid in a blue mini-van waving to me, smiling, yelling "Look it's Mr. Greene." Then I recognized the kid.
One of the ways I've been making a living is substitute teaching. I was at an inner city school for three weeks. I was a teachers aid for some of it. One of my jobs was to keep an eye on this second time around kindergartner, it was the kid in the blue mini-van. He had headbutted his teacher a few days before I stepped in. His teacher is a young woman in her first year of teaching. I think the feeling was that a man might be a more intimidating figure, and that this kid would settle down. Nobody asked if I had any experience with kids. I worked on instincts, which I found were useless with medicated hyperactive kids.
The last week that I was at the school, the kids mom came into the classroom, right before school started. She said. "You must be Mr. Greene. My son says you're his best friend in the school." I looked over to the young teacher. She was grinning, probably thinking back to when the kid threw a stack of bowls at me, or the pencils or pulled the map down over my head, or maybe the many times he told us that he hated us. Usually the I hate you was balanced with you're my friend a little later or earlier. He also liked to growl at me and everyone else.
The day after his mother visited, he went into the bathroom and wouldn't come out and go to music class. I was asked to stand outside the bathroom door until the behavioral specialist came. The behavioral specialist came and ordered the kid out of the bathroom. The kid was crying and hit me in the chest. It didn't hurt, he's five, but he was immediatley suspended.
A couple of days later his mother was walking him into school, holding his hand. He had just finished his suspension. They both looked towards me walking down the hall. His mother said to him, "Tell Mr. Greene you're sorry."
The kid looked down at the ground and said very quietly. "Sorry Mr. Greene." Then he saw one his friends from class and yelled his name. They hugged each other celebrating the kids return.
One of the ways I've been making a living is substitute teaching. I was at an inner city school for three weeks. I was a teachers aid for some of it. One of my jobs was to keep an eye on this second time around kindergartner, it was the kid in the blue mini-van. He had headbutted his teacher a few days before I stepped in. His teacher is a young woman in her first year of teaching. I think the feeling was that a man might be a more intimidating figure, and that this kid would settle down. Nobody asked if I had any experience with kids. I worked on instincts, which I found were useless with medicated hyperactive kids.
The last week that I was at the school, the kids mom came into the classroom, right before school started. She said. "You must be Mr. Greene. My son says you're his best friend in the school." I looked over to the young teacher. She was grinning, probably thinking back to when the kid threw a stack of bowls at me, or the pencils or pulled the map down over my head, or maybe the many times he told us that he hated us. Usually the I hate you was balanced with you're my friend a little later or earlier. He also liked to growl at me and everyone else.
The day after his mother visited, he went into the bathroom and wouldn't come out and go to music class. I was asked to stand outside the bathroom door until the behavioral specialist came. The behavioral specialist came and ordered the kid out of the bathroom. The kid was crying and hit me in the chest. It didn't hurt, he's five, but he was immediatley suspended.
A couple of days later his mother was walking him into school, holding his hand. He had just finished his suspension. They both looked towards me walking down the hall. His mother said to him, "Tell Mr. Greene you're sorry."
The kid looked down at the ground and said very quietly. "Sorry Mr. Greene." Then he saw one his friends from class and yelled his name. They hugged each other celebrating the kids return.
Tuesday, October 16, 2007
A Casket Next To The Dumpster
Yesterday, I was driving on some back road that connects to Alt. 19 just north of the Tarpon Springs bridge. About a half a mile before Alt. 19 I saw a casket next to the dumpster of a warehouse. I forget how big those things are. It looked about eight feet long, made of white metal. I didn't get out and touch it or open it like some of my friends suggested. My friend Alex said I should throw it in the back of my hatchback and ride the two hours to Orlando with it sticking out. I ignored this suggestion, but thought about it a little when he mentioned selling it on craigslist. I don't want to draw anymore attention to myself.
I made my way through Tampa back to Orlando. I stopped and got some baked goods at the huge 24 hour Cuban bakery on Florida Avenue near Hillsborough Avenue. I ate lunch at Nick's diner down the street. It's an authentic diner, looks like it was manufactured by Airstream. I overheard a guy a few booths down say. "I can look at a copy of my MRI an tell you exactly what part of my brain is missing."
I made my way through Tampa back to Orlando. I stopped and got some baked goods at the huge 24 hour Cuban bakery on Florida Avenue near Hillsborough Avenue. I ate lunch at Nick's diner down the street. It's an authentic diner, looks like it was manufactured by Airstream. I overheard a guy a few booths down say. "I can look at a copy of my MRI an tell you exactly what part of my brain is missing."
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