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.

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 someone’s neck, kiss their 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

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.

“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…

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!

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.

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.

Was it 1990? Man, those days are a blur and I honestly don’t remember. But there was this ugly 12″ single on the wall at the record shop in the haight I used to hang out at with this hippie sitar looking blurry dude on the cover. the tail end of the 80′s was another complete musical renaissance for me, personally, and I was feeling acid house, the happy mondays, soul II soul, and anything goes. So I grabbed it and listened to it. Laughed my ass off, and loved it to pieces.

Turns out the horror of Bobby Gillespie predated this single too. There was talk of his having been a member of the Jesus and Mary Chain who had somehow managed to turn up on MTV by then, and while that put me right off them, they really were a charming, dirty little pop band at first and so this gave a little credibility to the single. I bought it. I brought it home. Soon it multiplied into a set of singles, and a sound which my household (yes… the dubtribe house) loved, but didn’t hear anywhere. We even went to see Paul Oakenfold DJ in hopes of him playing anything resembling these heady, tripped out 98 bpm remixes of the Stone Roses, Happy Mondays, and now Primal Scream he’d been blowing our minds with. He played trance (what a surprise) but we waited until the last record in hopes of him flipping the script and laying some space on us. He didn’t.

As was true in those days, by the time Primal Scream made it over the puddle to perform in San Francisco (by rights the city they should have begun in) they’d released an entire album (Screamadelica) and the edited versions featured a formula which had already totally let us down. But that didn’t stop us from going to check it out.

No one was ready for Bobbie Gillespie. Holy crap what a piece of work. This amazingly thin little spaz of a dude with a bowl cut and a big huge band that made you kind of half close your eyes and chuckle to look at, but when he opened his mouth and started belting out “Don’t call me nigger” it erupted into pure chaotic euphoria. They were amazing.

Check your head:
Primal Scream If they move, kill ‘em
[audio:http://sunshine-jones.com/musica/PS_iftheymovekillem.mp3|titles=if they move, kill em]
Primal Scream Get Duffy
[audio:http://sunshine-jones.com/musica/PS_GetDuffy.mp3|titles=get duffy]
Primal Scream Loaded
[audio:http://sunshine-jones.com/musica/PS_Loaded.mp3|titles=loaded]
and turn me on dead man…

Anyone who knows me will immediately notice that I am writing out of character right now. As a weirdo musician-DJ-Producer, I don’t usually like anyone else’s music. I barely even like my own. I live in a world where my expression is my obsession, and the only qualifying standard is how many people come out, and what they do when they get there… every detail is noted: do they give themselves to the music? do they stay and dance? do they have a beer or two, go to the bathroom, then wander into the DJ booth to critique you, or worse… say goodnight at 11 pm? It could be brain damage (and I think it is) but I live in a world where the only measure of an artist’s quality and depth is our ability, from one night to the next, to tap into the subconscious of unwilling participants in a filthy ride down a long, beautifully bare highway, where forgetting about time, space, and what time you have to be at work tomorrow is the only aim.

People of my generation, my peers, we don’t shoulder up. We don’t say anything nice about the people we really admire. We are typically want to say anything at all, but the nod is usually a professional association, or some expression of nepotism which rarely results in anything more than the touching effect of lobsters in a bucket. The residents go unacclaimed, the lone 12″ single goes unheralded, and there’s rarely anything left but bitterness, pouty glares, and a lot of shit talking. We have a hard time letting go, and an even harder time growing up. In the world of egos, dreams, hopes, and idealism like those of the DJ who can’t imaging that we are anything more than a vehicle is a frustrating, heartbreaking, and beautifully mind-blowing thing to witness. We stand shoulder to shoulder even when we’re whispering miserable, jealous, drunken slander about each other to each other. All we really meant to say was “I love that guy,” or “I wanna be like him when I grow up.” Our lessons are visceral, brutal, and experiential. They come hard, and only if we’re lucky.

That said, If you’re even here any more, I wanted to call your attention to someone I know almost nothing about: Woolfy.

Woolfy is Los Angeles resident Simon James. He was/is also known as Projections, and appears to be some part of the funk band Orogone. Everything this man touches is worth listening to, Projections on Guidance and the other odds and ends I’ve come across over the years have always been treasures to me, but this business of Woolfy has blown my mind this year.

With the tapping of fingers on a table, the throaty mumblings of a lyric, and the ugly thump of a bass, Woolfy has single handedly redefined for me what dance music even is. I am inspired in a way which is rare and precious to me. The sound of the bass is so similar to my own, but somehow it leaves me dancing wildly, and singing along instead of sticking out my lower lip and thinking I’ve been bitten. I may have been bitten, but the only bite marks on me are from a werewolf… No lobsters in this house, we’re fucking in it to goddamn win it.

Check it:
The Warehouse – Project Sandro Remix – Woolfy

The Return of Starlight – Projections vs. Woolfy

I’ll be completely honest with you. I rented Michel Gondry’s ‘The Science of Sleep’ and when it arrived today I sighed and tossed it on the side table where I put my mail. I actually thought it was a film, a documentary film about sleep. So tonight I made myself a humble dinner, and sat on the couch with my laptop, entirely ready to ignore this film with one ear and one eye and work while it softly tried to keep me company, and advise me about the wonders and science of sleep. I am actually interested in sleep and its science, but I’ve been involved in a lecture on Friedrich Nietzsche all day, it’s my 25th anniversary of my sobriety tomorrow, and I really don’t care for Halloween (without my son around it seems pointless, and no, I don’t want to talk about it.) So I was ready to dive into plants trimming this portrait of Tim Hart and his CD booklet, or the politically incorrect sexual/insect/android illustration I’m working on for the Alchemy series of flyers and posters coming up next month.

I was totally wrong about this film. Michel Gondry has created a masterpiece which took me entirely by surprise. He wrote to my own personal brand of madness, optimism, idealism, romance, dialog, geography, confusion, and intention. He didn’t even forget the Eeyore. ‘The Science of Sleep’ is a love letter for men who refuse to grow up. We who believe with all our hearts in love at first sight, prefer our dreams, daydreams and delusions to reality, miss our fathers, but can still joke about it, and are simply going to live happily ever after no matter what happens.

My laptop went to sleep, I didn’t do any work, I just watched the film carefully with my mouth open a little bit. Now I’m happy in that little tiny sad sort of way. I’m so happy inside that there’s nothing left to do but crawl into my bed, snuggle under my crisp clean sheets, and go to sleep.

I went about a decade without a television. Although I was accused of being one of those people who say “I don’t watch TV” when asked about shows, or specials or videos, I didn’t forego having a television set to be self satisfied, I was on tour, plugged into a computer, and slouched over a TB-303 the whole time and quite frankly there weren’t enough hours in the day to spend any of them in front of commercials which made me furious. So in the interest of a greater serenity and personal calm, I didn’t watch television at all.

The reintroduction of the box came after house sitting a few times for my parents. They had this beautifully huge TV in the family room, and I would curl up in front of it and watch it for days. I had to admit that it was a welcome escape. When they sold their house to buy a boat and sail around the world I found myself the welcome recipient of this very same device. What fun!

Immediately I hooked up a VCR and became the top renter at my local mom and pop video store. And when I’d watched all the movies they had for rent, I discovered DVD and started to build a collection. Eventually I got cable with a DVR and now my television records the shows I’m interested in (Frontline, Nova, Bill Moyers’ Journal, and a handful of network programs which I like to watch like Family Guy, The Daily Show, and the recent Ken Burns documentary on World War II.) I love having a DVR because I can watch what I want, whenever I want, and I don’t have to be on the couch at any time in particular to catch my program. The best thing is the secret code which I’ve added to my remote control which allows me to jump ahead in 30 second blocks so I don’t have to see any commercials. None. Not even the subconscious ones while you’re fast forwarding through them. I simply click, click, click, click and we’re back!

I also have Netflix. I do the $8.99 a month, one DVD at a time thing. Usually I get 2 movies a week, and if I don’t watch them right away, I take it as a sign that I don’t really want to watch it at all and just send it back. I rarely have the television on at all, and unless my son is on my lap and we’re watching it together (usually a movie, and as a special treat… a bit of cartoon network) in an average week I might watch one movie and a couple of selections off my DVR. I read mostly, and work a lot. Relaxation to me means getting out of the house, walking, going somewhere, doing something. I really don’t like the way the television makes me feel.

I find my contempt for television a bit odd. I have no problem sitting in front of my macbook pro for 10 hours a day, scouring the web, coding, designing, listening to music, writing, or producing music. The feeling I get is completely different. On a computer, I am active, reading, thinking, creating, interacting… on a television, I am sitting there. The back of my mind begins to click after about 30 minutes… less if I am not enjoying what I’m watching, and I begin to get crabby. One sight of George Bush, even on a comedy program, and I am straight up angry. And yet, my body is relaxed, stationary, and unwilling to get up off the couch. Personally this makes me very unhappy, and so I avoid it.

Another approach

Recently in attempting to consolidate my bills, I thought it might be a prudent decision to disconnect my comcast service, and end my dribbling relationship with Netflix. I got the idea while I was catching up with LOST. I rented Season One from Netflix, and was so enthralled that I couldn’t wait for Netflix to send me the next DVD, so I removed them from my queue and started buying them from the iTunes music store… I cracked out completely on LOST and caught up to the most recent episode, the season three finale, in about a month.

Again, no commercials. Yes, it’s $1.99 per episode, slightly cheaper if you buy the whole season, but did I say that there were no commercials? and it’s immediate, and the programs are mine now. The ownership aspect of iTunes is less significant with television programs. I am far less likely to watch a tv show a second time, whereas I will listen to music over and over, and revisit beloved films annually. Somehow with a TV show, even one I adore, I just get bored as soon as I realize I’ve seen it before.

So doing the math, I determined that if I buy Apple TV ($299 for the 40 Gig model, $399 for the 160 Gig model) and connect it to my television, turn off comcast and return the DVR (-$49 a month) and cancel my subscription to Netflix (-$8.99 a month) after absorbing the initial $300 investment in apple tv, I’ll save like $60 a month. That sounds great, but what will it cost to buy the shows I watch? What do I watch? Really?

I love Battlestar Galactica. I watched one on Sci-Fi a couple years ago and laughed at it. I thought it was stupid, and overrated. It seems like office in space to me. But that was because I jumped into part two of an episode about establishing legal rights, and the negotiation of sovereignty between a Presidency of colonies which no longer technically existed, and the Admiralty of a combat fleet in a war which was quite real. I had no idea what was going on, so I saw Edward James Olmos and Mary McDonnell whispering to one another in not-very-sci-fi looking outfits and didn’t like it. I’m not sure if they were wearing chrome bio-suits I would have liked it any better… possibly less.

After listening to my sister’s partner go off about the program not long ago in mexico, I decided to give it another try. I began, sensibly, at the beginning. I watched the miniseries, and was immediately hooked. Now, as of last night, I am officially up to date and waiting for the season 4 premier like everyone else.

I love Lost. I’ve written about it here, and elsewhere. This is amazing television. If you haven’t seen it, I suggest you go back to the pilot (watch it on an airplane like I did if you can) and come up to the present with me. Wow, what a show. I like Lost so much that I am reticent to summarize the program. Essential television, far better than most films, or books I’ve read or seen in the last 10 years.

Mad Men, an AMC original series written and produced by Matthew Weiner, is a superb television program. Barely into the first season, I am hooked and I adore this show. The premise is that it’s the end of the 1950′s, Nixon is about to run against Kennedy for president, and Cigarettes are about to get warning labels on them, men and women have very different roles and relationships than they do today, and hindsight being what it is… the program not only honors the innocence, but I find myself salivating at the glimpses of the huge fish under dark waters of the issues which would eventually blow up in the faces of the establishment. Meanwhile, I’m a sucker for thoughtful period pieces, and anything which examines culture and values with intelligence, love, and a little sarcasm.

The honorable mentions are Family Guy, a cartoon that makes me laugh out loud, The Daily Show which rarely has me laughing, but has sadly become the place I get my news, and enjoy being entertained by people who at least appear to share my world view of the absurd and criminal politics of our unique times. Then I will watch Frontline, or Bill Moyers’ Journal occasionally, but in truth I find myself deleting these recordings more often than actually watching them.

Now what?

So what would it really cost me to watch apple tv instead of having Netflix, and Comcast? I’m not sure. If Battlestar and Lost come back next year as a new season, then I’ll buy the seasons at the outset and be charged $20 or whatever for the season, and iTunes will automatically download them as they are released. Then if I want to watch the daily show, or new episodes of family guy I can buy them one at a time. This sounds a lot more affordable, and strikes the crappy advertisements and temptation to find myself cranky on the couch entirely out of my life. Seems like a good deal to me.

So why aren’t I doing it?

It’s hard to admit, but I’ve spent much of my life in a backward condition. I have always felt a general feeling of us and them, and in my darkest hours I’ve suspected that maybe it was only me, and there wasn’t even an us. It doesn’t matter how I found myself in this condition, it has proven to be a failure, in essence, to try to figure out why I believe the things I do, harbor certain fears (many of which I have held so long that I actually believe them,) or respond in situations the way I do. Why has proven to be a worthless question. My ego-mind would like to understand why, trace down the root cause. It’s human nature to seek and ponder. But I have come to see clearly that when it comes to my grosser handicaps I mainly ask why because I am secretly hoping that it’s going to be someone else’s fault. It would be lovely indeed if you were to blame for my problems or my issues. That would be totally sweet, and I tell you… your days would be numbered baby.

I’ve long been tangled up in the adjectives of my life. I pine for this, and ache for that. I simply can’t make any music until I get this piece of equipment. Or I spend a few hours laying on the floor of my bathroom in tears because love hasn’t worked out right. Thus misspending my life in a vicious cycle of dependency where I am always the loser.

People are just people, fallible, fragile, arrogant, frightened, splendid, beautiful, and silly… just like me. And so, it follows that people will always let you down (about as much as they will delight you.) But to respond to human failings, and isolate myself is really a childish reaction to life. Like an eleven year old, still stinging from the life-ending heartbreak of love’s sudden wilt after summer camp ends swearing that he will never love anyone ever again… maybe he lets his hair get greasy, smokes a cigarette, and pouts a lot, but eventually he’s going to fall in love with his Spanish teacher, or another one of the boys on the basketball team. We can say whatever we like, and we can even mean it in a moment, but the fact of the matter is that we need each other. Perfection isn’t an inertia so great that there is nothing out of place because there is no movement at all. That’s not perfection. To my mind, perfection is a messy thing, alive, growing, learning, changing, making mistakes, and constantly in motion.

So if suffering over the adjectives of life appears to be the problem, well then what am I supposed to do, not want anything anymore? Or maybe lay down and die in the back room at starbucks between double shifts trying to pay my hideous rent in a city that doesn’t care if I live or die? I’ve tried my hand at not wanting and I’ve even made a serious effort to reframe my thinking, shame myself when my instincts arise, and even simply pretend I don’t want anything at all… no, no… not me… and then the moment some resources arrive, or someone half-way pretty starts batting their eyes at me: Baam! I seize upon the retail experience like a monkey on a fresh box of bananas. Oooh Oooh Oooh Eeeh Eeeh!

No, of course not.

Lately it’s occurred to me that there isn’t anything wrong with wanting nice things, rising up off the ledge of security to the plateau of stability and even to the peaks of prosperity. There’s nothing wrong with wanting to feel good at what I do, or positive and grateful for what I’ve done.

No, the trouble appears to lie in the internalized response I have to my own dreams, desires, and ambitions. It may not be true for everyone, though looking around at the world and witnessing all that we give up every day in order to arrive at our short term goals at least we seem to have more than a few things in common. It seems that my fear that it’s not going to be ok, that somehow the universe will run out of love, sex, prestige, intimacy, friendship, success, and I will be left behind like some buffoon who believed in some teen-aged pipe dream that hasn’t come true, is never going to come true, and only a fool would continue to hold on to the entrails of… These perfectly natural human emotions have held me so hostage in my life that at times I feel like a highwayman drooling hungrily at the roadkill, whatever it was, already boiling the water in his mind to prepare the mystery stew back at camp.

The truth is that when these root fears, lies, and selfish thoughts are exposed for what they are thy simply fall away. It takes time. Many of the things I believe about myself and the world are very near and dear to my heart, even though they seem to bring nothing to my life, or yours, but disillusion and ruin. I have realized that what has to happen here is that the horse needs to be bridled up in front of the cart at once, and my instincts have to cease to be what I strive to satisfy first and foremost. Tending to my spirit, my soul if you will, through honest self-appraisal, and with kindness and love is what allows me to be a partner in the common effort of living. Like in any relationship, who is happy? Is it Archie Bunker, bleating biased bullshit and pushing around his wife instead of facing his own fears, doubts, and inner turmoil? I would think that the husband, friend, colleague, or comrade who can put his instincts aside, and place his known fissures and emotional damage onto the table, not for ridicule, but as vulnerable information between trusted friends will find that it may no longer be possible to use these fissures, this damage as ammunition against those around him.

And when these petty things begin to fall away, having owned them, undertaken them in a vulnerable way which is what I believe it truly is to be a man, then one finds that there is partnership everywhere. Not just for the purposes of satisfying one’s limited goals, but in rich, and true bonds between friends and family, as well as in any casual exchange. After all, it is not you who must change in order to placate or accommodate the bitterness or cynicism of another. Rather, the burden is mine to accept you are you truly are, as I have undertaken to accept myself, and love you more than ever.

In this spirit I present:
Sunday Soul Website

http://sundaysoul.com

From here you can listen, chat, join the mailing list, and catch up on the archives of Sunday Soul.

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Sunday Soul MySpace profile

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Come, friend us, and receive bullitens about shows, reminders about airtime, and listen to the selected archives.

I just completed all three seasons of Lost. Some of it was on DVD, through netflix, but I got impatient and started buying them from iTunes and watching them on my laptop, or on my iPod on the airplane. Tonight I finished the entire series thus far. I am saturated, stunned, and feel something like a crack head, desperate for an explanation, a conversation, or maybe just one more episode I haven’t seen yet.

I consider the twists and turns, the skilled character development. Delight in the taunting lore and mystery of the writing. Savor the beauty of the photography, and the almost complete believability of the acting. So fresh, so original, and yet the series is timeless in its questions and at its basic core.

I want somehow to sum it all up, to express my ego’s infatuation with Jack and how deeply I identify with him on every level, how I feel no compassion for Sawyer no matter what he does, and how I adore Sayid. I want to spoil it all for you if you haven’t seen it before. The words dance around my lips, and the pictures al blur together in my head. But it’s only a television show… I’ll spare you.

Instead I think I am going to sleep on it, and then perhaps begin again from the beginning.

The man who has stood by me, right beside me, and listened with love and friendship to my deepest flaws, secrets, and innermost spiritual questions died last night in San Francisco. He passed away in his sleep, at home with his wife and son beside him.

I met Silas in 1983, I was only beginning my journey on the path ahead of me and was full of anger and frustration with the word, but especially for anyone who was proselytizing. In those days if you spoke openly about any religion to me I was likely to pick up a folding chair and throw it at you. I know that sounds funny, but it’s true. People often ducked whenever I stood up in those days. Silas was talking to a group of us about how spirituality was an essential piece of life, and that it’s not the same thing as choosing a religion. I didn’t have the ears to hear what he was saying, all I heard was something like “You must believe in Jesus!” And so I stood up and began to grab the folding chair I had been sitting on when a huge arms slammed against me and forced me back down in my seat. “Don’t you throw that chair at that nice man…” Said Raffiki seriously, and softly. I looked into his huge brown eyes and decided not to throw anything at anyone.

About seven years later I had been asked by my mentor at the time, Mr. Jeffrey Thomas, to go out into the world and ask people about what they thought “god” was. I did, and I heard a lot of pretty crack-pot ideas about a supreme dude in the clouds, and some really filthy new-age crap about energy too. It was when I approached Silas that I got an interesting answer to my question of “What is god?”

He turned to me in his seersucker suit and knitted his eyebrows together kindly. He peered into my face and said “Who asked you to ask me this?” I told him that Jeffrey had. His serious face broke into a peaceful expression and he stepped a little closer to me and said “I’m afraid that Jeffrey has lead you astray.” Confused I asked him how and why? Silas smiled a broad, generous smile and said “I can’t tell you anything at all about god. That’s for you.”

This was the best advice or direction anyone had ever given me with regards to a spiritual life. People are so consumed with convincing themselves of whatever it is they are trying to undertake that when you ask them about their path, more often than not they are happy to undertake your schooling, and tell you what to believe and how to believe it. Silas was the first person I ever met who told me that while he had profound beliefs of his own, they were personal and private. That if I wanted to know more, I needed to seek that path myself. It was because of this exchange that I stopped working with Jeffrey, and began to seek openly anything I could find out about spiritual practice and growth.

A few years later I asked Silas to mentor me. He laughed and happily agreed. We worked together as a team, friends, peers, and colleagues for many years. I love his family as if they were my own. While they probably don’t feel anything like the kinship I feel for them toward me, it is by proxy and through the candid intimacy of my friendship with Si that I have come to know them deeply and love them dearly.

As his life came to a close I reminded Silas of the funny things he’d said over the years about how he wanted to go out of this life. He once said he wanted to have a bag of tobacco and a pipe on his death bed, to which Silas laughed and said that was silly and no, of course he didn’t want that. He also said that he wanted to die in the arms of a beautiful woman. I always loved that story, and I feel quite sure that wish came true. But upon reminding Si of these whims of how he’d like to step out of this life in style, he said to me that he has had a wonderful life, that he has the love of a beautiful wife, three beautiful sons, a beautiful daughter, and feels the presence of god in his heart, and in his life. Not one moment goes by when he doesn’t feel blessed and grateful for everything he had been given.

I knew when we had this conversation that he was ready, and fearlessly present, prepared for the end of his life. Gratefully it came quickly, and while he was sleeping at home. He simply stopped breathing.

Of all the friends, teachers, family, and comrades I’ve had in my life (and let me tell you there have been a lot) Silas has been the man who brought the message of love into my innermost private thoughts, meditations and activities. He has always told me that the secret to the universe is love. All you gotta do is love, and everything is going to be just fine.

I’ve undertaken this as my root belief. I am always, however strange or difficult I may appear to be, coming from a place of deep and unconditional love. This is a gift I could never have lived without.

Thank you my friend. Safe journey, and may God, as you understand God, bless your heart, and ferry your soul into the next world with dignity, grace, ease, and all the love and kindness you have shown so many thousands of people in this world. I love you, and remain forever your student, your peer, your sponsee, and your friend.

After an evening with my friend Calvin, he and I went to see Transformers. Somehow he convinced me that it got “good reviews” and would be fun. It wasn’t hard to convince me. My son loves Transformers, these toy robots which change into cars and other cool things. Little boy toys. Lots of fun! Also, I am practicing having fun for the sake of fun. So in hopes of opening my heart a little more… I went.

The best way to describe the film was something I overheard on the way out:

“Dude my ass totally sweat through my seat in that chair man. I’m soaking wet bro.”

It’s not as homo-erotic as it sounded to me. The three hairy (but bald) guys from who knows where were clearly having a man’s night out together. The chic (but ugly) squared off baseball cap, the plaid shirts without sleeves, tight jeans that their ex-wives bought them, glazed over and completely entertained. Their only complaint was that it was too long. Somewhere in the world of marketing it’s been decided that we men want our entertainment delivered to us in intense (but short) doses. Like bad sex, or maybe a lap dance. you know… just enough to say we were there without actually registering anything, or making any effort. Somehow those marketeers must be right on some level. What do I know?

Personally I am convinced now more than ever that Hollywood can’t make a movie any more. Between hack editing, bullshit CGI , and the transparent argument between the people who are creating, writing, and directing the film with the legal department and the marketing blazes through onto the screen so sickly wet with compromise and all the blurry confusion of a dullard wandering through traffic in the afternoon looking for his glasses.

I might have enjoyed a little traffic play quite a bit more than this mash-up of 17 other movies I wish I hadn’t seen, and some mediocre computer graphics. Definitely one for the troops, not for me.

In Daumal’s last letter to his wife he wrote:

But you’re awesome just the same. I first checked out Lily Allen when she appeared on Saturday Night live. I thought her band was amazing, seriously amazing. They are decked out like a 60′s ska band, and playing some vicious hybrid of serious roots ska and hip hop. But Ms. Allen was bouffanted up with a big puffy dress and just stood there like she was the hostess of the party, singing more or less in a monotone. I didn’t get it. I wasn’t listening.

For me, the genius of Lily Allen comes out when you pay careful attention to what she’s actually saying. Once you hear that this mild, pleasant, somewhat emotionless voice is singing about her grandmother’s baffling habit of clipping out coupons for tampons she’s never going to use you begin to realize that not only is she snide and rude, but she’s also making an excellent joke about her ordinary experience.

This is ska at it’s most precise, like the Specials in the late 70s using the sound of the sixties in and combining it with the voice of the punk movement, Lily Allen is taking from the finest of ska, and mixing it up with the Brixton experience of today. Hip hop, attitude, street talk, and the common experience. Generally this is something an American might be fascinated with, because it’s not our experience, and not our language, but not relate to.

I’ll bypass the lack of American identification with the working class, and what’s culturally wrong with that, and just say that Lilly Allen is a proletariat heroine with enough style to rise above her roots, and more than enough snotty youth to kick you in the nuts.

C’mon!

Lily Allen Nan you’re a window shopper
[song removed to make room for new music]

“Yeah.. I know, love isn’t something you feel, it’s something you do.
But if the person you love doesn’t want it… do yoursef a favor and save it for someone who does.”

- Nate Fisher

I continue to be amazed by the insight and skill with which Six Feet Under was written, directed, photographed, and performed.