Problem:

I woke up this morning, prayed and meditated, and found myself sitting at my desk feeling the blues. I was so terribly sad I couldn’t contain my heart.

Method:

I printed a dozen copies of this love leaflet and spent the morning between 8:30 am and Noon putting them up, and documenting the response from a discrete distance.

Results:

For the most part, and I’m guessing more than 90% of the people who passed the flyers – regardless of location – tend to look down, or to be lost in thought, and did not notice.

Of the remaining 10%, some inspected the flyers and smiled, others took one (less than 1%) and the fate of 11 out of 12 flyers was in response to anger. The first 11 flyers met the hands of unhappiness, and were ripped from their posts, crumpled up, torn apart, and thrown either away, or on the ground.

The next quiz I wrote was a single page, eleven question test which I produced because it had been a couple years and when I reviewed the questions it turned out that I wasn’t even like me anymore. So I revised it and we had some fun.

Now it’s been a couple years again and I thought I might revisit the quiz. Once again it turns out that upon taking my own quiz, I’m nothing like myself. This just cracked me up. I took it a few times and managed to figure out what the “right” answers to my silly questions were, but it’s a dubious compliment to one’s self at any given time that upon taking a compatibility test with yourself that one wouldn’t pass, or even connect with their own Q and A.

In the spirit of looking for my people, and as I prepare to re approach this site as a place where I might actually begin journaling again (December 28th is closing in fast!) I thought we might best begin by re phrasing these questions and seeing where we’re at.

So let’s begin shall we?

Take the quiz

A word about results:
I tested the code for the quiz myself by taking the test and was not surprised to discover that I am my own soulmate. In order to make a more exhaustive test I went back through and answered differently on purpose. In this example my result was an associate. Then I went back and did a third test where I answered some of the questions as opposite as I normally would. The rest of the questions I gave the “correct” answer. The result was again that I was my own “soulmate.”

I find this slightly odd. In my opinion my “soulmate” would be my identical match, and nothing less. So perhaps this quiz is not the most accurate measure of soulmateness. But the point is to have some fun, and enjoy my sense of humor and for the thrill of the results. Not to actually determine our life long compatibility. I mention this here because last time I offered a quiz not only did some curious people find they were my “soulmate” (and let me tell you, they got pretty excited about it,) others actually cheated and took the test several times in order to secure the result they wanted (see – I’m just like you!,) and still others — whom I’d really hoped would be my soulmate — were pretty discouraged by the outcome. I believe that we are here to love, nothing else is real. This is supposed to be fun. Do me a favor and don’t cheat. Take the quiz and post your results here. I’m dying to know, and hope it spawns some wonderful, heart warming conversation.

Have fun!

Lately I’ve been watching the weather in Zanzibar. Whenever I’m traveling I set my weather application in my iPhone and on the dock of my laptop to display the weather of the city I am traveling to. I like to know what to expect. In my meanderings through the yahoo weather predictions for New York City, Atlanta, and Philadelphia lately I’ve been disgusted. middle thirties, rain, snow. It’s winter, what else do I expect — wait, is it winter yet? To warm my heart up a little I have taken to adding Zanzibar as my median example of what weather should be. In Zanzibar today it’s 86º. I lay back against my chilly white cabinets and sigh at the thought of warm, clear, blue water, wearing nothing but shorts, the smell of clove and nutmeg in the air, and the easy smile that only sun can bring…

I’m ready. Let’s go.

At first it didn’t seem special — at least not much more special than the amazing feeling of riding in the passenger seat of a 2010 Lexus convertible — and Bryan selected our destination in the onboard computer. The computer, like all the other navigation computers of modern cars, has a map, and a series of buttons, and when you push them a voice comes on over the stereo system speakers and tells you where to turn. The map changes as you drive, and if you’re available to watch, you can see where you’re going on the little screen. It’s neato the first couple times you do it, sometimes the experience of programming a destination is so daunting that one is immediately overwhelmed and bored at the same time. These navigation computers are a racket anyway, right? You pay for the service, or have to pay for upgrades every year so that the little maps can show you where the nearest Starbucks is. Handy, maybe, but it’s a racket. Why on earth wouldn’t you want to just look out the window? It seems like the real art of a road trip is lost when you’re hunched forward, looking into a little screen, and rather than listening to your guts about which exit might have a restroom, or a starbucks. What is lost is those priceless experiences where you make an error, and with fumes alone, and a growling tummy, you pull into the parking lot of a Flying-J truck stop and end up spending hours wandering around in the gun isle, wondering who in the world buys a gun accessory at 4 am along some strange highway in the darkest parts of the United States. If you’re really delirious you never have to wait long to find out.

One night, some twenty years ago I was driving across country with Jonathan and Paul. We were headed to Cleveland together for a conference. Paul didn’t tell us that he couldn’t legally drive until we were well past Sparks — much too late to turn back and deposit him on his stoop and resume our trip with a better qualified driver — and I had the driving thing down, but had never driven a stick shift before. Jonathan was disconcerted, but undaunted, and I managed my first clutch lessons on Highway 80 east quite well. We split the driving, and Paul slept the trip away in the way back of the VW. Somewhere around Clark, Kansas the following night it was time to get some gas. I pulled into a beacon of a truck stop. They had four pumps, and a little food mart, and it had just begun to rain. As we stretched our legs, I heard what sounded like a crying baby off in the dark. “Waaahhh!” Confused, I wandered over to the roadside and spotted a baby pig standing in the light rain crying. If you’ve never been to a petting zoo, then you’ve missed out on how completely adorable a baby pig is. They are the sweetest things. Nearby there was a lone candy machine — almost empty — which had some kind of mealy looking pellets inside. I fished out a quarter and filled the palm of my right hand with them. I walked back to the fence where the piglet was and made kissing sounds into the rain and held out my hand through the fence. The baby pig cried at me, “Waaahhh!” My heart broke.

“Come here sweetie.” I said softly.

“Waaahhh!” said the pig.

I reached my arm deeper through the hole in the fence, sticking it through as far as it would go. Some of the pellets fell out of the pile and sprinkled onto the dark mud below my wavering arm.

Suddenly I heard a deep snort. And something lunged up and out of the mud toward my hand. I felt a sharp gnashing along my fingers and a huge, rough, wetness cover my entire hand. The force was incredible and it pulled my arm all the way into the fence, and I lost my balance and fell to the ground shrieking like a little kid.

When I got my arm back It was muddy and covered in what looked like saliva. I was scraped, but not pierced. My heart was racing. I was breathless. I looked into the darkness and saw a huge pig, the mother I assumed, standing less than an inch from my face. I climbed to my feet and stared at it with bitterness. The baby pig cried and the mother pig, her face covered in the pellets I’d meant to comfort the crying little piglet, just stared me down in the darkness.

I ran back to the gas station and washed my hands, counting my fingers and toes to be sure everything was there still. I was fine. The pig had just scared the crap out of me. I felt more tricked and surprised by this duo’s flesh seeking racket than anything else. But a cup of horrific coffee and a couple of cigarettes later I was laughing, and everything was just fine. We were back on the road, and my farm adventure in Clark was behind me. The trip to Cleveland was fun, and a couple of life lessons were ahead of me as the result, but without the use of gut instinct, and old maps, we might never have pulled into that gas station, nor would I have ever made the acquaintance of a pair of pigs using youth and cliché to lure human flesh into their diet.

Back on the I-85 South, Bryan and I were roaring down the highway, admittedly hunched forward and peering into the navigation computer’s little screen. What’s different about the 2010 Lexus version is the link with XM radio they have. It is a satellite link between the car and the cartographic computer somewhere in space. The computer showed us the road ahead of us in real time, and a split screen view showed traffic conditions and offered us options to either choose the best route, or to simply trust the voice in the speakers to choose the best route for us.

Admittedly we were really not looking at the road. We were staring into the screen. A couple of times I had to hold onto my seat as we rapidly approached vehicles which were clearly not looking into the same computer we were. After a couple of these scares, we laughed because we both knew we weren’t paying any attention to the road. Laughter in the face of technological obsession and a very near brush with death is the only natural response I think. Don’t you?

“It’s only a matter of time before these computers can show us in real time the other cars on the road.” Said Bryan.

“How?” I asked.

Turns out, that since it’s a real time satellite relationship between the vehicle and the navigation system, it is not much of a leap at all to assume that soon we’ll be driving down the road on auto pilot. In fact, because the service is a subscription service, we may even be able to create a social network from it. So we can friend people, and know that the car three lanes over, fifteen cars ahead of us is our neighbor, or co worker, or maybe even our boss. We can choose car icons, and send instant messages to one another while we roar down the highway in the wee hours of the morning. This will make stalking and road rage so much more fun. It will also cause terrible accidents. But it’s coming. It is the future.

The thought occurred to me that when this comes, and it’s coming, the next thing will be regulated speeds, and downloadable applications for the computer in the car. We will be otherwise completely preoccupied as we travel. In essence, the art of driving will become a form of public transportation. So when you buy a new Lexus, you will be investing in your personal compartment on a vast network of public transportation administered, overseen, and controlled completely automatically via satellite.

It’s a beautifully horrible thought isn’t it? I’ve seen the future. It’s coming…

It was 1972 and I wasn’t even seven years old yet. I spent the better part of my time in those early days staring off into space, reading comic books, bouncing on my bed, and staring into the mirror mouthing the words to songs on the radio using my hair brush as the microphone. I loved Rocket Man, and Backstabbers, Ventura Highway, Why Can’t We Live Together, and Doctor My Eyes, Alone Again (Naturally), All The Young Dudes, and I didn’t understand what Mac Davis meant by “Baby, don’t get hooked on me…” My brother liked Donny Osmond and he had the coveted “Sweet and Innocent” 45, but I had Michael Jackson.

I swear to God when he sang it was myvoice coming out of those speakers. I learned all the words to Ben, Rockin’ Robin, ABC, Stop the love you save may be your own, and every single 45 I could get my hands on by Michael Jackson, or the Jackson 5. Michael’s voice somehow resonated within me in a way that I don’t even think I can explain today, some thirty seven years later. But I loved him, and he sang to me.

Soon I would forget all about Michael Jackson. I let go of my 45’s and forgot about the radio. The summer of 1977 was all about LP’s, Punk Rock, and fuck you. That was true on the outside, and I would have rather died than let anyone know just how much I loved disco and how little I actually liked rock music of any kind. Still, punk rock was a lifestyle, a beautiful way of giving the world of the Dorothy Hamil wedge, the polyester pant-suit, and the attitude of “if it feels good – do it,” the meaningless sex of swingers, and the fuzzy, filthy, long-haired world the middle finger. So I went with it.

By the end of the 70’s there was no holding back. Off The Wall was far and away one of the greatest albums ever produced. Michael’s voice had matured, and the sound was orchestrated, Quincy Jones had his hands all over this sound, and it was beautiful. Off The Wall was an album I played after the record store closed, when everyone was gone, I could get out my hair brush again, and dance in the mirror, letting that amazing voice sing from within me. I loved it. I loved him. Disco saved my life.

As the 80’s arrived, there was no denying that dancing was back in style. Disco was definitely dead, but something new had replaced it. Rock was stupid, overdone, insincere, and so was punk. The angry man-feelings of popular music was rote by then and I wasn’t paying any attention. Thriller was released and I listened to a promotional copy about a month before it was on the shelves of the stores. What an incredible album. Every single song on the record was amazing. No filler, no bullshit — it was fantastic. Then came the videos, the dance moves, and suddenly everyone was walking around with a fedora on, one white glove, and patent leather shoes with pleated trousers and a watch chain. The world had changed, and there was Michael Jackson’s beautiful voice again right out in front of it all.

From there I have to admit that he lost me. I didn’t follow along as he surgically removed his instrument, and made a spectacle of himself. I held onto that beautiful man from the inside of the album by the Jacksons where he was a radiant black man with beautiful eyes, and an amazing voice. I celebrated the story of a very young man, barley older than I was who had escaped poverty, abuse, and self destruction and rose to the top of the world.

Thank you Michael for your mirroring of my own inner voice. Thank you for letting me know it is ok to sing, to let it out, to step forward, and most of all, to dance.

Good night my beautiful brother. I will miss you until the end of my days.

Off The Wall – Michael Jackson

At the end of the nineteenth century, when Marcel Proust was still in his teens, he answered a questionnaire in an English-language Confession album belonging to his friend Antoinette, daughter of future President Felix Faure.

Recently I read Yyves Saint Laurent’s answers to these questions on the wall of a museum and wrote them down into my notebook for future use. So far it’s made intimate meetings in a whisper, groups out eating with laughter, and casual conversations much more interesting and a little more fun.

My answers:

1. What is your primary characteristic?
despite my love of words, and concepts, everything about me stems from my heart. i have to say that my primary characteristic is my emotions

2. What qualities do you love in a man?
vulnerability

3. What qualities do you love in a woman?
honesty

4. What do you appreciate most about your friends?
durability

5. What is your main fault?
Ha! my emotions. definitely.

6. What is your favorite occupation?
teacher

7. What is your idea of happiness?
to be truly and completely present

8. What is your idea of misery?
To be stuck in the past, or in fear of the future

9. If not yourself, then who would you be?
honestly, there was a time in my life when I would have been so grateful to have been absolutely anyone but me. today i believe myself to have come full circle, and wouldn’t choose to be anyone but me.

10. Where would you like to live?
by the sea… the sea!

11. What is your favorite color?
black

12. Who is your favorite author?
J.D. Salinger

13. Who is your favorite poet?
Different answers for different occasions. I would say Rilke for his bravery and honesty, Rumi for his devotion and all the fires he’s lit since time began to write things down, but day to day my answer is Frank O’Hara without even flinching.

14. Who is your favorite fictional hero?
Jean-Baptiste Clamence and maybe David Sedaris’ fictional persona as a distant runner up

15. Who is your favorite historical hero?
Karl Marx. Like Gandhi, Thomas Jefferson, and Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., Marx had the audacity to believe that everyone, everyone, deserves something do do, somewhere to live, and something to eat. And while the dreamer himself, after many years of critical revision and mathematic assessment, walked away from the Paris commune — the only example to date of a Marxist experiment — with his hands in the air proclaiming it a failure, Marx’s ideas broke down barricades, and built new ones against them. A provocateur who, because he was right, continues to stir deep fear in the hearts of capitalists, and light bright fires in the hearts of idealists, socialists, and humanists everywhere.

16. Who is your favorite composer?
Chopin

17. Who are your heroes in real life?
The beautiful men and women I work with in recovery — my sponsees.

18. What is your favorite flower?
I have timeless loves, and I have superficial acquaintances with flowers. At the moment my heart sings for quince blossoms.

19. Who is your favorite painter?
Mark Rothko

20. What character in history do you most dislike?
while I would go so far as to say that I hate the likes of Tomas de Torquemada, Pol Pot, Hitler and Gilles de Rais, I am blessed to live in a world where these creatures are rarely given any thought or energy whatsoever.

21. Which is your favorite name?
I love classic names. Simple, and pure from the english language like Mary, Rachel, Karen and Audrey for women. For men I love more antique names like Silas, Theo, Jaffrey, and Walter. But I couldn’t pick a favorite. I love the absurd combination of names, faces, and personalities. It’s endless and so beautiful that it would be criminal to stop anywhere along the way.

22. What is your favorite food?
i love chocolate, bread and cheese… butter, cream, coffee, and apples which are still ever so slightly green inside.

23. Which is your favorite drink?
water

24. What do you hate the most?
cruelty

25. What talent do you wish you had been gifted with?
common sense

26. How do you wish to die?
without warning

27. What is your present state of mind?
Currently I am growing. I have been burst apart, literally flung wide open, and my lust for life has reawakened. I am curious, inspired, moody, reflective, loving, liberated, generous, and free.

28. For what fault have you the most toleration?
self centeredness.

29. Do you have a motto?
my family actually have a motto, but i don’t live by it. mine is ever changing. at the moment it’s ‘i love you, i love you, like the stars above you’ but it could be something else later tonight.

30. What would you like to do right now?
bite rachael’s neck, kiss megan’s lips, laugh with my son, dance until the sun comes up and then fling myself into the bay.

How about you?

I must have been thirteen or fourteen when I first saw the Cramps. It was 1979 and I had no idea who they were. This shaggy looking band came out on stage and played tight, and fast rockabilly songs. At first I didn’t like them. But as the set unravelled so did the singer. Lux Interior craned out on one leg, looming over the audience who were barely three feet below him, he swung the microphone around thoughtlessly, hitting people, hitting himself, and then yanked at the cord and stuffed the device into his mouth, shoved it into his leather pants, and then layed on the ground with his head in the bass drum making horrible noises. He pulled himself together and the fell apart completely again. He unzipped his pants and lingered on the toes of his boots, leering at the audience, howling into the mic. I didn’t remember the rest of the band, or anyone else who played that night. I just remember Lux, and the name of the band.

The next day I bought their first 12″ ep, and memorized it. Next to Sid Vicious, Darby Crash, and the Clash as a whole there was no one cooler, creepier, or more threatening at the time. While it was true I didn’t want to be Lux Interior when I grew up, I still wanted to be Sid Vicious, I learned a trick or two about what cool meant, and how it looked on a tall, black haired, very skinny singer.

I lost interest in the Cramps about as quickly as I had gained it. Seeing them a few more times over the next couple years I was inspired again and again every time I saw them. It seemed to me that they were a live thing, the snotty vitriol, the looming microphone, the pants undone, the wild, roaring crowd was something which never quite got captured on their albums. Their version of ‘Human Fly’ and ‘Surfin Bird’ are timeless, superior in every way to the original surf tunes. The Cramps, and Lux Interior personified, and made real what lurked behind the snarl of every rockabilly hero of my grandfather. In Elvis’ underbite, beihind James Dean’s wince, somewhere in the back of Little Richard’s throat was the Cramps… just waiting for the right moment to leap out and kiss you, lick your cheek, and drool all over your face.

Never a popular band commercially in the United States, because we like things that are normal, regular, and both easy to digest but hard to forget here, the Cramps were made fellows of the French Alliance, granted citizenship, charted throughout Europe, and considered pioneers of punk rock, and the godfathers of shockabilly. As the Mutants were locally, a band you loved, but hated, and didn’t really ever go see, the Cramps were to us nationally. We loved them, couldn’t live without them, but never really wanted to go see them. In the later days of punk, as the 80’s unfolded into a revivalist movement of angry Reagan youth, the Cramps enjoyed a second breath of life, producing many more albums than they had during the intial wave of punk from the mid seventies into the early eithties. They endured through times of sarcasm, famine, and the worst period in american history for the arts.

Erik Purkhiser, Lux Interior, died on Wednesday morning of a heart condition. Good night Lux. See you in hell!

Human Fly – The Cramps

They hit me like waves. One minute I am here, right here. present and accounted for. I am up and moving, everything is happening. Then I find myself standing in some strange corner of the citadel, some dead end, because the airport is under construction. They are very sorry and keep asking me to pardon their dust, only I don’t see any dust anywhere. No one is really asking anyway, they just put up colorful signs every 200 feet to remind people that this isn’t what an airport is supposed to be like, and they know it, and they’re sorry. I need a few of these signs. I don’t know if 200 feet is enough for me, personally, but if I had a sign or two asking people to pardon my dust, then maybe the security guard who came to see what I was doing in the closed area of Section D might have known and looked down instead of waking me up and asking me to please leave. If I’d had a sign, maybe he would have left me alone.

I suddenly find myself kissing you, your lips soft, and your mouth open. We are standing in the middle of the street, or laying on a huge mattress somewhere dark, somewhere light. We are just kissing and breathing. I breathe my dust out of my nose while we kiss softly, and you open as if it is everything you had hoped for. But then you grow annoyed with my tongue, and exhale your dust with some degree of frustration. I chop it up and snort it, or filter it through a little ball of cotton from my cigarette butt and shoot it into my heart. We huddle together behind the abandoned muni bus and smoke the rest through a beer can.

The Samoan man is really struggling to get up the escalator. He has to stop and just let the contraption do the work for a minute so he can wipe his face with a napkin and say Wheew. No one really says, Wheew. It’s just the way we describe the sound of relief in cartoons. A loud sigh when we finally get indoors from the rain or the freezing cold. Wheew.

Now I am responding to you, as if you have come back and tried, again, to explain. But I’ve got Molly in my head now, Oh God, you’re much too complicated. and I’ve got Jill in my head now, You might be just a little bit in love with the idea of being in love. And when I say, Hmmm. Something else no one really says. It’s the sound of thinking in comic books. I have learned so much from comics. Hmmm. I’ll have to think about that. I say because it doesn’t just click. It doesn’t immediately fit. And she says, You’re a thinker aren’t you?

I was in love with Marvel Girl when I was a boy. you could say that Marvel Girl was my first love. She was fairly plain, had red hair, and arguably the weakest power — telekinesis, which means you have the ability to move physical objects with your mind — but I thought it was the best power. She was the weakest of the X-men because she was just a slender girl who got tired easily. Sometimes when she was just exhausted and collapsed one of the other X-men would have to carry her in one arm, and keep fighting the bad guys with the other arm. Later, after she died and came back to life, she was much more powerful. After she died she could fly, and stop huge robots with her mind. Everyone else had always thought of her as weak and delicate, but very pretty. I always believed in her.

And then I said, I gave you my whole heart. I trusted you. You betrayed me. You betrayed me so deeply. I don’t want you anymore. I don’t think I can ever trust you again. And then you said, But you love me, right? And when you say it you look so pretty and exhausted. It’s the way I like you best, raw. But I say out loud, to the wall and the security guard, I do. Yes. It’s true.

Sometimes I am exhilarated by an overwhelming sense of feeling single. A woman walks out of the bathroom and does a double take. I smile. She smiles. And then I am doing her hard from behind in the back of her van in Parking Area D. she is practically shouting, Yes. and I am breathing seriously through my nose. and then she is sitting across a table from me. Then she has a crush on someone else. And then I don’t know her anymore. When you doubt me, I die.

Now I am sitting on the only bench in the airport I could find which doesn’t have dividers between the seats. I imagine how people have such terrible boundary issues that we actually need plastic arm rests between us so we know where we stand with each other. These devices stop elbow fights in all sorts of places, and they stop indigents from having cozy, warm places to lay down too.

I am exhausted. I miss you. I love you more than the sky. I hate you. I love you. I am so mad at you. You make me smile with my heart. You have hurt me so deeply. Now I know what you’re really made of… when things get tough, or confusing, you shut down, turn on me, develop a crush on someone else, and then bail. Awesome. Just the kind of partner I wanted. I love you. I hate you. I love you so much it hurts. I’ve completely lost it. And the man in the hoodie says “Say it my brotha.” and then he smiles at me.

Now I don’t care, but I remember bursting into tears on the airplane yesterday and texting my sister, I am in hell. I knew she was going to quickly point out something positive, or just say, Oh, or maybe not say anything at all. I wanted the slim man with skin like dusty chocolate beside me to wrap his arms around me and whisper sweetly into my ear. I needed him to assure me. I have such warm, loving arms. Everyone likes my hugs. Well, not everyone. Sometimes people get freaked out by just how big and warm they can be. Sometimes. I understand. Sometimes I understand. I might actually love those hugs the best. No one ever really hugs me. Not when I really need a hug. I am, perhaps, much too big and strong and prickly to hug.

Now my feet are dangling over the edge of my bench. They are soaking in the warm water — weightless. It is as if my feet are not even there any more. I have to look to be sure they haven’t dissolved. They are there. There they are, dancing in the water, waiting for the waves.

I was clutching a copy of ‘Meditations in an Emergency’ under my arm and grinning when I spotted this beautiful yellow book with black helvetica type on the cover. I squinted to read it, I can’t see anything, and laughed at her name. Miranda July, I said to no one. My cousin appeared from around the corner, and I grinned again. I flipped open the book randomly and began to read in my patronizing, I am absolutely a closet homosexual voice, and read:

This is the story I wouldn’t tell you when I was your girlfriend. You kept asking and asking, and your guesses were so lurid and specific. Was I a kept woman? Was Belvedere like Nevada, where prostitution is legal? Was I naked for the entire year? The reality began to seem barren. And in time I realized that if the truth felt empty, then I probably would not be your girlfriend much longer.

I couldn’t stop the tears from running down my face. I slipped the book under my copy of Frank O’Hara poems which seemed thin, and trivial to me suddenly. I bought both books without snuggling up to the cashier. I didn’t care a bit if he liked me, remembered me, or thought I was making good choices. I was thinking about when I was your girlfriend, and how much I loved you. I was wondering why that geriatric dog who slept all over your father’s beautiful house didn’t leave hair everywhere. I wanted to run home and start reading. But I didn’t start. Not for a few weeks. I wanted to be sure before I began, and when I was sure I started. When I started I couldn’t stop. Oh god, I love it when I’m wrong.

So while I read this, I was sitting in what used to be our table — and bear in mind that we have a difference of opinion about which table this actually is — and I spit out my breath as I burst into tears, I’ve got a cold which won’t go away and so I sat there reading with snot glistening in the beginnings of a mustache and held my breath while the tears began to run down my face. Then I was laughing that deep, embarrassing laugh of mine. And when I was done I had my head in my hands, slouched forward, giggling, my eyes still leaking. I realized that the lunch crowd had gone quiet. They are not quiet at lunch time at Cafe Du Soliel. Not usually. Typically they talk really loud about work. I don’t like them, and I stay away when the humdrums are there. I was early today and they gathered around me. I was reading, so I didn’t care, and Miranda July was reading your mind, and explaining everything to me in my own language, so I didn’t really notice. But when I looked up I realized that everyone was still there, only they had stopped to watch the crazy man with the beautiful greenish yellow scarf blow his nose into his hands and giggle.

I collected my things and got the fuck out of there. I walked and walked and laughed and blew my nose into the napkin I’d swiped from the counter and stuffed into my pocket in case I needed to blow my nose again before I got home. I called a few friends, just to tell them how much I love them. I made dinner plans, and arranged my evening. It’s been so goddam cold. I can’t stand it. I can’t stop thinking about that last lie you told me. I can’t stop thinking about your crush and how selfish you are. How lame. I’m so glad you felt so much better about something you really should have continued to feel horribly guilty about once you dumped it on me. Awesome. The consolation prize is that now I have Miranda July to interpret these things for me. She helps me sleep. She helps me laugh. She helps me remember that I am not really angry with you. She helps me remember that I love you, and that at least some of this emptiness is a good thing. Something to embrace. Something to save.

I was on a pan am jumbo jet. I don’t remember how old I was, but it wasn’t much older than twelve. I was fully grown by the time I was about eleven, so people often mistook me for an older young man.

The stewardess and I drank tea and played hearts in the back of the plane. She asked "Have you seen the lounge?" I admitted I had never seen the lounge before.

We climbed the spiral staircase and smoked a cigarette in the leather padded upper bar of the airplane. She stroked my thigh and asked me if I had any idea how beautiful I was. I stared at her, slack lipped, and numb. She kissed me deeply and then pulled away laughing self consciously. Then she came in to kiss me again. My hands were already up in her uniform, and we made love in the upper lavatory. She whispered "Don’t hold back" and it ruined me for many years. I never got those words out of my mind. Was I holding back? What was I supposed to be doing? Who was this woman? What did she want from me? But I assure you I wasn’t thinking any of those things for very long at the time. They returned later, with other people.

I never made it on another airplane, or with another flight attendant, but in this way, by contrast to what we consider this sort of things by today’s standards, I miss the past and her open heart, her open arms, her pleasures, and her abandon.

“Finally tonight as promised, a Special Comment on the passage, last week, of Proposition Eight in California, which rescinded the right of same-sex couples to marry, and tilted the balance on this issue, from coast to coast.

Some parameters, as preface. This isn’t about yelling, and this isn’t about politics, and this isn’t really just about Prop-8. And I don’t have a personal investment in this: I’m not gay, I had to strain to think of one member of even my very extended family who is, I have no personal stories of close friends or colleagues fighting the prejudice that still pervades their lives.

And yet to me this vote is horrible. Horrible. Because this isn’t about yelling, and this isn’t about politics. This is about the human heart, and if that sounds corny, so be it.

If you voted for this Proposition or support those who did or the sentiment they expressed, I have some questions, because, truly, I do not understand. Why does this matter to you? What is it to you? In a time of impermanence and fly-by-night relationships, these people over here want the same chance at permanence and happiness that is your option. They don’t want to deny you yours. They don’t want to take anything away from you. They want what you want—a chance to be a little less alone in the world.

Only now you are saying to them—no. You can’t have it on these terms. Maybe something similar. If they behave. If they don’t cause too much trouble. You’ll even give them all the same legal rights—even as you’re taking away the legal right, which they already had. A world around them, still anchored in love and marriage, and you are saying, no, you can’t marry. What if somebody passed a law that said you couldn’t marry?

I keep hearing this term “re-defining” marriage. If this country hadn’t re-defined marriage, black people still couldn’t marry white people. Sixteen states had laws on the books which made that illegal in 1967. 1967.

The parents of the President-Elect of the United States couldn’t have married in nearly one third of the states of the country their son grew up to lead. But it’s worse than that. If this country had not “re-defined” marriage, some black people still couldn’t marry black people. It is one of the most overlooked and cruelest parts of our sad story of slavery. Marriages were not legally recognized, if the people were slaves. Since slaves were property, they could not legally be husband and wife, or mother and child. Their marriage vows were different: not “Until Death, Do You Part,” but “Until Death or Distance, Do You Part.” Marriages among slaves were not legally recognized.

You know, just like marriages today in California are not legally recognized, if the people are gay.

And uncountable in our history are the number of men and women, forced by society into marrying the opposite sex, in sham marriages, or marriages of convenience, or just marriages of not knowing, centuries of men and women who have lived their lives in shame and unhappiness, and who have, through a lie to themselves or others, broken countless other lives, of spouses and children, all because we said a man couldn’t marry another man, or a woman couldn’t marry another woman. The sanctity of marriage.

How many marriages like that have there been and how on earth do they increase the “sanctity” of marriage rather than render the term, meaningless?

What is this, to you? Nobody is asking you to embrace their expression of love. But don’t you, as human beings, have to embrace… that love? The world is barren enough.

It is stacked against love, and against hope, and against those very few and precious emotions that enable us to go forward. Your marriage only stands a 50-50 chance of lasting, no matter how much you feel and how hard you work.

And here are people overjoyed at the prospect of just that chance, and that work, just for the hope of having that feeling. With so much hate in the world, with so much meaningless division, and people pitted against people for no good reason, this is what your religion tells you to do? With your experience of life and this world and all its sadnesses, this is what your conscience tells you to do?

With your knowledge that life, with endless vigor, seems to tilt the playing field on which we all live, in favor of unhappiness and hate… this is what your heart tells you to do? You want to sanctify marriage? You want to honor your God and the universal love you believe he represents? Then Spread happiness—this tiny, symbolic, semantical grain of happiness—share it with all those who seek it. Quote me anything from your religious leader or book of choice telling you to stand against this. And then tell me how you can believe both that statement and another statement, another one which reads only “do unto others as you would have them do unto you.”

You are asked now, by your country, and perhaps by your creator, to stand on one side or another. You are asked now to stand, not on a question of politics, not on a question of religion, not on a question of gay or straight. You are asked now to stand, on a question of love. All you need do is stand, and let the tiny ember of love meet its own fate.

You don’t have to help it, you don’t have it applaud it, you don’t have to fight for it. Just don’t put it out. Just don’t extinguish it. Because while it may at first look like that love is between two people you don’t know and you don’t understand and maybe you don’t even want to know. It is, in fact, the ember of your love, for your fellow person just because this is the only world we have. And the other guy counts, too.

This is the second time in ten days I find myself concluding by turning to, of all things, the closing plea for mercy by Clarence Darrow in a murder trial.

But what he said, fits what is really at the heart of this:

I was reading last night of the aspiration of the old Persian poet, Omar-Khayyam,” he told the judge. It appealed to me as the highest that I can vision. I wish it was in my heart, and I wish it was in the hearts of all:

So I be written in the Book of Love; I do not care about that Book above. Erase my name, or write it as you will, So I be written in the Book of Love.

Good night, and good luck.”

It is a sad day in California. Following an historic day where we celebrated Barack Obama’s election as the 44th president of the United States and were challenged to prepare for the road ahead. I didn’t expect this road to begin here and now, but it has.

Proposition eight, a California State Constitutional amendment, has passed by a slender margin, thus revoking the rights of gay, lesbian, and transgender (or same sex couples) to get married in our state. This is unconstitutional, and wrong. Morally wrong.

Because it’s wrong to withhold the rights of human beings based on bias, prejudice or ignorance, I believe that this proposition will inevitably fail. It’s only a mater of time. But because it’s wrong, and the right thing to do is to include all people by granting them the right to marry into unions which will provide all the liberties of committed couples in property, visitation, custody, divorce and separation claims, health care, pensions, inheritance, and all rights and privileges associated with such partnerships we have to begin our work together today.

Please sign the petition, already well under way, to re open proposition 8 and give California a chance, without the influence and millions of dollars from out of state special interest groups, to do what’s right for everyone.

Here is a link to this petition

Can you imagine if your civil rights were stripped from you?
What if you were unable to visit your husband in the hospital because you had red hair, or because you were white? Consider this fact, without the bias of your fear or religious beliefs, and you can easily see why this is wrong, and all efforts to strip anyone of their civil rights is wrong, and will fail in the end.

Let’s end it now.

Transcript of Barack Obama’s victory speech:

” Hello, Chicago.

If there is anyone out there who still doubts that America is a place where all things are possible, who still wonders if the dream of our founders is alive in our time, who still questions the power of our democracy, tonight is your answer.

It’s the answer told by lines that stretched around schools and churches in numbers this nation has never seen, by people who waited three hours and four hours, many for the first time in their lives, because they believed that this time must be different, that their voices could be that difference.

It’s the answer spoken by young and old, rich and poor, Democrat and Republican, black, white, Hispanic, Asian, Native American, gay, straight, disabled and not disabled. Americans who sent a message to the world that we have never been just a collection of individuals or a collection of red states and blue states.

We are, and always will be, the United States of America.

It’s the answer that led those who’ve been told for so long by so many to be cynical and fearful and doubtful about what we can achieve to put their hands on the arc of history and bend it once more toward the hope of a better day.

It’s been a long time coming, but tonight, because of what we did on this date in this election at this defining moment change has come to America.

A little bit earlier this evening, I received an extraordinarily gracious call from Sen. McCain.

Sen. McCain fought long and hard in this campaign. And he’s fought even longer and harder for the country that he loves. He has endured sacrifices for America that most of us cannot begin to imagine. We are better off for the service rendered by this brave and selfless leader.

I congratulate him; I congratulate Gov. Palin for all that they’ve achieved. And I look forward to working with them to renew this nation’s promise in the months ahead.

I want to thank my partner in this journey, a man who campaigned from his heart, and spoke for the men and women he grew up with on the streets of Scranton and rode with on the train home to Delaware, the vice president-elect of the United States, Joe Biden.

And I would not be standing here tonight without the unyielding support of my best friend for the last 16 years the rock of our family, the love of my life, the nation’s next first lady Michelle Obama.

Sasha and Malia I love you both more than you can imagine. And you have earned the new puppy that’s coming with us to the new White House.

And while she’s no longer with us, I know my grandmother’s watching, along with the family that made me who I am. I miss them tonight. I know that my debt to them is beyond measure.

To my sister Maya, my sister Alma, all my other brothers and sisters, thank you so much for all the support that you’ve given me. I am grateful to them.

And to my campaign manager, David Plouffe, the unsung hero of this campaign, who built the best — the best political campaign, I think, in the history of the United States of America.

To my chief strategist David Axelrod who’s been a partner with me every step of the way.

To the best campaign team ever assembled in the history of politics you made this happen, and I am forever grateful for what you’ve sacrificed to get it done.

But above all, I will never forget who this victory truly belongs to. It belongs to you. It belongs to you.

I was never the likeliest candidate for this office. We didn’t start with much money or many endorsements. Our campaign was not hatched in the halls of Washington. It began in the backyards of Des Moines and the living rooms of Concord and the front porches of Charleston. It was built by working men and women who dug into what little savings they had to give $5 and $10 and $20 to the cause.

It grew strength from the young people who rejected the myth of their generation’s apathy who left their homes and their families for jobs that offered little pay and less sleep.

It drew strength from the not-so-young people who braved the bitter cold and scorching heat to knock on doors of perfect strangers, and from the millions of Americans who volunteered and organized and proved that more than two centuries later a government of the people, by the people, and for the people has not perished from the Earth.

This is your victory.

And I know you didn’t do this just to win an election. And I know you didn’t do it for me.

You did it because you understand the enormity of the task that lies ahead. For even as we celebrate tonight, we know the challenges that tomorrow will bring are the greatest of our lifetime — two wars, a planet in peril, the worst financial crisis in a century.

Even as we stand here tonight, we know there are brave Americans waking up in the deserts of Iraq and the mountains of Afghanistan to risk their lives for us.

There are mothers and fathers who will lie awake after the children fall asleep and wonder how they’ll make the mortgage or pay their doctors’ bills or save enough for their child’s college education.

There’s new energy to harness, new jobs to be created, new schools to build, and threats to meet, alliances to repair.

The road ahead will be long. Our climb will be steep. We may not get there in one year or even in one term. But, America, I have never been more hopeful than I am tonight that we will get there.

I promise you, we as a people will get there.

There will be setbacks and false starts. There are many who won’t agree with every decision or policy I make as president. And we know the government can’t solve every problem.

But I will always be honest with you about the challenges we face. I will listen to you, especially when we disagree. And, above all, I will ask you to join in the work of remaking this nation, the only way it’s been done in America for 221 years — block by block, brick by brick, calloused hand by calloused hand.

What began 21 months ago in the depths of winter cannot end on this autumn night.

This victory alone is not the change we seek. It is only the chance for us to make that change. And that cannot happen if we go back to the way things were.

It can’t happen without you, without a new spirit of service, a new spirit of sacrifice.

So let us summon a new spirit of patriotism, of responsibility, where each of us resolves to pitch in and work harder and look after not only ourselves but each other.

Let us remember that, if this financial crisis taught us anything, it’s that we cannot have a thriving Wall Street while Main Street suffers.

In this country, we rise or fall as one nation, as one people. Let’s resist the temptation to fall back on the same partisanship and pettiness and immaturity that has poisoned our politics for so long.

Let’s remember that it was a man from this state who first carried the banner of the Republican Party to the White House, a party founded on the values of self-reliance and individual liberty and national unity.

Those are values that we all share. And while the Democratic Party has won a great victory tonight, we do so with a measure of humility and determination to heal the divides that have held back our progress.

As Lincoln said to a nation far more divided than ours, we are not enemies but friends. Though passion may have strained, it must not break our bonds of affection.

And to those Americans whose support I have yet to earn, I may not have won your vote tonight, but I hear your voices. I need your help. And I will be your president, too.

And to all those watching tonight from beyond our shores, from parliaments and palaces, to those who are huddled around radios in the forgotten corners of the world, our stories are singular, but our destiny is shared, and a new dawn of American leadership is at hand.

To those — to those who would tear the world down: We will defeat you. To those who seek peace and security: We support you. And to all those who have wondered if America’s beacon still burns as bright: Tonight we proved once more that the true strength of our nation comes not from the might of our arms or the scale of our wealth, but from the enduring power of our ideals: democracy, liberty, opportunity and unyielding hope.

That’s the true genius of America: that America can change. Our union can be perfected. What we’ve already achieved gives us hope for what we can and must achieve tomorrow.

This election had many firsts and many stories that will be told for generations. But one that’s on my mind tonight’s about a woman who cast her ballot in Atlanta. She’s a lot like the millions of others who stood in line to make their voice heard in this election except for one thing: Ann Nixon Cooper is 106 years old.

She was born just a generation past slavery; a time when there were no cars on the road or planes in the sky; when someone like her couldn’t vote for two reasons — because she was a woman and because of the color of her skin.

And tonight, I think about all that she’s seen throughout her century in America — the heartache and the hope; the struggle and the progress; the times we were told that we can’t, and the people who pressed on with that American creed: Yes we can.

At a time when women’s voices were silenced and their hopes dismissed, she lived to see them stand up and speak out and reach for the ballot. Yes we can.

When there was despair in the dust bowl and depression across the land, she saw a nation conquer fear itself with a New Deal, new jobs, a new sense of common purpose. Yes we can.

When the bombs fell on our harbor and tyranny threatened the world, she was there to witness a generation rise to greatness and a democracy was saved. Yes we can.

She was there for the buses in Montgomery, the hoses in Birmingham, a bridge in Selma, and a preacher from Atlanta who told a people that “We Shall Overcome.” Yes we can.

A man touched down on the moon, a wall came down in Berlin, a world was connected by our own science and imagination.

And this year, in this election, she touched her finger to a screen, and cast her vote, because after 106 years in America, through the best of times and the darkest of hours, she knows how America can change.

Yes we can.

America, we have come so far. We have seen so much. But there is so much more to do. So tonight, let us ask ourselves — if our children should live to see the next century; if my daughters should be so lucky to live as long as Ann Nixon Cooper, what change will they see? What progress will we have made?

This is our chance to answer that call. This is our moment.

This is our time, to put our people back to work and open doors of opportunity for our kids; to restore prosperity and promote the cause of peace; to reclaim the American dream and reaffirm that fundamental truth, that, out of many, we are one; that while we breathe, we hope. And where we are met with cynicism and doubts and those who tell us that we can’t, we will respond with that timeless creed that sums up the spirit of a people: Yes, we can.

Thank you. God bless you. And may God bless the United States of America.

I have never before in my 43 years on this planet believed in a President of the United States of America, my country, my home. I have never before in my life ever had the privilege of voting for a man I love to listen to, read about, look at, and root for. This is an historic day, a beautiful day. The celebration tonight in San Francisco was euphoric revelry, with a dash of sadness and a few tears. The Castro was packed shoulder to shoulder with men, women, young people and children, each with huge smiles on their faces, hands in the air, and ready to roar, cheer, dance, and laugh. Not since the AIDS epidemic and the marches and vigils following the death of Mayor Moscone and Harvey Milk have I seen so many people gathered together for one cause. But never before in my life have I seen so many people gathered together because they were united, proud, and full of hope.

This is a glorious day, an extraordinary day. Hurray!

If you remember those horrible science films from grade school and middle school like I do, then I’ve got a treasure for you. Look Around You is a mock science and educational farce produced by the bbc. The attention to detail, the absurd science, and deadpan delivery is a stroke of genius which has had me laughing my ass off since I discovered it late last saturday night (thanks Matt!)

Water

Germs
Calcium part 1
Calcium part 2
Sulphur
Maths

I hope you’re laughing.

Alaskan senator Ted Stevens was convicted today on all seven counts against him. Stevens, the senior senator from Alaska, has long held his power in his state for being the type of politician who puts money into the hands of his constituents. That’s a hard act to compete with. Today he has out done himself by simply being guilty of failing to properly account for all the money, gifts, and contributions he’s received.

In a way I am sorry to see this character begin his final act. Stevens once described the inter-web as “a series of tubes” as a means of explaining what exactly this internet contraption is in ordinary terms, while making a case that we ought to get behind the idea that ordinary people ought never have real access to high speed internet, but premium customers should be able to pay for priority service and deliver faster, more responsive results. Yeah Ted, that’s awesome. I want the final frontier of independent expression, reporting, opinion, and community to slow to a crawl and then stop. Awesome.

Stevens, like Bush and his generation are undoing themselves. Finally the old “I got mine” tactic just isn’t enough. While I don’t think this accounting snafu will be enough to unseat the senator, it’s the beginning of the end. And for that, however sorry I’ll be to see this chuckle head go, is something to celebrate. It’s time we began to resist these illusions of shameless abundance and ask our leaders to do better. Better than we are, more than we can, and become the example we truly need.

Just imagine a world leader, one who represents you and me, behaving like a true statesman, creating alliances, and asking us all to be accountable. Just imagine…

Ted, just admit it…

Love makes us crazy, because we lose control of ourselves. Something within us takes over, and we lose ourselves. The center doesn’t hold. It is more like sailing than anything else, but often it feels like madness. I don’t mean to suggest that love and loving are not also acts of compassion, a withholding, or balanced and centered gestures of pure being. I certainly love my grand mother, and I love puppies. I love sunlight and beaches every bit as much as I love three a.m. and warehouses. I love exquisite restaurants and fine linens and I adore shabby little taquerias and my tattered old t-shirts too. But I have never known madness as the result of my heart’s contents with regards to any of these things.

In a sense, love is a kind of madness. Something science can now cure, as well as self-help, recovery programs, philosophy, and even exercise. I was sweating in the sun yesterday with my dear friend ‘A’ and he noticed that the stream of liquid running down my face wasn’t perspiration and asked me “How’s it going?”

I stumbled around a little bit and tried to explain where I am actually at, saying, “I liked the world so much better when the very sight of me made her heart beat so fast she couldn’t stay in her seat.”

‘A’ looked down, made a little sad smile and said,” It’s never been my experience that that kind of love lasts for very long.”

I sighed. ‘A’ smiled, and then we were quiet for a while.

It’s come to my attention that, generally speaking, women tend to be a lot more practical than men. Whoever decided that men are strong, sound in their thinking, and that to be manly was to be steady, logical, and prudent… that women were faire and delicate, irrational and full of foolish ideas of light, and texture was perhaps a bit of a bitter antagonist. Some bastard charged with the task of handing out stereotypes for the good of humanity. Some bizarro cliché for people to hate themselves over their whole lives. While I have met a few men in my life who were almost as rational and stoic as the women I’ve loved, they always seem to weep uncontrollably when they talk about their mothers, or become belligerent when the pot runs out. The furious hands and stony faces of these men has always been betrayed by the frailty of their hearts. This is not strength, it is denial.

The modern age is upon us. We live with stark contrasts unreconciled with our instincts. The roles we play, the positions we take… consciously or unconsciously… are at war with our hearts. When I am still, I say that all is well. The world is radiant and fine. I can exist beside my heart’s contents and watch as my heart goes up in extraordinary flames with a quiet disposition. Sometimes I am radiant with compassion and affection. When I am in motion it is rare I have any idea how I am, where I am, or what time it is until it is too late. I take the world at its word, at face value, and let my mind roam. I am often betrayed. When I am sitting with cute boys I am feminine and sarcastic. When I am sitting with strangers I am gracious and quiet. When I am confronted by the overwhelming emotions of others I am calm and strong, almost immovable. This mosaic grows. Each piece is unique. While I seem to always be at odds with whatever it is I am “supposed to be,” it is rare I am ever the right thing at the right time, or ever enough for anyone. Sometimes not nearly enough, sometimes much too much. Never the little chair, never the baby bowl, not once, not yet. Even so, it is rare that I can not see, or do not at least create the space to welcome all of my colors and smile, or cry if I must, until they turn to that mauveish grey of everything and fade into the day.

But what of love? Listen, I can no more fabricate devotion than I have any desire to fake it. I love intimate whispers, tender lovemaking, and sweet kisses — maybe more than anything else in the world — but I can not pretend. I do not wish to control these bonfires. These beaches run wild, there are no rangers, nor rules. And while the wiser of my friends would advise me otherwise — Let go. Grow up. Oh please — it has been my experience that to control my heart’s beating is to suffocate life. To douse love with lanolin and toss it out of the window of a speeding station wagon. If you look quickly, and have good vision you can see the little plume of dust as it hits the ground. See?

What choice remains? What happens next? I can take refuge in bitterness and fear… smoking too much, jeering at everyone, not sleeping, not eating, wandering around like Raskolnikov humming the Birthday Party to myself for about three minutes. What fun! I could set the pot to boil, and lower my heart into the broth with the onions and go out for a while and try to forget all about it. No. Perhaps I can find some way to simply be with this love, cry these tears out, vomit my breakfast, shiver and shake and be as still as possible… praying that this will simply run its course. Everyone says I’m doing great. Everyone is so proud of me. I can’t think, I can’t breathe. My heart is broken and I am no good at this.

I am very creative, and I have enjoyed a lovely dialog with a few of my favorite ghosts lately. In my kitchen, the waiting area of various airports, and alone at the side of the road we have talked and talked, but there is no real dialog. There is nothing to say which hasn’t already been said. The rules of the discussion change without notice, there are no follow up questions, and nothing is solved. I hear the simple words in my head, over and over. they snap at me, twisting around my throat without mercy. There is no mercy. There are no hugs, no more kisses, no more any more.

My love is fucking retarded. I’m sorry Clare, I seem to have stolen your wonderful title, but it’s true. If you love me, and I mean gas masks and crazy-girls love me, then you can be sure I will immediately run screaming from the room. If you will not love me– or perhaps i can tell that you do, but you refuse, or are so broken that you can’t, or don’t want to, or you’re afraid — then I can not breathe without you, and I will love you until the end of time.

The compromise… whatever that horrible word means… is so vague and loveless that to imagine myself in a practical home, full of practical appliances, blending blueberries at six thirty in the morning just before I shower, shave, and greet another day at the office, in bed and alseep by ten, sex on wednesdays, take the dog out, let the cat in, quit smoking, pay the credit card bills, turn the volume down, pay the credit card bills, speak my mind in that old familliar, manipulative, non-violent manner, accept my fate, pay the credit card bills, pay the credit card bills, makes me wish I was dead. There must be another way, another life without fear, full of love and kinship, delight and affection without taking a ride down the drain of the twentieth century.

Somehow, in spite of all I suspect, I believe. somehow I have survived in this world. Most of the time I am wise enough to never ever reveal the contents of my heart of hearts to anyone but my son, puppies, and people I will never see again in my life. It’s true, I am irritatingly famous for hugging complete strangers stumbled upon in tears, softly kissing strangers at 2 am in closed bart station entrances, and dancing with middle age women at weddings. Occasionally I make a mistake. I let it slip and my heart gets away from me. She stumbles and falls, crashing on the floor at my feet and then its fireflies and brilliant lights, followed almost at once by the fire alarms, thick choking strands of blue and black smoke, gas masks and crazy-girls. Run for your life.

The third and final presidential debate is over. I watched it carefully and am delighted to say that it had me on the edge of my seat and has actually changed a few things for me. It’s possible that my mind is simply in a different space after a trip to Canada and watching the season opener of Frontline which profiled both John McCain and Barack Obama. I love frontline, but I’m a pretty stubborn skeptic of politics, so who knows.

What I saw tonight was John McCain make some effort to get tough. The results were a man who appeared desperate, taking pot shots, and retreating at every opportunity to reinforce doubt, questions, and outright hypocrisy. I would have actually loved to know what someone like McCain would do for the current economic crisis, or any and all of the problems facing America today. But I didn’t hear anything new, or even vaguely interesting. I saw a man on the defense fail in his task of clarification, diplomacy, and to show me that he is different from the Bush administration, or has ideas of his own. I was more sympathetic to John McCain when he went up against W. in the debates of 2000. There I saw a man who approached the dialog with dignity, and class. He was visibly outraged by Bush’s shameless assaults, and frankly after showing us what a callous imbecile he really is I was astrounded that W. got the nomination. Not the first time I would be astonished or dumbfounded by George W. Bush.

On the other hand, I’ve written about my disappointment with Obama’s performance in these debates. I felt the same way watching Biden and Palin. My politics are clear, but what came clear to me tonight is that I haven’t got enough faith in the American public to believe for more than a moment that calm, diplomatic grace is enough to win a Presidential election. It’s sad, and I’m not proud of myself, but it’s true. In previous debates I felt that Obama standing his ground, calmly correcting McCain, and restating his position and plans were the same mistakes made by every losing candidate to go up against a Republican since the dawn of our two party system. These feelings have become somewhat intensified since Bush was re elected. I called for Obama to use his grown up voice and take a single and decisive swing at McCain.

Tonight as the final debate closed, I stand corrected. As the final words were spoken I felt elated in a new way, vindicated by a completely new side of Obama I have not yet sincerely paid attention to. I love his big voice, and have felt frustrated with his thoughtful, calm explanations of taxes, policy, and issues. But tonight I watched McCain’s petty and shameless attacks bounce off the clear and calm surface of Barack Obama and fall to the ground without impact.

This is an instance where I am absolutely delighted to be wrong. I feel I have grown, and learned something. If nothing else, I am grateful to come away from this debate feeling deeper, and somehow restored as a man in this world of spin, hype, and bullshit. Thank you.

I was introduced today to the playful, but cynical genius of Don Hertzfeld. I laughed and laughed, and mused at the thinking behind this playfully gory, but honest work.

There’s a lot more too. Enjoy!

I come from the land of no. I was not born there, I am a kind of an emigree. But I lived there long before I could speak, or walk. In the land of no we simply say “no.” We don’t like the bands you like, even if we haven’t heard them before. We do not like food which we have never heard of or tasted before. We know all about you by the way you wear your hair, we have seen you before, and it has all been done.

In the land of no there is no compassion, and we have no empathy for you. We need, and we take. There are no explanations, and certainly no apologies. You want, and you like, and you hope, and you try… we are worldly and street smart, so we are permitted to take your record collection, your television, your dignity, your time without regret or conscience.

In the land of no there is no talking. We speak, when we speak, in grunts, and mumbles. Occasionally there are outbursts — vicious and staccato — strings of words which hit walls, and break glass with the disambiguation of vulgarity, hurt and rage. We do not have space in our heads to contain enough reflection to understand why we say what we say, or how it makes you feel. We do not care. The noise in our own brains is so loud, like a massive crowd of demonstrators, and while someone may have something kind to say… it is impossible to hear them over the roar of what the crowd wants. In the land of no it is mob rule. We roar and move like a single cell organism, surrounding everything we can, and absorbing it all into our darkness.

In the land of no we gather in pairs, or post in front of markets, we huddle with anticipation as we add 10cc’s of water to the powder of our spoons, and grin with delight when the compounds expand in a syringe. The warmth of a fire reminds us where we come from, and we hate it without reflection. We will not move, we can not stay, and we are not interested in anything you have to say. We can not expect a future, we do not remember the past, there is no discussion… the answer is no.

In the land of no we know where we begin and where we end. We assert our boundaries without a second thought. We act without saying so. We take without doubt. It takes a lot of energy to keep the outside world away, almost as much energy as it takes to keep the tears from falling out of our eyes. We are Herculean, and thoughtless. There is no other way.

I was born in the land of yes. I have no memory whatever of having been born, and while there are some vague and beautiful images of huge butterflies, a chinchilla we looked after for the weekend, and a cold bottle of 7-up, I can not quite piece the little broken tiles together. I have no visceral memory of having lived there before. Still, I moved here in 1982. It was a move against my will, against my wishes.

At first the land of yes appeared to be so bright as to require sunglasses day and night. I wore black to remind me of where I came from. There was talking, singing, innocence, and joy. It stung my skin like nettles, and I thoughtfully licked my little wounds, and inspected the punctures, hoping desperately to heal and stop the constant burning of my flesh.

In the land of yes there are ten foot cliffs in Anacortes, Washington which loom above rock quarries. The air rushes past our ears as we fall, the water is warm, and refreshing. We hear laughter as we swim to shore, exhilarated and aching to climb up and dive again. There are rope swings in Vermont which reach out over lakes. They begin from the mighty branches of trees, and reach out above the shimmering waters of the north. It only takes a few pumps to take the rope as far out as she will go, and when you let go… you can fly. There are cliffs to climb in the Sierra Nevada. Almost to the top , hands shaking, face sunburned, my left foot frantically seeking refuge in some new footing, rock above me, nothing below me, I don’t believe I can do it. In the land of yes there is support, they chant “You can do it” over and over until I find my footing, and pull my exhausted torso up over the ledge, raise my arms into the air, and cheer.

In the land of yes there is tenderness. A million feelings scatter, lighting up the night sky, but our lips meet, and it changes everything. In the land of yes we dare to dream, to quit our jobs and fill our packs and ride out into the night to read our poetry, sing our heart’s songs, play our music, write our books, raise our hands, and tell our secrets to the hearts of oak trees, and bumble bees.

We receive transmissions from other places, advising us to be reasonable, sensible, and to think about the future… but in the land of yes there is no future. We sit on the soft beaches of Tulum together, just before sunset and sing folk songs, play word games, and tell stories of our past lives. We make love without thinking it through, we eat the food from the carts and never worry about food poisoning. We are here and now, and the answer is yes.

I have no map. There is no GPS system in my vespa. I stand at the borders of the land of yes, and can barely imagine the continent before me today. I know well where I come from. I know very well where I am. These slivers of yes and no are what I know. These are my hometowns and everything is simple here.

“What’ll it be today sir?”

Will it be yes? Will it be no? Shall we open the doors and climb this mountain? Shall we throw the deadbolts and pull the blinds? No. We can not stay here, and there is no possibility of ever going back. Yes is a beautiful answer which brings pain, and violates us deeply. We swing into action without a second thought, and slaughter the pieces of ourselves which were not sure. Or we close our hearts up, cutting off the air, and starve to death in darkness. How can we say no? Why would you? How can we say yes? There are already so many feelings, too many shattered fences, and we are out of control.

Here, and now, without making a decision, simply being… I see a continent before me to explore. The ground is based on friendship, love, trust, and a partnership in the common search for God, and communion. I believe that it might take more than a lifetime to explore this terrain. Something in between yes and no, but not maybe. To hesitate is to let the trains leave the platform without us… to have the world decide for us. To meditate is to bloom, to be present and awake… We welcome God into every moment, and are not afraid to discuss it… even if it hurts. The land of yes has taught me that there is more to me than I expected, my pain, my fissures, my doubts, are each a work in progress… not a scar. My life in the land of no has taught me that when one is strong, immovable, and wild, that I can survive. I can exist beyond the world passing by, and any given moment is sure, protected, and will again be there in the next moment.

Yet to measure these two against one another, to weight out the possibilities of saying yes, or saying no is terrifying. No, we retreat. Answer now, what will it be? Yes or no. I have always known the answer, and there is no choice. There is only the denial of ego… when I lived in the land of no I ached to say yes… I wanted so much to touch you softly, and tell you the secrets of my soul. But I said no. When I lived in the land of yes I knew my truth was to say no… I did not want your hands on me, I did not want to go… and yet I tagged along, reluctantly, and said yes.

I can no longer live in these slender extremes. Yes at any cost is every bit as destructive as saying no to everything. I will not waffle between the two. I will take these pots of paint, and add a little yes to the red of your flowers, and lighten it into an orange… I will add a little no to the blue of your tears, and deepen them into an inky midnight. I do not know where this path leads, but it is not a backward step to head off into the uncharted territory of the space between. My childhood learning tells me that there will be nothing there… that you will only break my heart, that you have already spoken the contents of your heart, and there is no further journey for us. My adult experiences assure me that with honesty, love, friendship and dialog that there is no stopping us. Love is the radiant heart of god, and all we need to do is shimmer in its light. Come what may, everything will be all right. This is not a maybe… it is not a yes… it is not a no…. It is a deep and fearless breath, an expression of willingness to simply take the next right action, to love and to cherish, to be the friendship I feel inside, to explore the ground at my feet, to climb the tallest trees, and howl at the sun over my head, or to say that I do not care to climb anything, and would prefer to sit beneath her branches and read, to be silent, or alone, and not do anything.

It is curious to me that the more honest I am with you, the more easily and beautifully I can love you. I love you enough to let you go. I love you enough to say both yes, and no. I love you enough to grow and change beside you, to speak, to sing, to dare. I am amazed and so surprised by how much love exists beyond my own boundaries. And so without the assistance of cartography, without assurance, without anything at all but a pair of arms raised to the heavens, a willing heart, and the sureness of my love for you, I will let go, I will grow, I will change, I will be honest, I will speak, I will sing, I will dare.

I promise to write to you when you wander out of ear shot. We may develop a correspondence, perhaps a dialog which never ends. I may find you here and now, beside me always, or in the flickering lights which dance off the tips of the waves at the edge of Barcelona. I do not know. I can not say. But it is time to go.

The consummate anti-hero said goodnight last week after putting up quite a fight. A good man, a humble man, star of many great film. Not afraid to sweat it out on the roof, vain enough to refuse a great role because he though he had skinny legs, bold enough to go toe to toe with Steve McQueen and lose. The model for the Hal Jordan version of the Green Lantern, and near the top of Richard Nixon’s list of enemies.

I didn’t like your salad dressing, I can’t stand your cookies, but tonight I’m eating them anyway, sitting on the couch watching Cool Hand Luke, Hud, Cat on a hot tin roof, Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, The Hustler, and I’m gonna watch Long Hot Summer twice.

Good night you strong, silent, beautiful man. Sweet dreams.

Well shit… I can’t say I’m anything close to a fan of Kate Winslet — even though she was amazing in ‘the eternal sunlight of the spotless mind’ and even more amazing in ‘little children’ — and there’s no way I could say I like anything Leonardo DiCaprio — even though he was great in that Woody Allen picture, and pretty dazzling in ‘the departed’ too — But I was definitely the last person I know to actually see Titanic and I thought is was awful.

I’m a complete romantic, more romantic and emotional than almost every single woman I know, but I am a skeptic when it comes to film. I love the cinema, and I am not easily overtaken, or sold a pile of goods. I want a smart film, a visceral film, amazing writing, beautiful cinematography, and I want to be completely surprised, transformed, and blown away by a film. Comedy is the most difficult of all to get past me. I love to laugh, but films which are supposed to be “funny” are so very, very rarely worth watching. I know, I know, I’m a dud. Sorry.

Well tonight I was watching Mad Men — the best and most important program to appear on the television screen in decades — and this trailer for a new film starring (yep, our favorites…. Leo and Fatty) and gosh dangit if Nina Simone doesn’t start singing my all time favorite song (the bad, rushed version of it.) I’m open mouthed for a second, and then I’m pacing and tears are streaming out of my eyes….

“Fuck, fuck, fuck.” I actually say out loud “I hand you my heart on a fucking plate, and let you walk all over me and in return I get “I had one foot out the whole time…” and “there’s lots of deep spiritual connections that don’t have a future…” and “I don’t think I should have to be sorry for things I don’t think I should be sorry for”, whatever that means… and now there’s my love letters on that goddam photo site. Jesus. Have you no shame? Are you out of your mind? Fuck.” I did. I really said all that to myself. Then I lay down on the living room floor and just had a good long sob.

I know… I know. What a lemon I turned out to be. How pathetic. But I have been up for a very long time. I flew to Baltimore and back and only slept on the plane, and then did sunday soul tonight with only a little afternoon nap. But I was feeling so strong. So clear. Fuck. The worst part is it’s a fucking Sam Mendes picture. He’s amazing. Wasn’t I just talking about how the American cinematheque can’t make a trailer to save their lives? I could have sworn I was just talking about that… Now they’ve got me crying on the floor, cursing the queen of my heart, and chomping at the bit to go see a freakin’ Leonardo DiCaprio film. Wheew… If you’ll excuse me please. I’m going to go soak my head now…

Watch the trailer… but if you’re anything like me you might want to put on a helmet first.

Don’t say I didn’t warn you this time.

I’m a fan of Woody Allen films. From the mid seventies to the present, I have faithfully followed the man’s work. In recent years there’s been so much talk about his “return to comedy” that I’ve all but lost interest in going to see his movies. I always say something like “Oh” and then don’t go. I plan to watch on DVD someday, maybe in a hotel room, but it never seems to happen.

A month of so ago I watched the trailer for his new film Vicky Christina Barcelona and was left scratching my head. From the trailer, the film looks like an insipid film about a threesome featuring a couple of today’s hot stars. I might have thought that looked interesting when I was 11, but these days I’d like a little more film in my movie. So I yawned and moved along.

Last week my least cinematheque friend Rachel asked me if I’d seen it. I wracked my brain… Vicky Christina Barcelona… the new Woody Allen film… I couldn’t remember ever hearing about it. Rachel sang the little song from the film. Then I remembered the trailer… Javier Bardem (who I love,) Scarlet Johansson (who I love,) and another woman (who turned out to be Rebecca Hall, whom I’ve never heard of.) I was shocked. “You mean that lame looking movie about a threesome?”

Rachel confirmed that indeed, this was the film she was talking about. Turned out she loved it, and insisted I go see it too. I smiled, humoring her, and assured her that I might. Rachel sang the little song again and grinned. This was unlike Rachel. She neither sings to me, nor insists that I see films. I figured it might be good, but from that trailer, I was probably not going to see it.

A couple days later I got a text message from Rachel:

‘What are you doing tonight?’

‘Why, what’s up?’ I texted back

And she invited me to go to the movies and see Vicky Christina Barcelona with her.

‘You want to see it again?’

‘Dying to’

So we went.

I had no positive expectations, nothing more than being very glad to be out with a friend, doing something I love to do. The film was superb. The cinematography left me intoxicated and absolutely clucking to get back to Spain (Gabrielle rings in my head… No, no, no… You don’t want Europe. Life in Europe is nothing. You like it here… ) Maybe it was the easy traveling, the easy money, the beauty… silly me. The narration, something I don’t usually like in a film, gave the movie a clinical feeling, or maybe like an official case file from a boxed set of memoirs. I loved the tone, and the calm about them. I loved the performances. Superb. I was surprised to see Penelope Cruz in the film. Actually, I loved everything about this clinical, smart, idiotic film.

I don’t want to give anything away, because — like Rachel — I want you to go and see it too. If you don’t like thoughtful, beautiful, moderately paced films you should probably be both awake, and sober for then you don’t have to go… But it turns out it’s not a film about a threesome. Vicky Christina Barcelona is actually a film about a threesome of couples, searching for self, being paralyzed with fear, making the smart choice, keeping secrets, being entirely frustrated with your destiny, and letting go with kindness, love, and joy.

The perfect thing at the perfect time. Thank you Rachel.

I am often late to the party when it comes to television, I end up watching things on DVD or whatever, but no one could have prepared me for Flight of the Conchords.

The series is about two musicians from New Zealand who live in New york. They’re best friends, they try to get gigs, they meet girls, and they have a manager. They are brilliant. They are so funny. I watched a few of the episodes last night and spent today laughing, and breaking out into music video asides of my own life. Inspirational… bringing humor and light into things which otherwise might actually plague the lives of emotionally retarded, smart but not bright, deeply creative people like me. If you are in any way connected with creativity, music from the 70’s and 80’s, poverty, friendship, or silly clothes, you need to get yourself a copy of these DVD’s.

Like Therapy for the melodramatic, the Flight of the Conchords brings laughable and charming light to the idea of having a gig cancelled in an aquarium because your useless manager (Mel) misread the ad in the news paper (they really wanted sand, not a band) but doesn’t ask “Who the fuck looks for gigs in the news paper?” Instead the show offers up Bret McKenzie and Jemaine Clement at face value– two youngish men who are clearly untapped talent, but have been formed emotionally by pop music from the seventies and eighties. They deadpan their way through musical interludes, emotional fumbles, and common experiences with a kind of a Hall and Oats meets twin Mick Jaggers (from two different eras of his carreer) flare and style.

This program’s writing, music, casting, and silly surface level content may not actually be for everyone. I actually sat through ‘This is Spinal Tap’ with someone who was so removed from the music business that she thought the movie was serious and didn’t laugh, waited a couple of days to ask questions about the film, and we only dated like two more times after that… so if you’re in no way amused by self reflection, don’t like music, or have a lot of trouble laughing at yourself, then you should probably stick to the wire, or something more gritty and real-life-ish. But I consider Flight of the Conchords to be a stroke of pure genius.

Just the right thing at just the right time. Life transforming a pouty little face with humid eyes into laughter and a new love of ugly hats and jackets.

One becomes two.

These feelings are omnipresent like second cousins — strangely many years older than we are — visiting from Oaklahoma.

When I walk, barefoot, out of the bathroom, there they are — sprawled out across the living room floor.
And when they announce that they’re going out for an entire day — to Alcatraz, or Sausalito (Hooray!) — when I step out of the office to get a drink of water… there they are in the kitchen.
Upon my arrival they suddenly stop talking and look at me. Smiling as if they never had any plans to go anywhere. When are they leaving again?

Two become three.

I catch a glimpse of your opinion
Which deeply confuses me. Not because it is a surprise
but because it is unchaperoned.
Is this evidence that you may not actually read my words,
or listen to me with care and attention?
I at once both injured and informed.
Relieved and concerned.

I can feel the agony of never really knowing what’s being said
because the trivial response rises up like a troop of air horns in a contest of catamarans.
The twin hulls glide through an ocean much too cold so swim in
We snap the locks of the trapese lines tightly, close our eyes and lean out into the wind.
We can not hear.
We can not see.

Three becomes four.

There is an unhappy event with a terra cotta floor
and I remember my childhood while I almost chew the tortilla before swallowing.
Then we are screaming in the kitchen
desperate to insult and tease each other over the the blaring little radio by the sink.
I am celebrating.
Some work is done.

Four becomes five.

I wake up with tears streaming down my face and an erection.
I am sunburned
from meeting drowning men
who seem to only want to describe how it feels to surrender
and at last draw salt water into their lungs
before they close their eyes and go to sleep.

The emergency supplies I brought with me:
Six inflatable rafts
A small bottle of water
Waterproof matches
Half a pack of cigarettes
and a box of Underdog band-aids
are useless.

I am an angel, a witness, a priest
there is nothing I can do.
Death is sensual, intoxicating,
irresistible.

Five becomes six.

And I hear footsteps in the grass.
I turn to look, twice, because I know it’s you. Come to surprise me. Come to wrap your arms around me and cover my face with kisses.
I stand with calm defiance in doorways to greet you.
And while the sun is so bright, and I can smell the sea in the air
I swear to Christ I have never seen this woman’s face before in my life.

Each one of us experiences something so unique
perhaps because we are each such dazzling filters for the world.
Some seem to capture every moment. Lifted
or smothered by the act of accumulation itself.
Others bite down hard like a nurse shark in late winter.

Some slip past the billboards
out onto the tracks
buried in snow, or boiled in steam
stretching outward
beyond
to destinations we can only imagine in our dreams.

Perhaps we are thoughtlessly draped in the finest of cloth
elegantly resting in picture perfect moments of leisure.

He leans forward a little and asks “What?” from behind his sunglasses.

She turns her head slightly, making a series of faces.
Why did you wake me?
What is that smell?
and says “Nothing” with a smile.

Perhaps we are naked
collapsed beneath the sun
sand sticking to our shoulders, the light in our eyes
dancing in our hair.

Six becomes seven.

I don’t know what else to do
can you imagine that this tantruming, this retreat
this lashing out is forgotten?

No, it is misted with rose water, pressed and then folded
set lightly aside
to be arranged in order of hue
Until there is nothing less than a rainbow of you
all around me (as if the ghosts
of your touch
were not enough)

We have thoughtlessly become a crowd
but I am not cowed
Rather,
I am stunned (for
now.)
and even before this concussion
even begins to slow its swirling
I am up and running
screaming at the moon
singing to the sun.

That means that if you were raped, and your attacker impregnated you, legally you would then be forced to carry the child to term, and deliver it. If the pregnancy proved to be life threatening, where to carry the child to term would end your life… you would be legally forced to carry the child to term and deliver it. If your fetus were tested, assuming you had health care, and the results showed that the child would have some horrible disease, deformity, or other painful, brutal, or impairing illness… you would be legally forced to carry the child to term and deliver it. You would no longer have the choice to make any other decision.

John McCain says he feels the same way (right now,) but has said something different in the past. Who knows what he really wants (aside from power,) but based on her jokes, it seems Palin expects McCain to die real soon, so we’re really voting for her.

I know she looks like Tina Fay, but trust me… she’s not. Atually in this photograph of her as Miss Wasilla (nope, she was only runner up for Miss Alaska) she looks more like that lady from Swingtown, and a teensy bit like the queen of my heart (gulp!) No, it’s the piled up hair, little glasses and big smile that give her that liberal look.

I’m not going into the rubbish about the bridge to nowhere, she’s a politician, and so she’s going to do whatever she can to fund herself, her city, and her state. I don’t hold that against her. I don’t even hold her lies or her hypocrisy against her. We’re all liars and hypocrites, politicians only appear to be more so than others because their statements are recorded and can be researched.

I’ve also heard she doesn’t eat. All she drinks is Red Bull. I know some awesome people who drink a bit of Red Bull. I hear it gives you wings…. I’ve never seen Sarah Palin nude (thank god) but I’m willing to bet she hasn’t got wings. I’ve also heard a story now more than once that she spends zero time with her family. She gave a speech in Texas (eeew) went into labor, got on a plane (no, no!) and delivered her child in Alaska, but was back to work within hours. I bet she was chugging Red Bull the whole time too. One recent development which actually does piss me off, and I hold her (and you) accountable for is her battle cry against MSNBC. Palin has charged MSNBC with liberal media bias for reporting against her and John McCain. This upsets me because a.) the media is conservative, fascist propaganda. There’s nothing liberal about it. b.) I don’t see the Democrats whining and crying about either the slander gushing out of Fox news, or any other station, nor do I see them demanding that anyone be fired because of it. It’s childish, poor sport behavior. Sadly, still pretty typical in our I got mine society… so I suppose the vote goes to the mulers and pukers. Sigh.

Check out the warrior librarian for more of this sort of fun from the horse’s mouth. I can summarize and make fun, but it’s better to know your sources as well as you can.

I dearly love Alaska (for personal reasons,) and I think women should rule this world (really, I do,) but I don’t support Sarah Palin and voting for her without knowing the facts, doing your own research, and considering the consequences is lame. Voting for her just because she’s a woman is sexist. Voting for her because she “seems real cute” is ignorant.

No more years

Join me.

P.S. I reserve the right to review and revise my snarky essay here after Jill has yelled at me about it’s original content, and Megan has calmly explained a few things I might not actually understand. Otherwise, revel in my raw, undigested opinion that this campaign is not about race or gender… It’s about moving forward, change, and hope.