What's Next?

It's been over two months since I've posted anything. I had considered deleting my blog. I hate to sound like a cliche, but I started to wonder what motivates me to blog, or to tell my story. Hopefully anyone that's attempted to tell their story has had a similar introspection (cliche?).

Last week I had a garage sale that was hosted by comic Gene Slacks. The Orlando Weekly blogged about the event, and referenced my blog. Anyway, it said something like if you want to know more about Pat Greene, read his blog. I thought, man I'm one of those slack asses that write something every once in awhile. So maybe I better think of something to say, force something out. I'm not sure I've ever been speechless.

In 1988 I went to London with a thousand bucks and a one-way ticket. I returned with some reluctance fifteen months later, following several menial under the table jobs, romances, journal entries, tramping most of western and some of eastern Europe, dipping into the Middle East and Northern Africa. I felt like I was on another planet when I returned. I didn't have any urge to kiss the ground upon my return. I was bored. Everyone seemed to be confused and in a hurry. I missed having real dinner's with real food and real conversations. I've sussed out some of that here over the years.

When Henry Miller returned to the states after nearly ten years of being an expatriate, he traveled the US by car, documenting his trip in his book Air Conditioned Nightmare. I read that book after returning. I felt like I had an ally. I had channeled him when I was sleeping on the bank of the Seine, smoking hash with some Algerians.

I remember telling people about my adventures after my return. I would hear things, like oh I don't want to travel like that. I want to travel in style. What does that mean? I don't know. Now I'm telling my story, like it or not.

The first four months of my journey were in London. I was a waiter at a Bistro,the Arc in Nottinghill Gate, worked construction for an Irish construction company in Wimbledon, painted an office building in Trafalgar Square.

About half way into my stay in London,broke, getting nervous, I learned to live with it later. I went with a friend to London Bridge Hospital. We volunteered for drug testing. We were supposed to get something like the equivalent of a thousand bucks to test some antihistamine.

At first I thought this was a crazy way to earn money. Then my friend eloquently stated,"You've done every other fucking drug, this is a fucking antihistamine." Maybe the idea of experimenting with something that lacks narcotic or psychoactive appeal wasn't worth the risk to me. I decided to go through with it anyway.

At orientation there were about thirty of us. The nurse told us that statistically speaking that one of us would not be accepted after all the pre-testing. We were EEGed, EKGed, scopes going everywhere. The examination was most thorough I've had before or since.

A couple of days later I get a call that something was wrong with my brainwaves (that's may be evident to everyone else). I think the call was made on a Monday. I was told to come in Friday to discuss it. They wouldn't tell me anything else on the phone.

Those days in between the phone call and the appointment, were full of self reflection and absorption. I could barely converse unless it was related to my fate. What if I have a brain tumor or Lou Gehrig's disease? I was no expert on physiology, so my references may have bordered on ridiculous. I thought a lot about religion. Should I adopt a faith? Maybe I would have to do it quickly. Could I wait until I'm in some sort of purgatorial situation? I kept thinking of all those jokes about getting to purgatory along with a priest, Dolly Parton etc..

Friday came, the doctor told me I have benign epilepsy, more commonly known as absence epilepsy. It's a non-convulsive epilepsy. I would fade out a little, as my brain sort of misfired.

The doctor asked me if I wanted to go on some medication. I opted not to. I figured that I'd gone a long time without it. I wasn't driving in Europe.

Six years later, I'm back in the states, working in an environmental lab for the county, in my third year of co-habitation with my then girlfriend Kathy. She was complaining that I was fading. I took advantage of my HMO and went to the doctor. I told them the story of the hospital in London. They thought I made it up and tried to send me to counseling. My father surmised that it's cheaper to send me to counseling. I called everyone's boss, until I got the treatment that asked for. I still don't know why they thought I made the story up. As my father says if people don't believe the stories about your life, you must be doing something interesting.

When I finally got to see a neurologist, Kathy and I had broken up. The neurologist wanted to talk to anyone that I was really close to, like a girlfriend. Kathy and I still got along, she agreed to talk to the doctor. When he asked about my behavioral traits, she said, "he seems fine for awhile, then I'll say something, he seems to be somewhere else, then he might look at me, and ask, what's next?"

We're Still Here

John Benson, the owner of "the bus" is coming to town Friday. I've only briefly met him, Greg is our connection to him. We never did the show to nowhere. The destination, also known as nowhere was unavailable. Did that make any sense?

I think John will be here for a little over a week. Greg says there are plans to do a show around town with a local band. After that, the bus heads towards Maine, then across country back to Oakland. I wanted to ride to Maine and beyond, but some responsibilities at home will keep me here. In the meantime I've booked Athens Georgia's Melted Men for June 13th and Sunburned Hand Of The Man for October 10th. I don't have a venue for either yet. I might do the Melted Men show at Stardust. They haven't toured in five years, so they've lost some of their following, I think.

I went to Benoit Glazer's big white house the other day to witness a great performance by Benoit his wife and kids playing a composition by Pulitizer Prize winning composer David Lang. David Lang was in attendance along with one of my favorite artists Mark Dion. They are visiting artists at the Atlantic Center For The Arts. I did a residency there in 2001. I think about that place all the time. I've remained close to the other artists, even though they are scattered around the country.

Orlando isn't exactly a cultural hot spot, sometimes it's awful, but you can occasionally find something interesting or you have to do it yourself.

The Road To Nowhere

It was 9:57AM.I woke up on Alex's couch in his garage/shop, an American flag draped across my body. I looked around and saw the conveyor dryer that I helped him fetch in Charleston, it seemed to be taking up a lot of space. The end of the belt was a few feet from my head. A Miller beer can made into a pipe was sitting on the floor underneath the belt. I remembered smoking pot with Alex. I think Alex has smoked pot less than twenty times in his life. I have no idea how many times I've smoked. The funny thing is, I hadn't smoked in a year and a half before my fiftieth birthday in January. Lately I've smoked quite a bit. I want to sing the praises of marijuana, like someone who has connected to some religion, I want to tell others, smoke some reefer, it eases traffic congestion, maybe you'll rethink some of those goals that you were never really interested in, but you think are good for you.

I'm fifty. Wow. I remember Alex saying to me in between hits, "you are clearly going to live until at least ninety, look at you". Of course we were stoned.

The night was incredible, adjectives wouldn't be sufficient to wrap up the details, the vibe or any other part of the evening. Neptune played on "The Bus". Neptune is a band that started as a sculpture project. They had one guitar that looked like a medieval torture device. A couple of people estimated it weighs 50 lbs.. I picked it up and I think that estimate is about right.

Mark drove the bus down Orange Blossom Trail (Hwy. 441). we tried our best to make a route that ended up in the Hoops parking lot as the band played its encore. Hoops is the dive bar where we began the trip. Our timing wasn't even close. That sort of precision may be easier in a world that is more regimented, a more corporate music world. We ended up going near Apopka and heading to George's Hideaway on N. Edgewater. We ran into our friends John and Courtney. It seemed like a crazy coincidence, running into people we knew in a another dive bar outside of town. Just before we pulled into George's we were pulled over by a cop. I didn't get out of the bus, but according to accounts by Mark, Alex and Greg the cop seemed stunned by the bus. The bus looks like a post-apocalyptic vehicle ala Road Warrior. Noise streamed out into the street as the band continued to play. Alex ran into the bus, in the middle of the cops questioning. He said. "The cop wants the band to stop, but they sound so fucking good, I can't ask them to stop." The music continued. The band later said they didn't know we'd been pulled over. The cop asked Mark, "What is going on here? What is this?" Mark said it's a private party. I've known Mark since 10th grade Spanish class. I can't picture anything but a deadpand delivery from him. Mark was wearing a bus driver uniform shirt with an American flag on the sleeve, he had a few days of stubble on his face and red suede hush puppies on. The shirt was from an actual bus driving job he'd had, but it all looked very thriftshop.

We were pulled over for not having tail lights. I think there was some sort of toggle switch inside that solved that problem. He also warned us about noise violations. The cop ended up letting us go. Mark later said getting pulled over was the highlight of the trip. In retrospect I agree. If he or any of us had been busted, maybe not.

We were going to have a second show. There was some agreement against that idea, mostly by the band. I think they were getting little shocks from electrical shorts or at least that's what I heard via someone else. I was at a post-decision making point. I had been drinking, later I compounded it with pot. I'm a lightweight with pot.

After parking the bus in Greg's yard and knocking parts of his and the neighbors fence down, Alex and I bicycled to the Hideaway. We split a pitcher of Blue Moon. It may not have been necessary, but we drank and soon after smoked.

In two weeks we're planning another bus trip. I think it's going to be called "The Show To Nowhere." Freddie and Johnny's psychedelic, soundtrackish band will play on the bus. We're telling everyone to bring sleeping bags and tents. We'll probably leave Friday night and come back Saturday night. We're not telling anyone where we're going.

Degrees Of Seperation

"We need to talk to someone, who's not a sailor or frat boy, to see what's going on around here." Alex said to me. I was thinking pretty much the same thing. We were both visiting Charleston, SC for the first time.

Alex was right. Five minutes later we were drinking beers with Jake and another Alex. They had guided us to the Upperdeck bar. Jake said he'd been on "The Bus", the mobile venue that the band Neptune is playing on Thursday. He said he spent a few months in Oakland, and met John Benson the proprietor of the venue. Jake also knew what's yr. damage?, Greg, Nelson and Adam Wood's longtime band. I have played with them at least one time that I can remember.

The next night we were planning on going to the warehouse show where local noise maker's Small Pox were playing. We arrived around 11:30PM, the show was already over. We headed back to the Upperdeck, trying out a couple of other bars. Earlier we were drinking at a ghetto bar named Frankie's, $2 for 24 ounce High Life's. It wasn't a special deal.

After last call, Alex decided to go deep into the ghetto to get some more beer. Genna a young woman from the hostel had joined us. She said this is supposed to be the 7th most dangerous neighborhood in the country. Genna and I sat in the truck watching Alex interact with the locals inside. We wished we could hear, but we didn't make any effort to get closer. Alex exited giving a beer a piece to two guys walking around the convenience store. Then it became apparent that a middle aged black man was hassling Alex for a beer. He said he would take one of our bags that were in the back of the truck if Alex didn't give him a beer. He warned Alex that he is not in his element. Alex told him to fuck off or something like that. The guy persisted. Alex then sternly said, "Mr. Greene could you step out of the truck." I got out and stood on the other side of the truck. The guy seemed pretty intimidated. He left saying something like I'm kidding. We ended up back at the hostel sitting on the porch until around 3:30AM drinking beers with some girl who said she couldn't get a room. She seemed a little sketchy. Alex said she looked pregnant.

The next morning we went to Rutledge's Coffee House for breakfast. Then we met up with the guy who sold Alex a conveyor dryer for his screen print shop. Alex found him on Craigslist. The guy told us plenty of stories. He had several creative revenge stories. He told us a guy tried to screw him over and wouldn't pay him, so he hired a private investigator to follow him. It turned out the investigated guy was sleeping with three other women other than his wife, one was a prostitute. Our guy sent photos to his wife, she filed for divorce. Then our guy placed an ad on craigslist under man seeking man. It said something like happily married guy who likes occasional cock. Our guy had the ad directed to his phone, so he could field the phone calls. A guy responded. Our guy told him, one of my fantasies is to have someone show up at my place of business and pull their cock out. The respondee said that he had always fantasized about doing that very same thing. Our guy told him to show up Friday at 2PM when all the employees are out cashing their checks. Friday the guy whipped his dick out as scheduled. When the whole thing went to court, the guy told the judge about the a guy whipping his dick out at his place of business, under the guidance of our guy. The judge said that sounds a little far fetched. Our guy won the case. They still live two blocks away from each other in a gated community.

The Field Trip

Yesterday evening I saw a truck pulling a pontoon boat past the 7-11 down Mills on the corner of Virginia. There isn't anything unusual about that, except for the timing.

Earlier that day I went on a field trip with Jane and her brother Neal or it might be Neil, he shares a birthday with me, although, he's in his mid-20's. Anyway I'm drifting.

We made plans Saturday night, to go to Geneva, Florida the next day (Sunday) to see the grave of Lewis Powell, one the people involved in the Lincoln assassination conspiracy. Powell also known by his alias, Lewis Payne was supposed to take out Secretary of State William Seward, as a part of a holistic slaughter designed to knock off the top of the chain of command. Seward was stabbed in the face by Powell's Bowie knife, ended up disfigured but lived seven more years continuing to serve as Secretary of State to Andrew Johnson, who also survived, after George Atzerodt got nervous, drunk then wandered the streets throwing his knife into the road and failed to follow through on his assignment to kill Johnson.

I think there were a total of 16 Confederate soldiers buried in the Geneva Cemetery. We saw several with small souvenir shop type Confederate flags next to their tombstones. The flags were fairly fresh. Powell and couple others had plaques next to them placed by the Daughter's Of The Confederacy. We also saw some creepy looking contemporary tombstones with high school yearbook photos, hyper real etchings, air boats, deers and water logged stuffed animals lying around like flood victims.

After leaving the cemetery, we decided to head east on Hwy. 46 towards the St. Johns River to get a beer. We drank a couple of beers and had some undercooked conch fritters at the Jolly Gator fish camp.

On the way over we pulled into Fort Lane park. We read the plaque on the beach of Lake Harney. It stated that Fort Lane is named for Colonel Lane 1810-1836. He was a mathematics and philosophy professor prior fighting in the Second Seminole War.

When I got home from our field trip. I looked up Colonel Lane or John Foote Lane. He entered West Point at 13, graduated at 18. He was a professor, engineer and a soldier. He also received a posthumous patent for inventing the pontoon boat. He died at 26, after getting encephalitis, then going insane he put a sword through his head. I felt a little tense when I saw that truck pulling a pontoon boat down Mills avenue.

Can You Break A Twenty?

May of 2006, I was in Knoxville. I had a voicemail that said something like this is Leon's sister in New York. My number is 1-800 something, call me Leon wants to tell you about something, but he doesn't have long distance on his phone.

Leon is a friend of mine. He owns a coffee shop in Cherokee, NC, which is very close to Knoxville. I had never met Leon's sister and wasn't aware of her. When I finally reached Leon, he said, I know this may seem off the wall, but that's why I'm relaying it to you. He then told me that the touristy Summer stock play Unto These Hills was looking for a few guys to play 1830's American soldiers. Leon gave me a number to call. The next day I was doing a dramatic reading with a guy named Cochise. I got the part. I don't think I had much competition. I was given a small weekly salary and a pretty nice apartment.

I didn't have any lines. I also ended up playing a Spanish monk, a preacher, a member of the spirit clan and I've probably forgotten something. I felt like I immediately achieved outsider status within the ranks of other actors, but not in a way that I was left out of their socializing. I was actually invited to parties all the time. I rarely went. I remember going to the casino that doesn't serve alcohol. Lights were flashing bells ringing and I was stoned. I hadn't been stoned in quite awhile. I won $15.25. I came in with $5 and left with $20.25. I don't think I have the gambling gene. I left high with my money watching the cocktail waitress deliver cokes and sprites.


Unto These Hills is about the U.S. government sanctioned Cherokee removal from the area to Oklahoma, also known as the Trail Of Tears. The production that I was involved in was a new one. One that broke stride from the previous, from what I was told. A lot of people didn't like the new one. I had no point of reference. I had never seen the old one. I would see people in Leon and his fiance Natalie's coffee shop that would talk fondly about the last year and not so fondly about this year. I hung out at the coffee shop, hiked, read and tried to find enjoyment in a place filled with fast food restaurants and souvenir shops. A friend of mine says it looks like International Drive in the mountains. He was referring to the touristy strip heading towards the theme parks in Orlando.


Dr. Matt was an ally I had there. He also played a soldier. He was researching his dissertation for UNC-Chapel Hill. He asked if I had ever seen Herzog's Stroszek. I told him I had VHS pirated copy for years. Matt told me the final scene was in Cherokee. I watched it again when I came back from Cherokee. It's a very tragic episode. Leon told me they used real Cherokee cops for the filming. He said some are still cops here. I got a $140 ticket a couple of days before I left. I still say I wasn't even speeding, but I was in a place that has been hit hard by the white man and now the imperial force of McDonald's, Taco Bell etc. have a comfortable grip on the community. I've heard plenty of people say oh the people that live on the reservation and get plenty of money from the casino's. I know that the amount they get is negligible when your employment opportunities are mostly minimum wage or near there.


It seemed like the critics of the play wanted something more entertaining, which I thought sort of whitewashed the history. Leon told me they're like most of America they want to be entertained, but they do take this history very seriously. Leon told me that some Cherokee's won't use $20 bills because Andrew Jackson's picture is on the bill. He was the man who sent them walking west in horrible conditions, all ages, the healthy the unhealthy. Many died of diseases, exposure, malnourishment and on and on. I've worked as a substitute teacher. I've never seen this addressed in the history books that I've seen in classes. Then again how do you really address history and get the feel of pain, context, nuance or whatever you're trying to convey?

Sorry to return to pop culture of the 60's, the 1960's, but I was just watching a series on PBS about sixties music. They kept showing clips of the bands playing in the sixties and then finishing the segment with a reunion shot of old men in dodgy haircuts that emphasized their age by refusing to let go of something that was romanticized and should now just go away. Revival bands, productions that play the pain down, they employ people. People need to make a living.

Have you seen Stroszek? It's about a foreigner in search of the American dream. It ends in Cherokee.

To The Best Of My Recollection

The way I remember it, I first heard heard I Won't Get Fooled Again by the Who when I was in the eight grade. I also fell in love with Led Zepplin after hearing a new song called Black Dog. I bought the 45, then the album Led Zepplin IV. It's funny how there is still power in those songs when I hear them. I think it's more than nostalgia. I've always felt that I wasn't such a sucker for the sentimentality of the past, but I am a romantic, there does seem to be some conflict. I'll admit to listening to Lou Reed's A Perfect Day thinking back on a day that seemed perfect with a woman that I felt like I like was in love with, but now her memory isn't as clear the song lyrics. I said for years that I Won't Get Fooled Again should be blasting at my funeral. I've also requested second rate comics and dubious parlor tricks. I won't know what's going on, so have at it.

I guess I am a sucker for the sentimental and the nostalgic. I still love what I think of as classic rock. I just love it when I hear something that digs deeper than the standard commercially represented standard fare. I love to hear a Hendrix song that makes me think back to my dig for more than what all the other kids were listening to, the lesser known pieces. I was the only kid I remember who tried to find value in Yoko Ono after the Beatles split. She was very unpopular at the time in populist circles. My search led me to John Cage, Stockhausen, Fluxus, Zen Buddhism, contemporary art and an eventual reexamination of Yoko as an artist.

Sunday I rode my bike over to the Orlando Museum Of Art with Jane. We went to see the Norman Rockwell exhibit. I'm a freelancer at the museum and have been resistant to Rockwell. Lately I've given him a more thorough look, Jane and I listened to the long lecture by a distinguished expert, I think that's how she was introduced, along with educational credentials. The lecture was mostly anecdotal, but gave some insight to a man who was apparently more thoughtful than I thought. He was an active participant in the civil rights movement. There are some very moving works on display, there are plenty of others that strike me as the Americana that I think seems more wishful than actual.

After the lecture that was more accommodating in content than length, Jane and I may have been a little hasty in passing through the exhibit, we were hungry. We rode to my house and ate a late lunch. It was a nice day. I took a break from my cynicism and thought who cares if I'm sentimental, nostalgic or whatever.

Dilated

It's been almost two months since my monumental birthday, but life doesn't seem all that monumental. I spent several hours with dilated pupils today. I had my eyes checked, while my friend David waited around for me and then drove me to Stardust, the local coffee shop, video store, restaurant and now bar. Stardust still has a huge selection of hard to find films and some rare beers too. As I waited for my pupils to recover I drank a Belgian ale. I think it was Belgian. It tasted like that part of the world. I don't remember the name. My vision was still a little foggy and I didn't recognize some people that recognized me. I'm also a little more reclusive than I used to be. I'm not sure what kind of alibi that is.

I'm supposed to get new reading glasses and the doctor asked me if I want some distance glasses. I asked. Do I need them? He said maybe for long night drives and at the theater. Did he say theater? Yes. Does he say that to everyone? It seemed odd. He said your insurance pays for two pairs. I said, yeh I'll take the theater glasses too. He said, you might not need them very often, your right eye is still 20/20, your left is 20/25.

My eyes are clear now. Its been about seven hours since the dilation. I'm craving another Belgian beer or something that tastes Belgian.

MIA

It's been over month since I've posted anything. The conflict of writing what I hope to get published with this forum is probably mostly manufactured by me, but I get distracted.

Lately I've been brewing up some other stuff too. Thursday March 20th, I'm planning a show with plenty of help from some of my usual suspects, Alex and Greg Lebowitz. The band Neptune is coming here. They are on the Table of the Elements label that originated to pay homage to violinst and avant-garde filmmaker Tony Conrad, but have extended way beyond that, recording legends in experimental music Rhys Chatham, Jim O'Rourke, Faust, and the list goes on.

Neptune is a more recent addition. At their inception they were a sculpture project. They have maintained that intention, by playing homemade instruments made of garbage. Regina Greene (no relation) is their booking agent. She also works for Table of the Elements. She is based in Chicago and used to run the great club the Pilot Light in Knoxville. When I was booking for a living I was told about her. Word was out that she was passionate and very knowledgeable about music, but most of all everyone was treated with southern hospitality that is not commonplace on the tour circuit.

We are planning a show that is the perfect marriage of act and venue. Neptune will perform on "The Bus". The Bus is a mobile venue owned by Oakland's John Benson. Greg has temporary custody of this extraordinary show place that is fueled with vegetable oil.

My longtime friend Mark who I met in tenth grade Spanish class will drive the bus. Mark is a middle school science teacher, but he used to moonlight as a bus driver.

We are planning out the logistics. We don't want plan more than we can execute, but we definitely plan on keeping it interesting.

I think we have custody of the bus until May or June. I heard they are headed to Maine after that.

Drinking With Pat And Tom

Only fags pee here... At least that's what someone had written with a sharpie on top of the urinal that I was using yesterday (with the ellipsis). This was the work of one of the middle schooler's where I was subbing or maybe it was a teacher or the custodian. Anyway, I braved the possibility of peeing in a fag zone. My friend Tom, who also calls himself Gay Tom, says "Oh that's so gay, in a bad way, not in the good way."

A couple of months back some guy asked Tom for one of his beers as he left the Handy Pantry. Tom said no. Tom was riding his blue scooter. The guy aggressively said, that scooter should be pink. Tom, said, "Why because I'm a cocksuscker?" The aggressive man just looked to the ground.

Tom has been a good friend of mine for a long time. He hosted my 50th birthday party. About five years ago or so, we were going to see the Japanese band Melt Banana. They are great live act, with the diminutive cute Japanese woman fronting a thrashing noise pop group that executes very precise songs that at first sound thrown together. I've seen them several times. They are very affable, speaking broken English, one of my favorite languages.

Tom and I decided to meet for drinks before the show at the Backbooth bar. We met at the old Bodhisattva Social Club. We also decided to send out press releases and make a poster that simply said, Drinking With Pat and Tom.

When we arrived at Bodhisattva's we went upstairs to the stage and just started to have one of our usual conversations, except we had mikes, but paid no attention to the people in the audience. Some guy, yelled "What time are you going on?" I said, "We are on." Then resumed conversation with Tom as if he were the only person in the room, a couple people were visibly upset. They said they thought we were going do a play. Another guy asked, "Is this one of those avant-garde plays?" Tom and I just kept talking to each other.

A few minutes later that nights DJ came in. He was pissed off at the club. He thought that we had taken over his night. Tom and I decided to go over to the Backbooth.

I had made some banana bread. I have been told that my banana bread is some of the best in the land, but of course I got the recipe from my friend Sandie Walker in Knoxville, she got it from some elderly woman in the small town where she grew up in middle Tennessee. Sandie got word that I was getting lots of credit for this recipe that was passed down from a nice old lady. Sandie, said, "I hope you're not dishonoring this woman by seducing women with banana bread."

I know Sandie would probably really be happy if she found that the bread was acting as an aphrodisiac.

I almost forgot, the reason I started to talk about the banana bread. I made some to give to Melt Banana. Tom made tin foil sculpture to wrap the bread in. We presented the bread to the band before the show. The drummer placed it on top of his bass drum while he played manically. The bread tumbled down soon after the show began.

A couple of months later, somebody told me that Tom and I were mentioned, not by name on the Melt Banana site. It said something like thanks to those two nice boys in Orlando who gave us a tasty cake, named Melt Banana Bread.

Yo Yo

The Guiness World Book of records was one of my favorite books as a kid. I dreamed of eating more eggs, hot dogs or tacos than anyone had ever digested. Maybe I would have a huge growth spurt and grow to be 9' tall, instead of my current 6'2". I wondered if I could live in a buried casket for a few months or break the record for hiccups. I could run pretty fast, maybe I could be the worlds fastest human someday. None of these records are likely at this point.

Friday, I got an email from my friend Rusty telling me that if I go with him to the History Center that I can get a free yo yo. Not only would I get a free yo yo, but I would also have a chance to be one of the participants in an attempt to break a world record, a Guiness World Book of records sanctioned record. The record is, and I admit this sounds a bit dodgy, the most yo yoers in one setting. I guess there are all kinds of verifications that have to be made. I went Saturday and yo yoed with some friends and a bunch of strangers. The girl at the registration desk said we will email you soon to let you know whether you were part of a record.

I guess it's like falling in love. If you really look for it, it won't happen, but it may sneak up on you. I've always been sure that I would be part of a world record, even if I had to invent a category, but I was waiting for an idea to hit me.

A couple of years back my friend and former campaign manager Dave Plotkin tried to break the world record for staying on the radio. I can't remember the exact facts, but I think the old record was around 100 hours. I think he got 110, thinking he broke the record. We found out later that a record in Australia was pending and it was around 120 hours. Dave didn't get the record. The reality hit me about the insanity of these records. Dave became a little delirious after a few days of hosting the radio show. The nurse said that his tongue was starting to swell.

Maybe you are wondering about the comment that Dave was my campaign manager, maybe you're not. Anyway, I will tell you. In 2004 I ran for mayor of Orlando as a write in candidate. My slogan was I don't want to talk about it (sound sort of familiar?). I walked around town looking like my slightly disheveled self, avoiding people. When someone would ask me about my views, I may say, I'm busy. I could have been walking down the street alone, looking at the ground. I spoke at a few places and always had a very attractive woman interpreting what I said into Spanish. My Spanish isn't so great, but I heard one woman say Pat likes beer and women. Yeh, well.

I didn't get any votes, because there wasn't a write-in candidate spot on the Orlando ballot. I think there is one now. Maybe I changed things. One woman asked me my views on gay marriage. I told her, "When I'm mayor I'm going to ban all marriage."

You Say Apatosaurus- I Say Brontonsaurus

The apatosaurus is commonly, but incorrectly identified as the brontosaurus. The discrepancy goes back to 1877 when Othniel Charles Marsh discovered the bones of what he called the apatosaurus, meaning deceptive lizard. Two years later he found another creatures bones, much larger and he thought slightly different. He mistakenly thought he had found an altogether different creature. He called it a brontosaurus, meaning thunder lizard. He actually discovered a juvenile originally and an adult in 1879. Brontosaurus is a name that has taken hold in popular culture. Until 1974 both terms were used, since '74 the official name has been apatosaurus.

When I was a kid Sinclair gas stations used a cartoony version of the dinosaur on it's logo. The gas stations sold bright green little transistor radios in the shape of the apatosaurus. I really wanted one of those radios. I think you might be able to still find one on ebay.

One day we stopped for gas. I asked my father for a dinosaur radio. He said no. My father's good friend Tim went into the station immediately after I was rejected. When he came out he handed me a radio and gave another to my brother. My father was obviously upset about being upstaged, usurped and for another reason that my mother explained to us later that night. Tim had shoplifted the merchandise. My father then became upset with my mother for blowing Tim's cover. Shortly thereafter, I was looking at a necklace with a silver dollar in the middle of some other ornate stuff. Looking back it was probably a hideous piece of jewelry. I mentioned that it would be a nice present for my mother's birthday. Tim presented it to me in the car, and told me to give it to my mother. He told me not to tell her where I got it. I finally broke down and told her, when she kept asking how I could afford it. She stared silently when I said Tim "bought" it.

Tim first came into our lives when I was around five. We lived in an area that bordered Orlando and was still kind of rural. Tim had a pet rattle snake and an alligator. He would jump off the roof of his one story ranch house with a homemade parachute, that didn't really work. It was mostly for theatrics. He used to get drunk and run through the neighborhood wearing a sheet, with nothing underneath, he was usually accompanied by a drunk female sidekick, who was similarly attired. Tim would wave a Bible mockingly yelling intentional blasphemes. Another thing he would do after tormenting wait staffs at dinner would be to pound on the window of the restaurant we were leaving while pressing his bare ass towards the dinner crowd. He was the wildest person I had ever known. My mother seemed terrified, but occasionally charmed by him.
My father seemed to take it all in stride, his behavior wasn't too far off Tim's.

A few years later it became evident that he was far more menacing than charming. He was married for awhile. I'm not sure how long. We lived in Cleveland when I was in the latter part of the fifth grade until Thanksgiving weekend of the sixth grade when we fled the asylum we called home.

Tim followed us to Cleveland with his new wife. I had a bit of a crush on her. I thought she looked like Angie Dickinson. The two were often dinner guests at our house. After my brother and I would go to bed, they would usually get into a shouting match, then Tim would hit her. My father was not much as a father, but my mother said he never hit her, and he barely used any methods of corporal punishment on us. I was very scared and my mother and brother were too. My father, I think was trying to defend his friends character. Then I kept hearing these stories about Tim punching people with barely a reason. These stories were paired by my father telling us that Tim had been a golden gloves boxer and a paratrooper in the Army. I'm not sure if those credentials were supposed make anything O.K., they definitely didn't sit well with three quarters of the family.

After we fled that Thanksgiving weekend, I think I saw Tim a couple of times. When I saw him, it was briefly. He was charming during those brief visits. I almost forgot past horrors. I don't think my father saw much of him either. Tim went to St. Pete. I think he was single again. I heard a story about him talking his way out of a heroin bust. I heard stories that he was touring with the Allman Brother's, not as a musician, but as a buddy. When I was fifteen, my father told us that Tim had passed away. I never got any solid details. The official story was that he died from a self inflicted gunshot in his front yard. My father said, he wasn't the suicide type. He thinks he was murdered. Tim apparently told some shady character's to fuck off, after they wanted the ungodly amount of money he owed them. Tim was smuggling heroin, according to my father. At his funeral a recording of the Allman Brother's Ramblin' Man played followed by Deodato's Also Sprach Zarathustra, the 2001 Space Odyssey theme (his favorite film), my father was our only family member to attend, supposedly 400 people were there.

Yesterday, January 18th would be Tim's birthday. I think he would have been around 69 or 70.

Take Me To The River

In 1967 Detroit police raided the Algiers Motel. The Algiers was a blind pig, in a predominately black neighborhood, it led into one of the bloodiest race riots in US history, now known as the 12th Street riots.

I could hear gunshots from my house. I never saw any of the violence. I was nine years old. At the time it seemed like a distraction from the Detroit Tigers pennant race. They ended up in second place that year. Later I realized that city blocks were razed during the riots, 43 people died, 467 injured, 7,200 arrests were made, over 2000 buildings burned, countless were disenfranchised, almost all of the victims were black.

A year later Martin Luther King was shot in Memphis. There was some more rioting in Detroit, and many other American cities.

The Tigers won the pennant that year and the World Series. There were stars like 30 game winner Denny McLain, hall of famer Al Kaline, perennial all star catcher Bill Freehan and Willie Horton, an African-American who had grown up in the neighborhood of Tiger Stadium. During the 1967 riots Horton went into the crowd with a loud speaker urging people to stop the violence. Willie ended up retreating from the angry mob. The mob normally would have regarded him as a hero. The Tigers were the second to last team to have a black player. Ozzie Virgil became the first black to play for Detroit in 1958, eleven years after Jackie Robinson broke the color barrier. The Boston Red Sox were the last to integrate in 1959.

Along with Horton the 68 Tiger's had a few other black stars, Earl Wilson the slugging pitcher, who just a few years back was the first person of color to pitch for the Red Sox. Gates Brown who had been discovered in prison, went on to become a great pinch hitter and a fan favorite.

It was all very confusing to me when I was nine. Why would anyone shoot Martin Luther King? Wasn't he trying to do good things? My mother told me, sometimes it doesn't matter, people don't always agree on things.

Seven years ago I went to Memphis. I attended Al Green's church. It was a two and a half hour hip shakin', God lovin' session. A chubby short woman, who was probably in her mid 70's kept knocking hips with me. Praise the lord.

The day before, I went to the Lorraine Motel. The motel is a museum now. It's also the place where Martin Luther King was murdered. I went through all the impressive multi-media presentations, the last stop was the room where King spent his last night. You can't go inside the room. I looked through the window at the unmade bed, a half eaten sandwich, an ashtray full of cigarettes, the room was supposed to look like it did the day he died. Then I looked across the parking lot to where the gunman was. I started to shake. Everything suddenly seemed real to me. My eyes welled up. What kind of motherfucker would kill this guy? I couldn't figure it out. I still can't.

Today is his birthday. I think the nation officially observes his birthday Monday.

Shortly After The Epiphany

Yesterday I celebrated my first half a century on this planet.

I was born at 4:48PM in Ft. Lauderdale Florida. I don't remember what the weather was like, probably not to hot or too cold. It was exactly seventeen years after the death of James Joyce. Three years later on that day Wayne Coyne of the Flaming Lips was born. I also share a birthday with two of the most flamboyant game show regulars of the 70's, Rip Taylor and Charles Nelson Reilly. I don't know much about astrology, but I've heard that Capricorns are serious people.

My birthday is exactly a week after the epiphany celebration. My grandmother used to talk about watching the Greek boys dive for the cross in Tarpon Springs as a part of the celebration. She said it was marvelous.

Yesterday I had a party at my friend Tom Ward's house. There is a tiki bar that his shared by the people in the apartment next door. The party went on from noon until around 1:30AM. There were people young old and in between. Some friends played music. My friends Ben and Katie gave me a gift certificate to Cecil's Bar-B-Q. My mother always says, "Your father and I had Bar-B-Q the night before you were born, maybe that's why you like Bar-B-Q so much."
Today I went to lunch with some friends. I used my Bar-B-Q gift certificate.

In Knoxville a few of my friends decided to throw a party in my honor. They made a shrine of a Sunday New York Times, a cup of coffee (these are staples in my life) pictures of me and I'm not sure what else. They know something about me. I got a few happy birthday calls from Knoxville, Miami, New York, Atlanta, San Francisco, Seattle and then I lost track as the keg emptied.

I have no idea what the next half a century has to offer. I'm ready for the offerings. I've seen a good portion of the world. I have a good portion left. I don't plan on getting old even when the numbers indicate otherwise.

As I mentioned earlier, I don't know much about astrology, but Kris Kristofferson wrote a song several years back, called Jesus Was A Capricorn. I'm not very religious either, but I think I'm in good company. Nixon was also a Capricorn. I guess it's all about balance.

un? questionable

un? questionable. It was printed onto a magnetic sign on the side of a beat up pickup truck in the parking lot of the shady hotel in Miami, where I stayed last month. un? questionable, beneath it said, carpet cleaning.

I've had a case of writer's block lately. I've pondered the importance of what I have to say. Here I am saying it, anyway. Last night I went to Brian's benefit downtown. Several bands played, art was auctioned. The money goes towards his hospital bills. I'm not sure how much has been collected yet. I do know Brian has quite a following. I'm among them.

Brian is still in a coma, my mother has colon cancer. She seems to be doing well, she is stoic, but I've seen her breakdown when discussing the unknown. I read and hear that it's the most treatable cancer, but it's still cancer.

I keep thinking about those dreams where I yell and nothing comes out or I try to run, and I seem to be treading water. One of my favorite movies is Fellini's 8 1/2. It's about a director with director's block. The beginning of the movie, is a dream, where steam fills the inside of his car, while he sits in traffic and strange faces stare at him, or the dream about having all the women he wants, but it turns into a nightmare. The movie is very funny, disturbing too, way too close to my own life.

When I saw the un? questionable sign, I thought of some of my friends. I wish they could see this. This is the kind of entertainment we thrive on. I also thought that the person who made the sign, was probably not trying to be funny, or maybe they were. Whatever their motivation, Brian would be one of those friend's that would appreciate the attempt. I know my mother laughed when I told her about the sign.