I still don't want to talk about it

My Dog is Better Than Your Dog: she’s got more clothes than Carey Bradshaw

2009-08-21T11:19:00.004-04:00

By Tess Bonacci

The look for your four-legged fuck this summer is, “bold print and flowers in metallic, or pretty pastels and bling.” according to Urban Pup Designer Dog Fashions website. Urban Pup is one of hundreds of pet fashion retailers in the United States selling metallic raincoats, varsity sweaters, formal dresses and a variety of other unnecessary dog attire and accessories. I can’t exactly say when dog obsession reached its tipping point in the US as I was living in rural Northwestern Zambia for a couple of years and was only met with the phenomenon when I returned home. It certainly was a shock leaving that tiny region of the world where malnourished people rarely eat proteins, and dogs are loathed, feared even, because the nearest life saving post exposure rabies shot may be a 2 day bike ride away. It was bizarre, as if I’d clicked a remote control and switched planets; one with half naked kids running in fields and hanging from trees; and the other with clothed lap dogs eating organic snacks and hanging out in (gasp!) indoor dog parks.

I recently came across an article in the New York Times describing a new fad known as “doga.” The pun speaks for itself, and if you are imagining well nourished, Caucasian, females in overpriced, cotton-poly blend capri pants and matching tanks bending over and manually manipulating disinterested, inbred dogs, then you are right on track. Dog and master work together on the same mat. Master stretches dog, stares into dog’s eyes for mutual deep breathing, and from the pictures I’ve seen, occasionally uses dog’s head as a balancing block. Doga classes are popping up all over the country and the sessions I’ve found range between $12 and $20 for 45 minutes to an hour. There are also DVDs and books for more fiscally conservative owners and dogs with body image issues to practice at home (‘Princess Bella, don’t even think I’m gonna spend $20 on that doga class until your saddle clipped ass has shed a few pounds!’).

After discovering dog yoga and skimming through the summer clothing lines for America’s bitches and studs, I felt compelled to investigate further (I’ve always enjoyed feeling a little bit uneasy). For $87 to $185 a night you can put your canine up in Chateau Poochie in South FL. They offer individual rooms equipped with a flat screen television, web camera and classical music. The top rooms don a crystal chandelier and a $7,000 designer Toboggan bed that a Chateau Poochie janitor sleeps beside. You can get your dog’s fur highlighted or his back massaged. Some spas even offer warm wax treatments and “extreme makeovers,” both of which sound to me like red alerts for the SPCA. Perhaps most disquieting of all though, is the dog social networking site, DoggySpace.com. The general profile for all the site’s canine members is a self-introduction and a short description of how the dog knows he is very spoiled and naughty, but that it’s okay because mommy loves him anyway. The inevitable bratty tones written in the voice of an 8 year old raise many questions; Who are the women writing these bios? Are they lonely? Childless? Perverse? Do their dog characters reflect their own hidden desires to speak and behave like pampered children? Or do the characters simply represent an unquenchable desire to feed a self-gratifying, consumerist system bent on humanizing canines while turning blind eyes on homo sapiens?

Most of us would happily agree that this all too American trend is a contemptible fading star, another soon-to-be hush hush and embarrassing fad of the past, like Freedom Fries and cheese-encased-with-meat hotdogs. In the meantime, couldn’t we just tack sin tax on these extravagancies as well as some other pet products and use the money for much needed social services? I pay a little extra for my night cap and Parliament lights, so let’s make Princess Bella paw over a few extra dollars for her doga lesson and Louis Vuitton dog bag.

The Summer of 69ing

2009-06-04T20:13:00.006-04:00

By David Cookson

On a recent trip to Ireland I realized something - they love Brian Adams there. I can’t figure out why, but they do. His songs, especially ‘Summer of 69,’ are played constantly up against classic, indy and even the pop-excessive euro pop that tends to dominate the airwaves.

There’s no accounting for taste, that’s for sure, and my musical taste is incredibly un-evolved when compared with many of my more purist or even fetishistic friends’. I can also relate to liking bad music. I have several favorites I don’t know if I’ll ever be ready to divulge.

Still, I find this unabashed ‘Summer of 69’ thing extremely disturbing and here’s why: beyond the utterly mundane and pathetic nostalgia of the song, I was pretty sure Brian Adams couldn’t have been more than an adolescent in 1969. And I’d imagine, most who revel in it, revel in their own fading, time-bloated coolness in that year.

Now I know that a lot of songs are about something more fundamental and frequently not autobiographical, still this song seems incredibly disingenuous and pandering. After hearing it several times in a day on different stations while dodging oncoming cars on country roads in Connemara, Tess suggested the completely plausible explanation that it was probably written by someone else. Prince was her best guess. I liked that. I think it satisfied me until a rambling conversation with Pat on my return that started with T’ai Chi, ran headlong back into Brian Adams all over again.

This prompted us to do some investigating. First, Brian Adams was nine in the summer of 1969 and most certainly a sexual novice. The song was co-written with Jim Vallance in 1984 (he also wrote the Aerosmith hit ‘Ragdoll’). The co writers have a divergent opinion as to the lyrical meaning of the song. In a 2008 interview with thecelebritycafe.com, Adams said:

"I think 'Summer of '69' — I think it's timeless because it's about making love in the summertime. There is a slight misconception it's about a year, but it's not. '69' has nothing to do about a year, it has to do with a sexual position... At the end of the song the lyric says that it's me and my baby in a 69. You'd have to be pretty thick in the ears if you couldn't get that lyric".

If there was even an ounce of irony in this it wouldn’t have been enough to make me like the drively ditty or Adams, but it may have been enough to make me appreciate his flip or self-deprecating humor. No such luck.

Vallance, in a more conventional interpretation of the song, says the title is a reference to a formative year and that he remembers Adams relating to it that way too citing the film ‘Summer of ‘42’ as an example.

"I wish this little "controversy" would just go away. First of all, when Bryan and I were writing the song, it was originally called "Best Days Of My Life". The words "summer of '69" only appeared once, right after "played it 'til my fingers bled". That was it! The song really was about the summer of 1969! It took us a week or two to fine-tune the lyric. At some point we realized that "Summer Of '69" was a better title, so we literally "shoe-horned" that phrase into a few more places in the song. At no time do I recall discussing sexual innuendo with Bryan ' except for one little thing. When we recorded the demo in my basement, towards the end of the song Bryan sang a little naughty bit: "me and my baby in a '69". We had a laugh about it at the time, and Bryan decided to keep it when he did the final recording a month or two later. Nobody seemed to notice, and that was the end of it until a few years ago when Bryan started introducing the song in concert by saying, "This song has nothing to do with the year 1969". The audience reaction was predictable. Let me qualify this by saying I don't pretend to speak for Bryan. Two of us wrote the song. Maybe he was thinking about something completely different ... but I was thinking about that amazing summer when I turned 17. There were brand new vinyl albums released by The Beatles, Led Zeppelin, The Who, The Kinks, Janis Joplin, The Band. It was awesome and I'll never forget it. Bryan Adams is a great writer, a great singer, and a great friend. He's entitled to his recollections as to what inspired the song "Summer Of '69". My recollections just happen to be different than his."

So it’s either a nostalgic, self-congratulatory song of coolness pandering to a scion of the Big Chill set, or it’s just a juvenile sex song about 69ing the summer away with a girlfriend in a year that doesn’t really matter. Neither is appealing.

It’s not difficult to figure out that Adams was probably trying to make a safe song/shit-hit a little more dangerous live and now either prefers to continue the charade or has just come to believe it’s really true.

It doesn’t matter which it is. It still sucks.

Gene Slacks -hosting my garage sale

2009-05-07T09:12:00.004-04:00

Gene Slacks the legendary garage sale comic will be hosting my garage sale this Saturday. I'm going to be selling a lot of stuff. I'll have books, records, kitchen gear, unknowns, furniture etc. There will be a lot of worthwhile objects. My address is 209 Hibiscus Ct. Orlando, FL 32801. Parking is scarce on my great little street. Also at noon clothing designer Kelledy Francis will be hosting a fashion show that will take a closer look the unsold clothing. I'll need some models. Anyone can model in my driveway. The sale will last from 8AM-2PM. My number is (407) 913-1426 if you get lost.

The Cryling Light Review... kinda‏

2009-05-04T19:06:00.010-04:00

This is an Antony and the Johnson's review by Bangkok transplant Andrew Jones.

Antony and the Johnson’s albums have swung all over the map. Their first foray came out on David Tibet’s Durttro label, a recording company that has been chronicling queer performers like KAOS’ digital Angel, Annie Bandez, and of course Baby Dee. Of all the performers though, Antony Hegarty’s stuff fits in the best with the glut of emo that has been a staple of indie-rock since the early nineties. His/her music makes depression sound harrowing, and the atmosphere manages to link post-hardcore maudlinness with the troubadours of folk. Its songs linked tranny circle ideas like sisters with the alienated landscapes of rock. The two, surprisingly, went together rather well. The Crying Light dispenses with rock for the simple joys of a piano. It is a simple album, that’s major emotional chord is just the despair in Antony’s voice. The major tragedy of Antony’s music is his own performance. He isn’t the woman he wants to be, but is becoming one. He is negotiating this self in a culture where transsexuals have been shot at school, thrown over bridges for their walk, and denied entry to Manhattan restaurants. The Crying Light doesn’t touch on such ideas directly; it is instead just a series of stories often marked by their own desire for annihilation. In one track he intones, “cut me intro quadrants, leave me in the corner,” in Another World he desires to escape culture. Like Robert Smith he is fond of lyrics filled with pity, asking for mercy and like Boy George he sings with genuine heart.

Antony’s use of his identity on stage resembles his idol Marc Almond. Both are queer performers, displaying that unique ability the subjugated have for developing alternative selves, work place identities, and gay selves that derive from base desires long covered over by fear or impracticality. In Marc Almond, queer is inimical to the familiarity of everyday hetero-selves. Gender and sexuality are constructions and transgression is an act of rebellion. But Hagerty is not a rebel; he makes trans-gender even homely. The mechanics of identity and sexuality construction become tools of realizing a normalized psychology, his stance doesn't differ much from the plain unassuming self-absorption of Yo La Tengo. In an era in which sincerity and simplicity are guiding values, Mr./Ms. Hegarty has shown the values of her identity as cordial to her peers. Such pronouncements stand at odds with other transsexuals like RuPaul, who promote a wild feminine approach in accord with gay liberation's attempts to form a homo-counterculture, but Ms. Hegarty's blending in is more in line with the reality of most of America’s trans-gender. The posters on Laura's playground for instance, a web board for America's transgendered, are more interested in acceptance and less in making radical statements out of their selves. When Antony sings, his conviction doesn't seem to be at odds with his audience; rather it's an appeal to their pathos.

Pathos is what has marked Antony’s career so far. His quivering voice has given simple little refrains a Tim Buckley like sense of the epic. His early worked focused on drag performance and S&M. Antony's history is rather telling. He arrived in New York just in time to watch the heydays of gay liberation wind down into the polo shirted gay couple and their simulacrum of hetero-family life. Drag with its associated glam was at most a footnote and post-stonewall Brooklyn was an exception in American culture with its acceptance of its trans-gendered residents. Gay has become essentialist in the popular imagination that it might be as constructed as heterosexuality, that it might have to do with who people prefer to be, has been lost in the noise of its mainstream acceptance. Simply put, so many of the identities people inhabit in our society are so easy to assume and maintain, that some people’s desire for a new self to get out of the psychological suburbia sincerity requires becomes unbelievable. Hagerty has made queer into sincerity. Her frankness in photographs reminds of Leigh Bowery’s performances, and her message, that I am constructing a self, that I am becoming who I want to be is lasting. It is a story of sexuality and self that is only a tragedy in America.

The Passing Of The Florida Rail Pass

2009-04-22T17:21:00.012-04:00

I had just finished reading the Donkey Show by Michael Patrick Welch. I think I was somewhere near Biloxi. The sun was rising. I could see water on both sides of the train. I don't know how long we were nearly inert, and I didn't care. The announcer said we should be moving soon, and we'll be in New Orleans shortly. Yes train travel can be slow. I'm not even sure why we weren't moving. I don't mind slow, most of the time. I'm a baseball fan too. My least favorite assessment of a film , is , it was slow.What does that mean? That phrase -it was slow- usually makes me curious, maybe there is actually a story. If you pay attention, more might be going on during those slow times than during a car chase or an explosion.

I was glad to have finished the Donkey Show. Michael is a friend of mine from New Orleans. I really love his novel about teaching creative writing in one of the worst high schools in New Orleans. It is also about falling in love, struggling to get by and mostly about living in New Orleans. It had been my favorite city in the United States. Henry Miller had noted it as a bright spot in this country in his book Air Conditioned Nightmare. It was a book that meant a lot to me years ago.

My trip was almost exactly a year before Katrina. I was evacuating Hurricane Frances, before I was even sure it was going to hit Orlando. I bought a one-way ticket to New Orleans. The cost of the ticket was thirty one dollars. I only paid for the journey outside of Florida. I had a Florida Rail Pass. It cost two hundred and forty nine bucks. It was good for a year. During that year I was free to ride anywhere in Florida. I took several trips to south Florida, and some short rides, like to Kissimmee (ten or so minute ride) for lunch.

I haven't been to New Orleans since that trip. I'm almost afraid to see it. Katrina, makes me sad in so many ways. When I got to New Orleans I wanted to stay. I always felt that way. I'm not sure if I would still feel that way. It seemed like another country to me, that was what Miller found appealing about it.

I had hotel reservations for the weekend that Katrina hit. I was going with several others to see the reclusive musician Jandek. The show was canceled, a minor subplot of the devastation.

Jonathan told me to meet him for a drink a little after five at a bar in the Marigny district. He was getting off work. He would take me over to his apartment after that. I could stay there for a few days, while he shacked up with his girlfriend. Jonathan performs with Michael in his band and in skits for reenactments of episodes of the Donkey Show.

Jonathan departed, and said something like I'll see you in a couple of days. I went to get a beer after he left. I ran into a few Orlando acquaintances at a pub on the edge of the Quarter. There was a crew of five of them. We drank a beer. I went to a payphone. It was a year before I bought my cellphone. Payphones were getting scarce, but there were some around then. I checked my messages from the payphone. I had several messages. One from Contos, Alex, Tess and Kay. They said they were headed for New Orleans.

A couple of nights later we were all together. Apparently they left the Hideaway in the middle of the night and drove towards New Orleans. Alex said that it was raining so hard until around Gainesville, and he doesn't remember seeing any other cars on that stretch.

I told them about the great artist warehouse that Michael took me to. Bands played all night. It was in a very rough area. The owner of the warehouse was a German artist in his sixties. He showed me bullet holes on the outside of the building.

We ran into Trish too. She was staying in some posh place in the Quarter. Alex, Trish and I walked out of a bar and the sun was up. It had been up for at least an hour or so. I had fallen into the New Orleans myth. I was drunk, and going to bed late morning. I would be ready for that night.

I was in New Orleans for about a week. I barely saw Jonathan. The trains were all canceled. Last minute plane flights were exorbitant. The Greyhound was also canceled.

We roamed the Quarter watching the spectacle of Southern Decadence weekend. It was a large gathering of the Bear's, not the animals, but the large hairy, gay subculture, huge hairy guys wearing thongs, John Deere hats, looking like they could hit a softball out of any park. Michael and his girlfriend Morgana gave us a tour. They said that the crew had toned it down a little, since the police cracked down on public indecency. Michael told me of seeing a bear sodomize a very willing bear in broad daylight, just off the main drag. I didn't see anything like that.

I finally reluctantly (because I love New Orleans) got a ride home with Trish. Alex and I rode with her. We were the last of our crew to leave town. I hadn't seen much of Contos. He was reuniting with some old cronies of his. He used to live in the city. Kay and Tess were hanging out together.

I didn't want to leave, but I had some things to tend to. The next year the train route from Jacksonville to New Orleans was discontinued. Katrina put an end to that. I don't know that it's coming back.

I just found out that the Florida Rail Pass no longer exists. I asked someone at Amtrak about it. They said it ended in September, and there are no plans of bringing it back. Alex and I bought our pass at the same time. We were both working out of our house, so we would just hop on the train when we had some free time. We had a lot of it then.

Tampa's Taco Bus

2009-04-21T12:38:00.022-04:00

Forest mentioned Tampa's El Taconazo,the Taco Bus in his post about the Airstream Ranch. He wasn't aware that I've been a longtime fan of this place. Just about every time I go to Tampa, I stop and eat there.

It seems that the El Taconaza has officially changed it's name to the Taco Bus. Just about everyone referred to it as the Taco Bus. Thanks Forest for the photo.

I don't know when I first heard of the Taco Bus, maybe 2004. Carrie Mackin told me about it. Carrie could easily have her own post and plenty more. She's living in New York now. She ran the late great Covivant gallery. I was in a show at the gallery. Carrie clued me into several great places in Tampa, especially in the Seminole Heights area, where the gallery was located and the home of the Taco Bus.

She also told me about Mauricio Faedo's Bakery on Florida Avenue. It's a twenty four hour Cuban bakery, near the gallery. I remember stopping by the bakery with her, stocking up on guava pastries following a night of drinking at the legendary Hub bar in downtown Orlando. My friend Alex and our friend Tampa Steve introduced me to that place awhile back. Cheap, plenty of character, looks a little like 40's LA.

Carrie told me that I can't leave Tampa without going to the bus. She was right. Now I hear about the place all the time, even though we are an hour and a half from it.

I have another foggy memory of going with Summer Redwine (that's her real name), Lisa Parani and John Contos. It seems like our dinner was around fifteen bucks, maybe twenty. Whatever it was, everyone was very satisfied with the food and the price.

The Taco Bus is an old school bus, that is painted colorfully and looks like it should be in Mexico, but I'm glad it isn't. The food is authentic. Now I'm remembering the two hour discussion I had with some friends regarding what authenticity really means, especially at this point. If there is anything authentic, this is it. The food is excellent.

The bus is located behind a small Mediterranean revival house on busy Hillsborough Blvd. near I-285, and not far from the USF(University of South Florida) campus. The bus is where the kitchen is located. The house is the restaurant, although we've always sat outside next to the bus on the picnic tables, with the thatched covering.

I remember setting up my installation at Covivant the night before the show in 2005. I was up most of the night. I slept on the couch in the gallery. I heard some pounding on the window. I saw Alex, we headed over to the bus, for my one of my favorite things, a Mexican breakfast. It brings me back to the scary bus ride through the Copper Canyon in Mexico. We stopped at the home of a very old but very alert woman. She made us homemade tortillas. I used her outhouse after the meal.

Sitting at the picnic tables, listening to ranchero music playing through the not so perfect sound system, while watching the women cook inside the bus, spicy aroma's surrounding us, is as close to leaving the country as I can get without hopping on a plane. Oh yeah, the Taco Bus has plumbing, and indoor bathrooms.

Book Review- Jonathan Lethem - You Don't Love Me Yet

2009-04-07T01:33:00.024-04:00

This review of Lethem's not so recent book is by Bangkok freelance writer Andrew Jones, he's a former Orlando resident. It appeared recently in Associated Content.

Wherever the Road Takes You

2009-04-04T10:47:00.019-04:00

Article By Forest Young

Often obscured by the spectacle of large destination parks are a constellation of improbable and well-hidden gems sprinkled throughout the Central Florida corridor. While most cultured Floridians know this fact, it is still jarring and exhilarating to witness a seemingly "backwoods" neighborhood being uncannily hospitable to modernist architectural tomes such as the Winter Haven Leedy residences. It has now been some time since Pat and I made our pilgrimage to the Weaving/Thomasson Residence (aka Nikole's) and to Winter Haven — an unlikely beacon for the Sarasota School of Architecture.

The next significant discovery for me would come unexpectedly on the roadside of I-4 near Exit 14 in Seffner, Florida. A month ago I was sitting sleepily in the shotgun seat of a speeding Hyundai. Kristen and I were driving to a meeting in Tampa when I turned my head and saw a luminous installation erupting from the grassy shoulder of the interstate. Eight Airstream trailers were buried at measured distances from one another and angled in such a manner as to provide an overall windswept gesture. The installation immediately recalled Ant Farm's iconic "Cadillac Ranch" in Amarillo, Texas from 1973. Later that day when I asked people in Tampa about the Airstream installation on I-4, they simply shrugged their shoulders.

Fearing that it was a mirage or worse — a sleep-deprived hallucination, I went to Google Maps and typed in the coordinates for the area of Seffner closest to my sighting in order to view a satellite image of the site. When I saw the aerial picture of the land where I briefly glimpsed the row of Airstreams, there were no indications of any kind of metallic submerged vehicles. I was, however, able to find a semblance of evidence from the Google Maps street view camera. I am constantly making sure to obtain evidence of these discoveries — to substantiate my unlikely claims made about these impromptu Florida trips — and mostly as proof for myself. Armed with the evidence that an Airstream installation on the roadside of I-4 did in fact exist, I vowed to return to the site and see the installation up close and personal.

Last Friday, I drove towards Seffner with great anticipation. Prior to driving, Kristen and I treated ourselves to lunch at El Taconazo — or the "Taco Bus" as it is affectionately known in Seminole Heights. As Kristen and I made our way back to Seffner, we kept our eyes peeled for the reflective glint of the skyward-pointing vehicles. A quirky GPS navigator voiced by an Austin Powers "sound-a-like" actor informed us that we were close. There were rumors that the installation was a mere publicity stunt for a local Airstream distributor. After turning off of I-4, we took a series of consecutive right-turns and pulled into the lot of Bates RV. A man with a stern expression met us at the gate and bluntly asked us if he could be of any help. We asked to see the Airstream installation and he shot back: "Why?" I responded that I was a fan of Ant Farm — the iconoclastic art collective whose videos, performances, installations and built spaces echoed the revolutionary zeitgeist of the late sixties and seventies; I wished to know the intentions of the piece. He smiled suddenly, which caught us both off-guard, introduced himself as Byron and beckoned for us to follow him. We walked hastily to the rear of the complex and all hopped in a well-worn golf cart and headed out to the shoulder of the interstate. While driving, Byron attempted to explain the conceptual rigor behind the installation.

I will now do my best to re-tell the telling. The Airstream has long been considered the "Cadillac of RVs" and to commemorate the 35th anniversary of Ant Farm's "Cadillac Ranch" in 1973 Frank Bates — the co-owner of Bates RV along with his wife Dorothy decided to create a sister installation called "Airstream Ranch" that was in conversation with the aspirational spirit of the first. Bates chose eight vehicles by adding the numbers 3 and 5 (e.g. 35th ≈ 3 + 5 ≈ 8). As we pulled up to the row of eight, Byron reflected on the numerous events that had taken place on the land near the installation. There had been a series of "redneck" weddings, eclectic outdoor concerts, art and architecture lectures and golf cart tours. Like eight falling dominoes frozen in time, we were immediately taken aback by the sheer scale of the vehicles which had eluded us from the interstate. Kristen candidly hopped off the rear seat of the cart and begin snapping pictures of the installation. Meanwhile, Byron asked me how I had first discovered Ant Farm. I responded that while in graduate school at Yale I had been privy to an extensive multi-media Ant Farm exhibition held in Paul Rudolph’s Art & Architecture building. Byron then disclosed that he and his wife were adjunct professors at the Yale School of Management and that his daughter had graduated from Yale College the past year and was currently living in Nicaragua.

After thoroughly documenting "Airstream Ranch" Byron encouraged us to get back to the main complex in order to catch Frank before he flew off in his cherry-red helicopter parked on the rooftop heliport. We managed to intercept Frank as we pulled up in the golf cart moments before he embarked on his afternoon flight. Frank greeted us with boundless enthusiasm and a sincerity that seemed anachronistic — mannerisms more befit for a bygone era. Frank recounted his ongoing struggle and courtroom drama with Hillsborough County whose elected officials questioned the artistic merit of his installation. Frank was clear to articulate that this was not a publicity stunt, but rather an informed art installation that sought to bring back a sense of hope to the I-4 passersby. In both installations — in Amarillo, TX and Seffner, FL the tailfins and silver streamlined bodies embodied the hopes and dreams of America. Set against a contemporary climate of American automotive pessimism, the two sibling installations could not seem more relevant. Untold citizens from the community had come out in defense of "Airstream Ranch" including professors from the USF School of Art and the Arts Council of Hillsborough County. The conclusion that the defendants argued: "This is art."

I told Frank that I would be back to support his efforts in any way I could and thanked Byron for a generous tour of the installation and surrounding facility. When I went to the website for Bates RV I was enamored with the company's slogan: "Wherever the Road Takes You ... You Can Count on Us." Indeed.

Orlando's Greatest Living Performance Artist Needs A Bicycle

2009-04-03T13:51:00.012-04:00

Many of you know or more likely know of Brian Feldman, Orlando's greatest living performance artist. He's gained fame by bringing pillow fighting to Orlando, jumping three hundred and sixty six times for leap year, sleep walking, riding the Lynx, sitting in Ikea, txt and fax.

He may seem like the guy who has everything, but he does lack something. Transportation. He needs a bicycle. He's had bikes stolen, run over etc.. Now he is bikeless (his favored form of transport). A great performance artist can't risk being late for his own performance, unless that's the performance.

I'm putting a plea out to the extended community to donate a bicycle to Brian Feldman. It doesn't have to be the hippest bike, but it should be a comfortable ride , and if it is aesthetically appealing, all the better. I'm hoping to get enough of a response that Brian has a choice. You can email bike@brianfeldman.com and maybe send a picture of the bike or a brief anecdote. If you want to throw in a light, lock or something like that, that would be cool.

Hello Roanoke-Hello Deleuze-Hello Economy

2009-03-29T13:18:00.006-04:00

Matt Ames Latest

Check out Matt's Roanoke New Wave Cinema. It's a fresh release.

And The Beat Goes On And On

2009-03-24T22:03:00.011-04:00

I've been told by two different women this week, that lots of young men go through a Kerouac phase, but not many women do. I know a few woman that do and have. I know I did. I haven't read anything by him in years, but I definitely did my time. I used to skip high school and take the city bus downtown (Orlando), wander down the railroad tracks etc..

I hitchhiked through Europe, and parts of the U.S for a few years. Now I won't pick up a hitchhiker. I still think about those journeys though. I'm not done traveling, but I do play it safer and more comfortable.

The story goes that Jack Kerouac wrote Dharma Bums in the College Park section of Orlando. On The Road was published while he was living there. It's funny, I lived in the house across the street in the early 90's. I was way closer to my Kerouac phase then. I had no idea he used to live in the house across the street. The house that my friends and I used to call the Bob Seger house. The house that had two Trans Ams sitting out front, and seemed to have a constant Bob Seger soundtrack blaring from inside the house and from inside the Trans Ams.

The Kerouac House as it is known now is part of the Kerouac Project. It hosts, I think four writers in residence a year. They do three month stints. They are given a food stipend too. I've never heard about any freight hopping or hitchhiking writers staying there, but I don't everything.

Wednesday March 25th, jazz musician David Amram will be doing a book signing at Urban Think in Orlando. Thursday Robert Frank's film Pull My Daisy will show at Rollins College. Amran will discuss the film afterward. Friday Amran will be at Stetson in Deland. Saturday Pull My Daisy will be shown in Melrose Florida. I think it's all free.

Oh yeah. I almost forgot to mention that Kerouac co-wrote and narrates the half hour film. Allen Ginsberg, Peter Orlovsky and Gregory Corso are a few of the legendary beats that make appearances in the film.

Gene Leedy

2009-03-24T16:22:00.012-04:00

A couple of months back, my friend Forest and I took a field trip to Winter Haven, about an hours drive from Orlando. A typical response from someone who lives in Orlando would be, Why would you go to Winter Haven?

Well, Winter Haven is quaint, but that's not why we went there. It is the former spring training site for the Red Sox, then the Indians. The Indians went to Arizona, the Red Sox are training in the Ft. Myers area. Plus it was January, still a little early for spring training.

We were invited by Nikole Helmers to stay the night. She knew that we are architectural buffs, nerds. She owns one of the Gene Leedy houses. It's directly across the street from his own residence. Forest and I were anxious to drink Scotch with one of the founders of the Sarasota School Of Architecture.

Leedy along with Paul Rudolph, Ralph Twitchell, Mark Hampton and Victor Lundy were the founders of the Sarasota School. Forest received his masters from Yale. Paul Rudolph taught there and designed the Yale Architectural School.

The Sarasota School is a mecca for mid-century modernism in Florida. A bad economy can do more for historic preservation than good intentions that lack the funding during boom times. Hopefully these gems will remain.

Nikole took us on a tour, pointing out the simplicity of the construction, the use of plywood, cement blocks and other materials that can be bought at Home Depot.

If you want to take a self guided tour, check out the Leedy site.

The Cinema Of Matt Ames

2009-03-23T16:01:00.018-04:00

Matt is a musician, photographer, graphic designer, film maker and so on. He isn't bogged down by technique or locked into any conceptual rigor, but he is a conceptual artist, someone who seems influenced by B-movies, Godard, Dylan, John Cage, Beverly Hillbillies,punk rock, politics,literature, Henry Flynt's avant-hillbilly antics, living in Virginia, Florida or going to grad schools that don't satisfy his needs. He's also very funny.

I really love his films. He acts, narrates,writes and directs. He's involved his whole family and newcomer Mapopa.

Check his latest.

MAMMA

2009-03-23T14:32:00.011-04:00

I think it was around the Summer of 2002 when I met Matt Ames. I was living in a house behind the old Mills and Nebraska lumber yard. I loved that place. My house, Matt's and the lumber yard were demolished in 2005 or 2006. Condos or something else that Florida doesn't need were supposed to go up. Now there's a huge field. I think it's thirteen acres of construction materials, piles of dirt and no real sign of anything to come. The truck traffic is occasional. I have to admit that kind of thing is my silver lining to a bad economy.

Anyway, when Matt moved into the duplex next door, I was friendly, but made no attempt to be his friend, at least for a couple of weeks. Then I noticed a bumper sticker on the back of his old pick up truck. It said. Philosophy Inc. Where reality is always on sale. I had to investigate. I knew that I had a possible ally.

I knocked on his door and pointed to the back bumper of his pick up truck and said, "we need to talk." I repeated what I'd just read. He smiled and laughed a little. He told me that Philosophy Inc. is his business, selling ideas.

I don't remember exactly what we talked about at first, but we covered plenty of esoteric ground. I remember standing in his front yard. A woman that I had briefly been involved with sped into my driveway. She got out of her car, and walked briskly towards my car. She glanced my way then put an envelope under my windshield wiper.

I said "hey".

She said. "Fuck you Pat Greene!" She got back into her car and sped away.

Matt looked at me and laughed a little and dryly said "She seemed upset, but she was cute."

Matt and I have been friends since that day. I would stop by his house when he got home from work. I worked out of my house at the time. Matt would decompress by watching King Of The Hill. There might be some Derrida or Foucault sitting next to the TV for later or a Soylent Green DVD. His old girlfriend used to refer to Matt's endeavors as genius studies.

Like me and most of my friends, he had all kinds of kooky things around his apartment. One was a small objects tester. It was still in the package. The idea was if you can fit something through the small hole of the Small Objects Tester, it was too small for a child to play with. I think it was made by Ronco or some shady company like that.

I guess I started to call Matt's apartment the Matt Ames Museum Of Modern Art (MAMMA). In the past few years, I've put on art shows at my house. I now call my house (with Matt's permission and encouragement) MAMMA. The location can change at any time. Matt's going to Virginia Tech. He's getting his doctorate in Educational Technology.

Everything Is Unremarkable

2009-03-22T13:50:00.011-04:00

When the train reached West Palm Beach, I got off and bought a ticket for the Tri-Rail to Pompano Beach. My father was going to pick me up in Pompano Beach.My father and his friend Jerry were waiting in the Pompano Tri-Rail parking lot, in his black Honda Accord. Jerry was driving.

We rode about three miles back to my father’s place. My father was going to loan me his car while I was in South Florida. He has cataracts, and can’t drive until he is operated on, which is supposed to happen soon. Jerry and his girlfriend Sherry are taking care of my father.

When I see my father I think of an aging Falstaff. He is around six foot two, probably at least two hundred and fifty pounds with a wild full head of silver hair. His dialogue, completely unedited, his life has been extremely colorful and now his anecdotes are delivered matter of factly. They can shock the uninitiated.

When I was fourteen in the seventies, he was arrested for the biggest mortgage fraud ever on the east of the Mississippi. He was charged with one hundred and fifty four counts of mail fraud, and accused of only two counts. He spent fifteen months at a minimum security prison on the panhandle of Florida. When he got out, he said he was going straight. A few months later he was smuggling pot. He continued for another decade. He finally quit when a colleague named Eddie was murdered execution style in Colombia. My brother and I used to call him Uncle Eddie.

My father likes to tell the story of the chief of a tribe in Colombia that he bought tons of pot from. The chief was wearing a loincloth, a Los Angeles Dodgers cap and several gold chains. The chief lived in a thatched hut, drove a pickup truck that was fully equipped with every possible accessory of that time.

Now my father goes to church. He had always made fun of religion. He read the Bible in prison. He used his knowledge of the Bible as artillery against the pious. He would correct anyone that seemed to be interested in saving him. He was a con man who could convince others of just about anything. The game was more interesting than the conviction.

Sherry made us some black beans and rice and salad. My father told me that he was thankful for their help. He then told me that Jerry is a nice guy, but needs constant affirmations.

“I don’t have time for that shit. I like the guy, but I’m not going to tell him every five minutes.”

Then he looked me in the eye and laughed as he said. “You and I are dick heads. We know we’re dick heads. We don’t need that.”

I hugged him when I left. I wanted to get to Churchill’s. I was about forty five minutes from there. I hugged Sherry and Jerry. I looked at my dad. He’s using a walker. He needs a knee operation, but he has pulmonary problems, that make the operation dangerous. He had just given me the details of his medical condition, finishing with- “All I can do is pray.”

About six months earlier, I visited my father. About four in the morning one night he woke me in a panic. He thought he was having a heart attack. I took him to the emergency room. It turned out that he’d torn a muscle in his chest.
When he came back from being checked, he laughed and said, “Do you know what the doctor said about my condition? Everything is unremarkable.”

Based On A True Story

2009-03-22T13:43:00.004-04:00

The year 1926 is engraved on an emblem on the facade of the train station; the building is large and mission style. It has become more exotic over the years following the razing of other structures of that vernacular in the vicinity. Now it looks more like it should be in Latin America. It’s less than two miles from my house, but it feels much further. It’s one of my favorite buildings in Orlando. I was headed to another place that feels like Latin America. Miami.

On the train I was reading David Foster Wallace’s short story, Girl With Curious Hair. I had two seats to myself. I had a few pages left, when a woman, who may have been in her sixties sat next to me. She asked if she could sit next to me. I said yes. I didn’t really want her to sit next to me. I was happy with the extra empty seat. Then she started to tell me about the noisy person next to her. I ignored her and continued to read. She left a few minutes later.

That night in Miami I was at Churchill’s in Little Haiti. It was the first night of the International Noise Conference. I was supposed to play the next night in my new band Dos Geniuses. I saw Jeff from the Miami band Curious Hair. I told him about me reading Wallace’s short story on the train. I asked him if that title was the inspiration for his band name. He said yes, but he had never read it.

What's Next?

2008-07-05T11:54:00.017-04:00

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

2008-04-30T10:31:00.004-04:00

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

2008-03-22T03:04:00.012-04:00

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

2008-03-17T13:08:00.008-04:00

"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

2008-03-10T21:57:00.006-04:00

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?

2008-03-06T22:08:00.007-05:00

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

2008-03-05T21:23:00.003-05:00

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

2008-03-05T20:54:00.002-05:00

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

2008-03-03T21:03:00.005-05:00

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

2008-01-30T12:32:00.000-05:00

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

2008-01-28T10:01:00.000-05:00

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

2008-01-19T19:58:00.000-05:00

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

2008-01-15T21:23:00.000-05:00

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

2008-01-14T18:30:00.000-05:00

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

2008-01-06T22:39:00.000-05:00

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.

I Wish The Circumstances Were Different

2007-12-18T16:20:00.000-05:00

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.

We've Got A Bicycle To Build

2007-12-16T21:18:00.000-05:00

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.

Thanksgiving

2007-11-27T22:18:00.001-05:00

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.

Oswald The Rabbit

2007-11-20T22:14:00.000-05:00

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.

The 53rd Hostage

2007-11-13T10:33:00.000-05:00

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."

The Heir

2007-11-12T19:29:00.001-05:00

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.

Drinking Buddies

2007-11-12T18:35:00.000-05:00

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.

The Senior Circuit

2007-11-11T23:38:00.000-05:00

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.

Modern Florida

2007-11-11T18:25:00.000-05:00

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.

Kings Of The Road

2007-11-09T21:43:00.000-05:00

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.

Potchie Neighbors

2007-11-04T21:43:00.000-05:00

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?"

Confessions Of A Public Radio Freeloader

2007-10-30T19:00:00.000-04:00

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.

Free Harry Gordon- Telepath

2007-10-30T07:39:00.000-04:00

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.

Germans And Japanese

2007-10-30T07:08:00.000-04:00

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."

He Had It Coming

2007-10-29T18:38:00.000-04:00

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.

The Killing Machine

2007-10-28T16:48:00.000-04:00

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.

Money In The Street

2007-10-28T14:01:00.000-04:00

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.

Hwy 714

2007-10-27T11:18:00.000-04:00

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."

Miami

2007-10-21T22:47:00.001-04:00

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.

Rat Bastard

2007-10-19T21:24:00.000-04:00

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."

That Was Back When I Was In College

2007-10-19T01:23:00.000-04:00

"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.

I've Never Seen La Chinoise

2007-10-18T00:12:00.000-04:00

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.

Are You Wearing A Wig?

2007-10-17T12:31:00.000-04:00

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."

A Blue Mini-Van

2007-10-17T10:55:00.000-04:00

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.

A Casket Next To The Dumpster

2007-10-16T13:31:00.000-04:00

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."