Travelling by Land

I don't really have much to report. I wish I did, but the truth of the situation is that I wish this election year would hurry up and be over. The evening news terrifies me, partly due to the war, partly due to the Tennessee senatorial race, and partly due to domestic affairs here in the states. Minimum wage has not been increased in about a decade, people work without security of health insurance or retirement, and from what I can tell, few people question it. There is an inner belief that hard work will solve everything and we can all be like the rich guys.

I commute about 3 to 5 days a week to the city, and the thing that is fascinating about the morning commute is the number of people that sleep on the bus. Add to that the fact that there is a certain etiquette that I have not really been able to pick up on, due to the intimate nature of sleep, and I think I have stumbled upon an American cultural trait that is pretty interesting.

I guess I should describe the last two commutes and my sleeping neighbors. First and foremost, when I get on the bus it is already three quarters full, so I have to walk to the back of the bus to sit. On last Thursday there was a guy that smiled at me and said good morning, then he promptly went off to sleep. It was as if we were skydiving, and his nod was an act of kindredness and security in our journey to earth. He slept on the right side of the bus, and I sat in the middle next to a small career woman that looked like she ate and pooped numbers all day. Her wardrobe was completely black, while me and the other guy were more casual.

When we woke up, he did the exact same non-verbal signals, then a set of stretches probably designed to decrease the probability of a blood clot, and we got off the bus.

Then, on Monday I was in the back again. I had noticed this really tall athletic looking guy who must have been in his mid to late fifties. He had a young face, but this weird haircut that either garnished a crappy toupee, or was in need of more off the top. His hair almost looked nappy, but not quiet, just thick and swollen and possibly dyed with some thick agent which made the style look coagulated and lumpy.

I sat to the right this time, and he in the middle. He was professionally dressed and rambled through the morning paper's sport section with such speed and vigor I could hardly do anything but notice. I was busy reading a short story by Alejo Carpentier, as he fidgeted more, folding the paper, adjusting his briefcase and finally sleeping while sitting on his hands. There was something weird about his sleep, as I finally put my book away, it was as if he was awake, staring forward, or meditating. Maybe he was one of those over achievers, soaking up every moment with purpose and focus.

As the bus pulled up through Port Authority, he awoke with an arched back, rubbing his eyes, expressing a limberness of a child and not a middle aged man. It was as if he was ready to go kayaking or rock climbing.

When he was fully awake, he grabbed both hand grips mounted on each chair on either side and pulled himself up in one swing like a muscle man from 1950's Atlantic City, and dashed off the bus.

I started my long walk to work thinking about the moment and thinking about New York. The thing I have become most unaccustomed too is being so close to people and not being involved. I am not sure I can sit on a bus and sleep next to anyone anymore because I don't want to be in total control of my mind and body during that time. I did fall asleep on the bus both Monday and Thursday, but completely aware that some stranger was sleeping not very far from me. I don't want to be seen nor see anyone else doing what I think to be pretty innocent. There is something indecent about it, just like when passing by people with tongues down each other's throats (well, that is not exactly innocent) or smelling a meatloaf sandwich being devoured by a fellow subway rider. Sleeping side by side as I snore, or burp, or fart should be reserved for my significant other. I wonder, is the mundane body for everyone?

I also feel like a voyeur when I notice people so closely, especially during sleep. It seems so impossible to sleep next to someone and not share something . . . even if it is for 45 minutes . . . on your way to work . . . right after daylight savings time . . . noticing the sunrise for the first time in a month of Sundays.

Love Jones for Henry Rollins

I am going to write a love letter to Henry Rollins. His torso, his music, his politics and his gorgeous face pretty much sum up what I am looking for in a man. I do believe that he is still single, and we can get married in New Jersey so maybe we stand a chance. He has a show on IFC (The Independent Film Channel) that I ran across channel surfing late last night. I watched in amazement as it brought back memories of walking through New Brunswick reading the Aquarian newspaper every week.

It is a rainy day, I can afford to dream a little.

I have been so slow to write anything as of late. I can't really start any long post because I have started back up the slow road of making a living and dealing with the man, which saddens me in a sense. I miss Bohemia and all its delusions.

For the first time yesterday I thought about abandoning working in the university for the shear fact that working with 20-somethings is far less stressful than teaching them. There is always that feeling that I have to put on airs and act like an authority. At my little mini-job I meet a lot of interesting 20-somethings that make me remember how open 20-somethings can be. One guy is from Coney Island, another young lady is from South Carolina and has been in NYC for only 4 months, then there is a really cute guy who speaks about 4 languages. We spoke a couple of words of Portuguese yesterday.

I have been doing some non-blog writing, and that has changed my energy and perspective. It is not a bad one, it is just that I am receiving more responses from my creative stuff, and feedback for me is everything. It helps me feel like a writer and I kind of need that since my current living situation and work don't give me that directly.

Well, I have to work a bit tomorrow. There is a big event coming up with a celebrity I won't mention. She has a new book coming out and we have to prepare for the signing. I am sure her books are where they need to be (I am back in inventory management for now), but we will just receive more calls. I missed the Michelen event. It would have been nice to see the intellectual snobbery of chefs. I like acts of intellectual snobbery, and if you add the sensory element of French cooking, then baby you can cut the cord, I 'm birthed.


PS
I have a craving for File Gumbo, and I would like to try and make Turtle Soup. I will make File Gumbo for Kwanza for sure, and maybe for my father's birthday in late November, and maybe before then if I get my hands on 40 to 50 bucks. Turtles for soup can be obtained in Chinatown, alive. How do you kill them, does anyone know?

Madonna and Child

OK,

I am sorry. I have been beat up after the last couple of days of work. Waking up at 4:30 am to commute to NYC has has been a bit taxing. Especially since I seem to get up early so I can do my father's work first, then catch the 6:00 am bus to do my own job. Commuting back was hell today, it took 2 hours and 15 minutes due to traffic. I hate commuting. I hate sleeping next to someone I don't know. I sleep hard and I snore, it must be terrible for the other person.

It is very, very weird. But maybe this is something we Americans don't mind seeing. After all people have moved all the way to Pennsylvania to have affordable housing and a yard for their children.

Anyway.

Today, let's have a moment to ponder Madonna and child. I have only one thing to say: "I am afraid that the trial concerning this "illegal" adoption may have more to do with the patriarchal and patronizing views of some humanitarian organizations towards Africa as much as with anything else."

I am not saying that Madonna is right or wrong, but why is it so hard to adopt in some African countries? And, as heart breaking as this is, what is the exact benefit of living in Malawi for 18 months? Ultimately it is to establish residency, and I am sure that it is part and parcel of any naturalization law.

The Malawian government has broken its own law . . . I see that, but I am not so sure about how this situation is going to turn out, or who is right and who is wrong. Is this law really functional, and what is its exact function? Is it cultural? China pumps out children for adoption like Willie Wonka bars.

So be it . . .

The only other aspect to this that I find problematic is the African American community's response concerning adopted black children as accessories. OK, I hear the argument. But how many of us African-Americans understand abject poverty? And, why does our race solidarity kick in during spats of racial objectification/alignment and not economic inequality here at home and abroad?

No more soap box now. Gone to watch the movie The Island.

Lost in the Motion

I had two emergencies in the last 24 hours that have left me in NJ. I missed Ayana's thing. I am sorry, Ayana but I am pretty beat up. But without revealing all but over looking nothing, let's give some numerical points.

1. One of my emergencies was diabetic related, so as far as the Michael J. Fox/Rush Limbald controversy I just want to say how could Rush every know what a chronic disease means for people's everyday lives and especially in this system. There is something really wrong about what he said and it puts a focus on how people belittle and emasculate those with physical health problems. It is not really about being politically correct, it is far more vicious and our competitive out dated social Darwinist views on life are feeding it.

2. Tuesday, first full day of work at nondescript, but very posh place on a posh street . . .well, all but the thing about the elevator not working, so I had to help empty a UPS truck with about 600 items on it. Some not too light. But it was nice. Great view of New York from the back of a stationary truck, never seen it before.

3. When the Michelen guides arrived we received one whole pallet for a special event that happened yesterday. The trucker jumped out, and then this older lady from maybe the Philippines of Korea jumped out too. Maybe his wife? It was interesting. She wore a blue jean jacket, a blue jean skirt and she sucked on a lime green glow in the dark orb that could have been some Everlast brand of electric candy for all I knew. I thought nasty thoughts, and I think she knew I thought nasty thoughts.

4. I have a myspace page with a picture on it. I look like an actor. Funny. And the my picture doesn't go with the backdop, but I think that is just me anyway. I am far different than I seem.

Me Friend

This is Ayana Soyini, I am working on her marketing materials and helping to promote her stuff in the Nashville, Washington D.C. and New Haven arenas. She is having her listening party at Negril in the Village on Wednesday from 7pm til 11pm. There is no cover charge.

Ayana's eclectic groove pulls from several different genres which places her in the realm of DJ, performing artist and talented produce.

Come get you some if you can.

A Boiler Maker and 3 Shots of Whiskey

I will have to blog again later today. It is 3:00 am and I have just gotten back from the city. The meeting I had went well, there are somethings I might finally get published, plus an interview with a filmmaker that I want to do for an art journal. So that is good.

I talked to Lenny before the meeting for a couple of hours. We had coffee (I had one coffee with a shot of espresso before that) and shared a dessert at a cafe on 36th street between 5th and 6th avenues. Lenny is working with Elite and some other agencies. He is going to try and pull me in on any deals that he gets, and I am going to do the same. He is a photographer. I am a writer. So there has to be something we can do together. Lenny gave his rants on American society and politics and talked about himself for a while; then, he proclaimed that the places where I want to work are not his style because people talk to much about themselves.

That is Lenny. He isn't selfish though, he is just hyper aware and extremely independent and anti-establishment.

After that I was off to the East Village. It was very interesting. I just talked about the end of a the punk world. The East Village is the end of a certain world. So few people stay there for long, it is a place fore people with itchy feet, but I know some die hards. Interestingly enough my mentor at NYU is down there.

Today after the shots of whiskey and the meeting I realised that Harlem is not where my support has come (lived), it has always been downtown. I just have not embraced it before. Harlem is different. I also realized that 10 years ago my life looked a lot like the two young women that were in the gallery. One was doing the artsy thing after getting fired from her job, the other was doing the graduate school thing. It is funny how we all end up on the other side, looking back in on what we used to be.

Old giants can become as small and redundant as a slinky after half a score.
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I got more comments on the Foley-Priest thing. I will look into them later. But I must say I was just waiting for relationships between men and boys to take a more stark and explicit flight in description. I can do without the lewdness, and thank heavens we have been spared that. I have to see what the pundits will say, maybe tomorrow.

Three Blind Mice

First, my blind item.

What infamous congressman released the name of the priest that molested him to the proper authorities, though the name of that priest is not being televised. And what is the subtext of this conversation? Is it, "I am gay because I was molested as a child otherwise I would be normal."? Or is it, "I am going through treatment for my alcoholism and irreversible homosexuality because I was molested."? Or is it, "I am gay because I like dick."?

Who is to say what anyone is or is not. I am not really into that labeling stuff and I think it brings up a lot of fascist behavior on both the radical liberal side and the fanatical right. It is like splitting hairs after while. I mean how many dicks do you have to suck to be a gay male? Is it like the one drop rule. That can be taken literally when it comes to mouth and penis. But seriously, I find Foley's motives and timing concerning not only his identity as a dick lover interesting, but how it fits (or conflicts) with his identity as a Republican. We are all being forced to ask ourselves just what is a Republican?

Second, North Korea.
What can Condoleeza Rice & Peas (I love me some Paul Mooney)really do about this situation. I hope she can do something and win the Nobel Prize next year cause Kim Jong-il seems to be ready to flip out regardless. No one wants any of this, but what can one really do?

Third, my weekend.

I heard that there is a threat of dirty bomb activity at different stadiums around the country this Sunday. And, this warning came from CNN not a viral e-mail, or my cousin in Anniston, AL. But, don't worry, we are not suppose to worry about this one.

I can't believe we are having conversations like these.

A Line in the Sand

I am going to take a break from the blog today to simply clean out some stuff upstairs. I got up this morning and did a walk around the block. It was before dawn. I bumped into a jogger and a couple of cars.

Last night I ran up on this BET interview with Patti Labelle where she received roses from Phyllis Hyman. It seems like ancient history somehow. There is something spiritually resonant about that moment too. I spent the night looking at her videos and searching for bits on LaBelle. I do miss Phyllis and this clip makes me feel like there is something epic about the best song birds.

Weltanschaltungen

There is not much to report here. I was busy trying to read Groove, Bang and Jump Around by Steve Cannon, but I am having trouble getting through it. I read it about 7 years ago, but I am in a totally different space. I will hopefully meet with him on this Thursday, just to chill out for a bit. I am getting a bit antsy here in New Jersey. My stepmother just confessed to me that she doesn't like fiction. My father doesn't read it either. The irony of my life.

I finally got a survival job. I will keep it at that. I will have cash to get some stuff done in NYC. I still look at NYC as being a great place to sale my wares (writing) and not much else. It is too expensive to actually live there unless I look at the Bronx, but something is about swing in terms of living and real estate. The stock market is going up because people are rushing to put all of their money in the market since real estate is diving. So, again, we have empty numbers. It is sad, but in true "don't hate the player hate the game" fashion it is time to manipulate the situation.

I have been listening to everything from Skunk Anansie, Pattie Labelle (I have been listening to several versions of "You are my Friend" on YouTube), and Daft Punk for the last 3 days. I am in meditative heaven.

I have been trying to read all this deep stuff like Saussure, Foucault, Husserl and Levi-Strauss. It will take all winter.

And I will do some nude modeling at Sylvia's studio. We have been talking about it for a while, and I am going to do some painting with her (she is the master, I am the little grasshopper). I want to work in charcoal, we will have to talk. But that is still a bit off. We both have a lot on our plates family wise.

Dying New York Rebirth

CBGB is gone. I read an article in the New York Times describing the last concert with Patti Smith. I have been lamenting it hard because I have noticed this big whole in my artistic and spiritual world due to a lack of connectedness and information about the whole punk music movement, and all that Andy Warhol stuff I mentioned earlier. So for me it felt like a double loss of sorts.

I went to CBGB once with a friend of mine from Vibe back in 1994 or 1995. We were interns together at the notrious magazine. D-Man had graduated from a college in Boston, and lived in the area. He followed the whole music scene, had his own band in the East Village and cried when Frank Zappa died. I did not really feel any of it at the time, I was still in black university jubilee choir mode from my early twenties. I did not have a sense of exploration, or rather it was in a different direction, more like Brazilian Bossa Nova and Musica Popular Brasil. For my day job, I was courting hip-hop hard, but little did I know, there wasn't really anything underneath . . . at least after a certain point (Snoop Dog's inauguration into the game on the first cover of Vibe comes to mind, that was when the horror started to descend).

I never got a chance to see what was underneath Patti Smith and the punk world. I only saw her one time in person on the street with her long bone straight salt and pepper hair, chiseled jawline, and walking with a speed that was astonishing. A young girl was trailing behind her like a gothic red riding hood in a plain cotton spun button down dress and non-descript jacket. With an agility of mind and body, the little girl stayed alert to everything that Pattie did, like a baby dolphin or killer whale tucked underneath her mother's flipper. And, in a flash, I was descending the staircase to the subway below, and Patti Smith marched north, up The Avenue of the Americas. It was such a dark night. The streets were crowded. I would have missed her if she was not glowing.

They say punk music has not died, and it has not, it just experienced a little death.

Breaking Bread Together, Or The Last Days of Flava Flav

I was invited by Keith + Mendi to the Schomburg in Harlem but could not make it. I believe Mendi was reading. I have to conserve my cash, movement is only for job interviews or meetings that will lead to some freelance work. So, I stayed in today. I have been feeling funny, not too good.

My father made red beans and rice -- New Orleans style (or maybe I should just say our family recipe). It was delicious. He showed me a bit of how to make them today. He just lifted the lid and I saw the beans and smoked hocks bubbling. He has great pots, I am jealous of some of the cookware. I grew up in a family where eating is very important -- like, to a point, people judge your character by how well you can cook -- well, almost.

So today, Flava Flav won out over uptown high culture and ancestral continuity in Harlem (sorry, I missed you J). In the end I watched the Flava of Love 2 marathon. I was interrupted by life as usual. I typed a memo for my father. I have become his on call typist for a little extra money, today I did my work for a pack of Gillette Fusion razor refills. So, I missed the first episode where one chick shitted on the floor and got into a fight. That is one crazy chick. How can you just shit on a floor? Then I fell a sleep during the very last part of the episode where the porn queen was outed! That episode was a bit too drawn out and I woke up early yesterday morning. I needed to catch up. Then I kind of roamed around the house during the episodes I saw. Did stuff like taking my medicine, eating dinner (I had too much of the rice and beans), talked to my ex-girlfriend in the Bronx, a good friend from Nashville (let's call her Nashville Mamma), caught a bit of the Duke rape case coverage on 60 minutes (I didn't see all of it so I won't comment, but what I did see was riveting and very telling about Southern politics and the shift in demographics and political tools used by the black community), blah, blah, blah. In the mist of all that life, running around me, I missed the third-to-the-last-episode which I had never seen.

By 9:00 pm I endured New York's mother's visit to get to the anti-climactic finale at 10pm. Flav picked Deelishis in the end because New York was acting too much like her crazy mother during the final date. So, her face was cracked twice. Check VH1 for the details.

I talked to Nashville Momma, these were her observations.

1. Flava Flav looks like a burnt iguana over an open spit with olive oil spread all over his body.
2. Flava has a big dick.
3. Some people are so ugly they are beautiful (I still have a crush on Tricky that no one understands, and another friend has a secret crush on Shabba Ranks).
4. Flav loves New York.
5. Some cast members are actors (maybe most).
6. The show is degrading to Black people, since for most peopletelevision is all they see of the wider world regardless of race, money, or neighborhood.

I empathized with New York to a certain extent in some weird cosmic way. I have waited for a person. But I am a man, so I just eat the shit and keep pushing, maybe that person doesn't even know.

But as for Flav's choices, I think just about all the chicks had these unbelievable bodies, especially Bootz and Buckeey. My repressed heterosexual self, who I will name Sam, wants a threesome with those two.


On the homosexual side of the stream Michael J. Sandy was taken off life support on Friday October 13th, after being hit by oncoming traffic while fighting off and fleeing from his assailants. Keith Boykin and Blabbendo have posted blogs about the crime. Moving back to the NYC area is piquing my perceptions of danger, and it sometimes seems as if parts of Brooklyn/Queens are disjointed bones of a Southern county locked into the 5 borroughs. There are random attacks and lynchings there. It makes you wonder about education, people's contact with the outside world, and how people will face the re-working of New York by outside forces.

Michael J. Sandy was black and bi/gay(?).
Brighton Beach.
Howard Beach.
Crown Heights.
"1989 the number another summer (get down)/Sound of the funky drummer"
Public Enemy.
Me, 17-years-old, riding shot gun in August of 1989 from DC to New Jersey in my stepmother's Maverick. We hear the song "Fear of a Black Planet" on the radio. We hear about a boy getting killed. This was exactly 1/2 my life ago. I wonder what star I am living under? I am going to track it and navigate by it, cause this is no coincidence. Nothing is a coincidence.

A Herculean Day, Several Petty Hours Of It, A Synopsis Of A Non-Event

5:59 am (on a Saturday!)
-- I woke up this morning thinking. The German Musicologist said I think too much. He is probably right.

-- I thought about how many academics I know live with their parents. I suspect a high number. My favorite professor at Hampton lived with her mom. I remember a lady in gender studies at my first conference in Africa said that most people do not understand what this profession takes when referring to borrowing money from her mother to get to Africa. The head of the program I taught in in Germany in 2004 and the visiting professor both lived at home. The visiting American professor was old and retiring. He was just newly married for the first time and had a mint of money. Hmmmmmm?

-- Made coffee. Turned on the computer.

Damn! I thought again.
I just thought this computer is making me fatter.

7:28 am
-- Finished organizing my 'favorites list' which includes research on possible interview guests, journals, university sites, photos, freelancer's union website for NYC, contact lists and the Bloodhound Gang.

-- Watched Pattie LaBelle on YouTube and saved 99 Red Balloons in German and English in a new play list called Deutsche Popstars (along with Die Arzte, Rammstein has their own list). I guess I am turning into a German fairy. Nein! Du kanst nicht meinen Schokoschwanz haben!, as my friend DMJ used to say.

9:43 am
-- Working through applications at Austere University, Goliath State University (it is the size of a small city), and Simon LeGre of the Right Pedigree University in the mid-south. Just finished 2 online applications at Austere University for administration. The one I finished weeks ago is under review, I am pretty happy about that. After Austere, I will look at Goliath State. I never thought that being sick would have knocked me out of the game for so long.

11:49 am
There is an invader. It sounds like one of my stepmother's girlfriends dropping something off. I am a bit nervous about who it is since I am in my pajama bottoms. I walk up the stairs to find a copy of the Watchtower on the table.

3:16.
-- Just laid down after talking to my family. My father walked in during lunch from Puerto Rico with briefcase and suitcase in hand. My stepmother had made sandwiches for her and Bonnie and was fatigued from her walk without the cane. It was the first bit of exercise since double hip replacement surgery. The talk was about my diabetes, insurance cost and student loans which are really effecting the quality of my life. My father was in the dark about a lot of things concerning both my physical and financial condition, and has generally been out of touch for a long time. He does not want to admit that. Life is suppose to be a stroll in the park for me because his life has been a real struggle.

When I told him I was getting fat from being so close to home, he said that it was aristocratic and very middle class to complain about such things.

Stop. Reverse. Rewind. Edit.

When I was 17 my father yelled and screamed for at least 27 minutes straight on US-1, north bound, between Franklin Park and East Brunswick -- Tower Center. The subject was how capitalism is the greatest system in the world, and that communism and socialism are utter failures.

I had declared that I was a socialist just two nanoseconds before he started to scream at me like some old black coachman pissed that his page has screwed up massa's pants legs with mud.

Now, probably 17 years to the day since that conversation, my father is using words like aristocratic and middle class like he never raised us to be little John Henry old school black power/race pride spitting blue blooded hell hounds thrashing through the halls and throats of pampered Anglo-Saxon bastions of intellect and culture. It was not his mission for the collective economic liberation of all coloureds to happen through these efforts, but for the singular economic liberation of the most talented, so there are more black folks in the club and at the party. Elitism. This ensures that other Blacks that can compete, will compete, and win! Maybe he is softening after seeing the world a bit more since 1989.

In the background my 11-year-old sister, who is a cross between Moesha and Molly Ringwald, is flipping through channels, and blasting us with MTV2 until she finally settles on the musical Rent. I like the part where the black girl sings about three hundred thousand . . . something . . . something . . . something . . . "minutes". Then, after that, I usually change the channel. But not today, cause Mollyesha is going through a binge of consumerism and suburban girl tantrums. The volume kept going up and down between Nellie's grills and a Broadway libretto. Today she mentioned Manolo Blahnicks at the lunch table (I stopped breathing). I hope she learns some coping skills (a down home and around the way form of theory) to accompany her choice in shoes. I gotta talk to my father.


7:10 pm
-- Seeing that I only had 4 hours sleep and I am stressed over my life in every aspect, I caught up on the other4 hours sleep. Woke up to hear the UN sanctions debate. The North Koreans were talking about wiping out entire cities. What the fuck? The tripped out part of it is that it did sound like fighting words, cause in effect, they said that if anyone else increases the embargo that has been placed on North Korea by the United States' "gansta" (and yes, he said it just that way, I wish I had TIVO) acts of persuasion it will be seen as a declaration of war. Now, let's get hood for a second and think. The talking heads say that it is impossible for N. Korea to harm us with a missile, but this is the same group of people that said that Iraqis would welcome us with open arms. I don't care how big that test nuke was, I am a bit nervous. We have a track record of underestimating foreign coloured folk here in America, but they have brains just like us, and it seems to be that they work just as good as anybody else's.

Great. Now the pundits will really be talking tomorrow morning during the political talk shows, followed by the Flavor of Love 2 marathon, followed by the finale. I have only seen 2 episodes of this skank ass form of Americana and I love it.

But, to swing back a minute, what are these blue boys and red heads going to really do about this tiny bomb making nemesis, anti-matter flinging, maniac. He could blow some shit up, and them red and blue boys would just talk, while the rest of us have to live our lives. This is bogus.

But I digress . . .

We are having Chinese food tonight (I wish someone would take out that MSG reheating death trap of a Schzuan buffet I went to that gave me food poisoning 3 years ago). I am going to miss a friend's birthday party, but it is OK, I have something else that I need to do anyway concerning my trip to Austere University next week. Plus, I have one unfinished application for Goliath University to do. It is the most challenging job of them all.

12:16 am

-- I wonder how long I will sleep tonight. I just am a bit tired. I have watched the Pagan Poetry video a million times (an all time favorite) and several others by Bjork. Very nice. Tomorrow a trip to Harlem, possibly. It seems my whole life is being reconstructed there by some divine design, like a most high spirit sent my stuff their in advance. Or it could be that Harlem attracts people like honey. Or it couple be that we all have to confront our monsters again in order to see how small they really were. I had a few of those monsters there, and they seem the size of teddy bears now.

1849 Syndrome and the 2006 Nobel Prize for Literature

1849
There is a correlation between being ahistorical and our current spate of continual hysterics. They both cause and magnify a failure to self-reflect. If we were to self-reflect then maybe we could discuss problems of wealth, access to fresh food and our sexual being out loud and without shame. This is just a thought because I have noticed a couple of things about myself and my surroundings of late. OK, I am back to pontificating today. . .

Violence is the other thing that is off the chain; as well as the quiet desperation of the poor and those on the fast track to becoming impoverished. Just yesterday I saw a mass of people riot in Orange, New Jersey trying to get their hands on housing vouchers. And I have also heard a couple of media whores talking about the number of public servants from Congress who are jumping ship to become lobbyist. Their reasoning was that many of these former aides, advisers, lawyers and speech writers wanted to put their kids through college. Can anybody really blame them? It means that their pay is not allowing them to push their children through the same system that placed them in their current class positioning.

To the manor born.

But all this rambling and running is making our society into the greatest saloon of them all. Everyone is out for themselves. We all sit and wait to hear where gold has been found next, so we can start the dishwasher, wash a load of clothes and figure out how to get the money. Hell, I know I am.
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Orhan Pamuk

Orhan Pamuk has received the Nobel Prize for Literature. I have not read any of his works but I used to hang out with these Turkish photographers. We used to party and chain smoke some wickedly European cigarettes and drink until we fell down (those were some great days and nights). And during one of these discussions I talked to a cat about Pamuk. I had read about him in one of the brainy rags I followed like a teenage girl. I believe it was the New York Review of Books. I also used to see him on television in Europe now and then. I am sure this will bring some great discussions in the German papers. I will have to start reading Die Zeit to hear more.

Scared of Dry Land

Last night was pretty cool. I did some drawings, which I have not done in forever and a day. I think all this "questioning" from friends who are writers, painters, and media artists about me being an artist (or returning to it) is clearing some things out of my head. Ms. Portugal could see much clearer than Das Experiment, that is for certain. I just never imagined that the world could be so unforgiving to creative types, especially by those who are scientist, engineers and accounts. But this burst of creative energy from friends and colleagues has taken a good toll. Kind of a knife that is cutting through all this other pandemonium that seems to be increasing each passing day in my inner world and the one outside.

I drew this picture among a couple of others last night. I might start back working with pastels. It helps me stress wise more than anything else. I think I am going to call this drawing "Le Bois". I made two La Sirens. One I called "La Siren Dimanche" and the other "La Siren Samedi". I think they are going to end up being a prototype to something larger -- when I have time.

Man Bukkake

Today was another normal day. Last bits of the Washington project are coming together for delivery. The revamping of this blog makes me feel like it is moving more smoothly. It is starting to rain now so it is very quiet. They are talking about freezing weather this weekend

So, in order not to loose my mind over Iraqi death statistics, Foleygate and El Nino I do what most Americans must be prone to doing with increased working hours and mortgages that are approaching the stratosphere, I watched VH-1. Video Hits One is so vapid in its programing, and flavorful in its celebrity (celebreality) message that one cannot resist becoming a convert for a spell or two. First there was Vern and Da Brat; then, Omarosa, Janice, Jose and Pepper. Then I took a break. A long break.

Today I caught All Access Hollywood Anorexia or something like that, and an episode of Flavor of Love 2, which makes all the middle class black folk in my mostly white and East Indian community cringe with some indescribable fear. It is as if the minstrel show is riding every Sunday night, crucifying any and all aspirations to assimilate. What can you do? We watch it anyway.

The thing I liked about the anorexia special was the fact that I learned a new word -- Manorexia. It is such a perfect word. It is so much more clinical and precise than metrosexual, defying all those that wish to make it a fashion statement or trend because it is actually a physical condition. Carson Daly, Daniel Day-Lewis and Orlando Bloom all suffer from its clutches, though they admit that Bloom is not really a victim, he just dropped the weight from his crusader movie Kingdom of Heaven, which was not that bad. I liked the Leper King Baldwin IV, something sexy about a mask and a British accent -- always.

Anyway, I am simply a maniac over manorexia. There is something terribly American about it like "issues", "Bennifer" and "bling factor". Sadly, up to one million men may suffer from the disease in this country. But I just can't resist the etymological charm of this portmanteau.

It reminds me of an article I read in one of my favorite magazines Butt. There was an interview with Mark Simpson, the writer who coined the word "metrosexual". In the Q & A he talks about his term originially describing the phenomena of men becoming things to be desired, not its tranformed meaning concerning men's vanity as a target for cosmetic companies. So, in this light, the manorexia condition plays into our inner Ponce de Leon quest for an ingestible (regurgitable in this case) form of Adonis like blitz. And, if that Spanish explorer was running through Florida looking for the Fountain of Youth in1513, what makes us think that this condition of masculine vanity is arising from this particular moment in the rise of the metropole?

Diving Deeper

I made some cosmetic changes and expanded my links. Easy enough. I have one more picture to try and get into the box above and then I will be cooking with gas.

It took long enough to do all that I have already done.

PS
Added Andrew Sullivan to my lists of links because he made the observation that it is impossible for the religious right and the pro-gay-rights-Republican-gays to be in the same party. Reminds me of basic physics. Two things cannot occupy the same space at the same time. Though there is probably a theory I have missed from the past 60 years that may say otherwise. Something about bisexuals and two-spirited folk. I am very sure of that.

A Stranger Rings Twice -- A Disjointed Love Letter

OK. It is Das Experiment again. Not sure what I am suppose to do. He called while I was trying to fill out a xxx application that I could not bring myself to do. Not that I am above the xxx, but this job is 2 buses and 2 hours away. It is already going to be a cold weekend and something tells me it will be even colder this coming up winter. The other thing about this stupid job is that Xxxxx Xxxx Xxxx is where I worked before xxxxx xxxx xx Xxxx Xxxxxx and in a way it was a great experience and in others it was not.

Anyway, Das Experiment called to tell me he was going to go to New Zealand as soon as he got his money straight for the degree. He is going to get a MBA, he just finished his PhD about 2 years ago. This need for constant education is a whole different story.

I guess the thing that bothers me is that I am in the middle of trying to get some interviews, find some Christmas work, contemplating a move to Augusta, Georgia, eyeing what is going on in the Black Academic world (X xxxxxx xx xxx xxxx xx xx xxxxx xxx my heart, xxxxx xx xxxxxxxxx xxxxx, xx xxxx xxxx xxx xxx xxxx xxxx xx, but my mother told me not to say anthing if it ain't nice), and filling out applications. I don't have time to deal with Das Experiment and his world. He asked me once to go to New Zealand with him, but what am I going to do in New Zealand? He asked if I wanted to go to Morocco with him and his son if I come during Christmas. I am will be lucky to get money to cross the pond, how am I going to be able to get to North Africa?

I am rambling, I know. As a female friend once told another female friend after some really questionable grossed out sex with a guy who had a pierced penis -- "This is my life, Xxxxxxxx."

Last night I started to think of a poem about Das Experiment. It is about sleeping alone, looking over into the other spot and not seeing that person there, but you feel their presence. From one lover X xxxx xxxx xxx xxxxxxx, and from another I never got my xxxx xxxxxxxx in terms of longevity. Now, I am xxxxxxx sombody else and we are doing it well.

Talking to him it felt like I was talking to someone else. He wanted to know what was going on in my life. I couldn't bring myself to tell him the whole thing, everything. It is not really about the job it is about all the things in terms of family -- xx xxxxxxxxxxxx xxxxxx xx xxxxx, X xxxx x xxx, xx xxxxxx xx x xxxxxxxx xxxxx -- and introspection that we all refuse to put forward to those that are not thought of the best intimates. Das Experiment was my best mate. I guess I just did not feel like telling him what is really going on. He is really far away and is moving farther. I am here in the muck of the life after us.

Oi! In such beer indulged hyper-masculine hiking and swimming romances who turns out to be the bitch. Is it me because I am writing this letter or him for calling?

He said he would call tomorrow.

I told him sure.

I might be in a better mood.

X

Distractions from the Holy Rollers

I guess I am a bit done with the television news. I mean what does this North Korea thing mean in the end? I am not talking about the lava shits that many in the diplomatic community get when a “third world” country gets the bomb. I am not even talking about a militarized Japan, which I personally am all for becomes times have changed; and, they should never have been demilitarized to the point of almost being castrated with China and her many reincarnations spinning to the North. Not that China will attack Japan, but China does effect so much that goes on around her who knows what their influence may bring. When I question what this all means, I am not talking about non-aggression treaties and pacts or the current “do nothings” and oval office eggheads. I am talking about this collective hysteria. The pundits are saying that the sky is falling. It is not like we can invade, and any humanitarian mission is going to dwarf what we are doing in Iraq and what we have failed to do in Dafur. We don’t even know how bad it is. Are we really ready? Has it ever been really a problem we could solve realistically? Alone?

So, with that and Foleygate I started to read Little Joe Superstar, The Films of Joe Dallesandro by Michael Ferguson. Not a bad read at all. I want to explore it a bit more because there are some very interesting encounters with black people in the telling of Joe Dallesandro’s life. Granted I have not seen one of his films, only the iconography of his photographic history. And in the end, I have not really thought much of Andy Warhol and the Velvet Underground. It simply was not a reference for me; I have never understood anything about it. From Nashville, Tennessee, we looked for our information about the world in New York boroughs and DC go-gO. And when I got to Hampton, that was re-enforced, probably in ways that were not too positive for its cloistered views of art and sexuality, but not its Brownstonepolitik and innovative uses for Philly Blunts.

Lately, I have been thinking more about Andy Warhol’s Factory and its effect on the New York art scene because I know that I did not know what New York City really was when I arrived in 1993. I was one of the first sets of interns to work at Vibe, and when I was there I was surrounded by a whole group of kids from the East Coast, and Seven Sisters schools. All of them thought of the Beats as ancient and Frank Zappa as god. And there I was at a hip hop magazine surrounded by these confident somewhat privileged fresh from college former Bostonians or Vassar sojourns and I could not tell you one Grateful Dead song (I thought they were some venomous devil worshipping band) nor did I think Lou Reed anything special. Talking Heads and Blonde were additives to UTFO and Roxanne Shante. White folk in a hip-hop magazine soon proved to be less odd as contributors to the glam. I soon was to wonder how to get the oh so Hilton Als of it, to be more New Yorker than New York Magazine, more club kid than house, more innovative anthropologist of Negro norms than grassroots. Soon, my true self would betray me and the lesson of what you imitate must be eventually learned became my capital life lesson of the 90’s. Till this day I look at Andre Tally and think what a flux, what a beautiful project, what a New Yorker. The sin is that I have not read anything by him.

Anyway, I have come to the realization that I missed something vital by not becoming fluent in signs and parole of 14th street to Houston, 6th Avenue to Thompson Square Park. As a friend of mine used to say in Harlem psycho-faggot speech, “That’s the piece that's missing.” Because I did not know anything about that world I was unable to communicate with the members of the intelligentsia that were talking and writing about rock and rap music. I don’t think that it helped or hindered things concerning my career, I believed that the people at Vibe were a little of their rockers. Time and assassinations would unfortunately prove that to me and other writers. I just could have understood my surroundings better and a certain tradition that I did not understand when I first came in. I could have been enriched by it a bit more if I was not so segregated in my thoughts concerning race and what was useful (and little did I know, the nefarious term “useful” was soon to be transformed into canonical catatonic mantras of theoretical truth and consequences for those that could utter it and the heretics that didn’t bend it like Homi Babba at NYU).

Fresh from a HBCU, my college experience was devoid of such mentioning. Warhol was a heretic. A white gay man that looked like death warmed over was one thing, the fact that he was not connected to the Great Debates nor was he seen as advancing black folk was another. Were there any black folk in his gaze? I am sure there was one or two in an early movie. I am sure that there is a black ass poking out of some Polaroid, expose and glistening against a burnt orange back drop bright like a gum drop or Diana Ross in Central Park. I am sure that Grace Jones and Andy got along well. But the truth of the matter is that my kind of black folk at that time dismissed Diana since she killed Flo (well before the umpteenth white man she dated caused Ebony to shiver) and Grace was OVAH regardless of that little frigidity mop head monster that seemed to prance his kind of ugly like a goddess. In the mist of all this gazing at the image I missed the point somehow.

I walk down the East Village now and mourn its demise. I remember when it was a scary place, and I remember when I and my friends hung out there. We could afford to live there if we were willing to eat peanut butter and crackers. Now we can’t even afford that. I have an old mentor that is there, but she seems to be sadder and harder. Part of it is the profession of writing, working and teaching. The other part of it is the world that she sees around her in her rent controlled Manol Bonik riot. She commented once that during the last blackout there was not one broken window, just yuppies sitting on steps with light candles and sipping wine. It broke her heart, and maybe as a child of the city who has matured into a lioness of esteemed and delicate intellectual certainties this broken city is sliding away block by block is turning her into stone. In my mind she is becoming the angel Bethesda meandering on where to bury the oracle in St. Mark’s.

All that said I want to save my observations concerning black folk and Joe Dallesandro (D’Alessandro). He was poor and grew up a foster child until he was re-united with his father at the age of 14, but his descriptions of black folk is an interesting study. This hidden world is nondescript in his confessions. Black folk seem flat and almost like adornments. Kind of like “And the black girls sing/ Doooh-Doo-Doo—Doo-Doo—Doo-Doo-Dooh” Or however it goes. <BR>“This Hidden World”, it sounds like a song to me. Something torchlight and Dinah Washington.

This is to be continued.

Multi-Tasking Sunday

Not much time to blog.

This morning I watched a bit of talk Sunday. I think the Mark Foley legal thing is about to blow over soon, it can go on but for so long because he did not do anything wrong that we know of yet. It is all just talk on message services and cell phones. And jacking off on the the other end of your telephone or broadband brings up certain legal issues that I hope I (and about 70-something million other web surfers)will never have to face in public.

No one goes to jail for foreplay. Especially self inflicted foreplay.

So, that is that for Mark Foley. He will be in Siberia for a while.

On the flipside . . .Gays, pedophiles, sexual predators, and Republicans . . . that is a whole different conversation.

This is karmic payback for the Republican Party's symbolic gay bashing of the gay marriage issue with a faux George Washington wig, rogue and powder. Plus!, they pissed on the Log Cabin Republicans by not excepting their money or formally inviting them to the ball. We got a tongues untied situation concerning what Republicans desire against the backdrop of the policy they uphold. It is uncertain whether the conservative powers believe in the theology and morality of their populace; but, it is for certain, many may not practice these beliefs in bed.

This conversation will mutate more concerning closeted behavior; there are whispers concerning the other shoe dropping in the congressional halls on the page issue. I wonder if any are democrats.

Had dinner with Mendi and Keith 2 nights ago. It was really nice. Saw R and his "ex" A. We had a great time. Talked about graduate school versus writing, America versus Germany and all the variations of those two questions.

I am going to make the transition to NYC pretty soon, or maybe just closer to that area. There are a lot of artist around and I am finding that I am gaining greater support from those communities than from my immediate family. Not that family is bad, but I think that you can guess the situation. Accountants, Biologists, Engineers, white suburbs, sidewalks, mall rats and me. Which one does not belong?

OK. I am doing research for pitch letters, reading Keith Boykin's interviews with the cast of Noah's Arc (among other articles) and doing more applications.

Ciao for now.

PS
What if this pushes the ultra-conservatives to forming a 3rd party? They very well could do that. Then we will be off to coalition based politics where several parties try to gain the majority by getting in bed with their neighbors. Could be positive in that people could show alligence to their "politcs" and not rely on a party to express them. I would start the Universal Health Care Coverage Party and then Sleep with the Gays and the Greens.

Brave New World

OK.

I have looked at all of my backed up postings and just decided to post everything as is. I have been away for a while because of life. In the meantime I have watched a bit of UFC (interupted by sister's German assignment, she actually came into the room and began to talk to me in German . . . she is doing very well), saw Project Runway (I know what the controversy is all about, will wait to see it unfold), and saw the season finale to Noah's Arc (predictable, and I can learn a bit from this bitch Noah about dumping boyfriends, he seems to do it like changing underwear . . . but isn't that gay life? Well, sort of? I feel like Noah is caught between the real gay world and something completely unreal. All the other character's have a life that is more varied than Noah's. More on that later. The ending was so predictable that I started to feel like there was not much hope for it at all.)

So, I might go to Princeton tomorrow for an event, and I might not. I have an assignment that is due at the end of tomorrow and I just don't know. It is late (3:00 am) and I am going to sleep for a little while longer than usual. I am pretty sure.


Missing You - John Waite

Signing out to Missing you by John Waite. I have been in serious eighties music mode for weeks.

Tzarist Russia/Soviet Russia

I can't help but think about 20th century Russia in these strange days of capitalist dominion. This video reminds me of the Rasputin/Empress Alexandra pamphlets from the turn of the 20th century implying that they were having very special sorts of spiritual and governmental consultation sessions (or maybe not so special). Many people have talked to me about Condoleeza and Bush in this way, especially after she called him her husband in a televised interview. Who knows? Their similarities are not found so much in the idea of counsel and ruler being involved in carnal knowledge as it is the people being feed up by the acts traditionally decreed by inner courts and sanctums. Declarations of war and assessments of the economy being done by one ruling class is pretty primitive; yet, we assign sexual acts to our rulers' blunders and follies. It is such a base response, not to mention predictable. War should be declared by referendum, but something tells me we would still select this war under the information that was given so that is no safety net. If the masses of people are not discerning, then the masses are gullable . . .

OK, enough, I am starting to sound like an old Marxist that needs a good shag . . .


I could be making a stretch cause this cartoon is pretty gross. I hope you didn't open it at work or around the kiddies. But my inner teen, which I have been listening to more often, loves it.

Then there is this former congressman Mark Foley in rehab thing. It is very Soviet Russia no? You remember when the leaders used to all get pneumonia and about 2 months later we got a new party leader to loath. I am just old enough to remember dem days. It is like we send these guys off to some secret place surrounded by shrinks and lawyers, where they are resigned to taking the steps needed to make their professional lives viable again. The things that make this political Siberia particularly American are:

1. The protestant form of confession known as testifying. This can be anything from what one has done wrong to what others have done to you. Foley has come up with tree tings: he was molestated by a clergyman, he is gay, and he is an alcoholic. Two are his fault, one ting is not.

2. He has gone to rehab for self help, implying that it is of his own accord in order to conquer inner demons.

3. He says that the molestation thing is not an excuss, but it is a very passive agressive excuse. I guess the next thing will be an act of atonement. I don't believe this to be bad. I still love McGeevey and I do love Mel Gibson in the big wide exspansive Christ like version of adoration to all (the guy is a cheap tragic figure in a certain way though, a little bit of down under machismo and a touch of egotistical self-grandizement, topped with a big scope of divine calling, chased with 4 shots of Meyer's Rum).

I am really into all this. The Woodward book is on my list (I should really make an Amazon.com wishlist at this point). The Dow is up, home prices are falling, Iraq is off the chain, Afghanistan is boiling without a watchful eye and the economy is slowing.

I interviewed twice today. Both good responses. I wonder what will be next.

I Can See White Water From the Malibu Balcony (The Lost Tapes, Part .125)

From September 17th
--------------------------------------

OK. This is going to take a second. I was having an easy weekend more or less waiting for a marketing research project for a real grassroots artist, trying to hook people up (job referals), people hooking me up, and all the stuff surrounding the tri-state makers and shakers. All this buzz has put me into a highly introspective mood. My little Willy Wonka chocolate shell and introverted behavior has been usurped by a need for a little political re-education. I gotta a couple of blind spots.

1st. Bill Clinton gave an all white lunch for influential bloggers in Harlem. Jstheater.blogspot.com and blackprof.blogspot.com have given attention to it with links to other bloggers. I am about to read a good amount of Gillard's stuff first and then move to the others listed by J. Interestingly enough, I came upon Gillard's blog through a family tree search.

I have gotten into a discussion with J at jstheater.blogspot.com in his September 15t comment section concerning my contempt for all this need to be recognized by white folk. But, there is a history behind this Harlem blogger story that was not so evident to me, and I am going to delve into it. I am currently engrossed in the Ford/Frist fight in Tennessee. Not really engrossed, I simply want to give Ford a chance and my vote.

2nd. I want to read the Pope's whole speach. My friend Jonathan in Reutlingen said that the pope was trying to make points about hatred and religion with scholarly references. I believe his quote was taken out of context. There is some admission by everyone that the Pope was a bit unaware of how his comments would be taken. I want to read the whole speech and figure this out myself. There has been many a time when such patriarchal declarations are decreed by the West under the guise of Prime Ministers and pontiffs, but these are dangerous times and this calls for a bit more mental presence concening our current state of affairs. And this stuff has been going on so long that 14th and 15th century utterances still carry weight. Proof positive that ahistorical countries like ours may have a problem with cooking up a diplomacy that works. We want all things solved in 4 to 8 year intevals, and have the audacity to talk about the Clinton legacy before he walked out the oval office.

But is the press to be blamed too? How was the quote selected? Why was it given out of context and who perpetrated this naked quote as a summation of the popes opinion? Did the journalist or observer even understand the whole speech?

3rd. Afghanistan. I am so sorry. This is a sleeper that I have been concerned about for some time. Most people became preoccupied with Iraq, mortgage bubbles and gay marriage after the election of president Karzi. I am going to say it again. Occupying Afghanistan is not the same as occupying Kabul! Has it occured to anyone in the press or the legislation that we did not occupy that whole country and in the midst of a poppy flower explosion the Taliban has reassembled itself and is ready to go back to war. Who has been managing this war? We are awake now! And since we are, I am going to tell you what the current sleeping giant is, Lebenon and Syria. That 4 week war is already being talked about and covered by the media as something in the past. That story is still going on I am sure.

4th. Tampering with the Geneva convention? What the hell! Black folk told the rest of America that Bush was no good when they took Florida. Did anyone listen? No! It was just black folk complaining again. Then, people got distracted by chads. I will never forget these bearded and slightly overweight and sunburned good citizens flipping the cards over once or twice in the name of civic duty. Table after table of hands holding punch cards in the sunlight and peering into oblonged oval holes with one measured eye. The true image of our democracy -- styrafoam cups, non-dairy creamer, and punch cards that look like they could program a 1967 super computer. I am wondering how many people are for the President's proposal concerning the trial of terror suspects. He flops through Congress now only because the Supreme Court put some checks and balances of Dick Cheney's ass, and the vice-president's reprobate idea of restored presidential power.

5th. Tony Blair. I think he may be kicked out of office by the end of the year. The Brits are watching this Geneva convention thing, and I am sure that this is an embarrassment to Parliment. To be aligned with such madness has to be getting under the queens skin too. I bet you that Elizabeth Windsor can hardly get out of bed in the morning. According to the New York Times 14,000 detainees are in a legal vaccum with 90 percent of those captured in 2003 being mistakes.

So that is that. All the madness that can be mustered under the name of Harlem, the Democratic Party, the papalcy, this Republican presidency, and good neighbor (special friend) diplomacy.

It is a real circus.


OK. That is my homework. I could write more about Harlem Blogging, the Pope's gaffe, Afghanistan and the Geneva Convention but I should look into them all a bit more. And I should look into Hillary a bit more. Her finger touches three out of the four issues mentioned.

On Amy Irving (The Lost Tapes, Part .25)

From September 18th
--------------------------


Good day. Was finishing up the last bit of editing on the last application in the stack. Now I have to go look for more. It is like I am a scavanger or something, or maybe more like some broken spirited, handicapped and poor fisherman or woman that is waiting for the village's boats to come back so they can collect the scraps, beg to prove their worth on the open sea, or negotiate their pay.

The war is getting me down I must admitt. It is endless as the reality of the situation starts to sink in on me and the American population I suspect. There is no road map on how to fight this war and the facts concerning our dealings with all of the extreme factions in the past are truncated and fragmented. How did this all begin?

Interestingly enough I saw the beginning of The Fury with Amy Irving, John Cassavettes and Kirk Douglas. It takes place in the 1970's and starts off with a seen on the sea somewhere in the Middle East. This film was made in 1976! I watched a bit of it because I had a big crush on Amy Irving. I guess you could call her the nerd's pin-up doll. And I love John Cassavettes. I had to get up and do some work for my father's company in the middle of it, so I did not finish seeing it. Maybe another time.

But at this time, it feels like the end of the world to me. I don't know why, but there is something distinctly wrong. It is precisely wrong and lingering like tanins on the tongue or a hand swishing through a warm spitton looking for that ring or necklace that you never thought much of, but can't bare to live without. We have turned a corner I am afraid, and there is not much that any pundit can do

Unshaven Thoughts on McGeevey, Bush and Gotham Bookmart (Lost Tapes Part .5)

More unedited ramble from 9/19.

-----------------------------

I left all of my shaving supplies at Harlem Baker's house and now my face looks like a pipe cleaner. Thank god my Caesar is still fly (smile).

I went to sleep reading about the war. Now I wake up and there is something going on in Thailand. I need a cup of coffee first. At my house CNN is on all the time. My youngest sister started to watching Beyonce's Deja Vu one morning and all of a sudden my father looked from behind his paper and said "Since when have we started watching anything but the news in this house?" We have an unbelievable amount of televisions to accomadate all the different tastes and generations, believe it or not.

Today, it is very warm, like a late summer's day. The nights are cool though, I always sit on my porch for a couple of minutes before I sleep. I am really amazed at the house my father and stepmother bought. The space it has and how it allows me to annex a corner to do my work. Overall it has been a pretty nice month back with them, much nicer than I thought. I have not spent this much time with them in about 7 years. The only friction that we have had was over my dad's Vanilla Grey Goose. I dogged it without asking and turns out it was a birthday present. I thought I could drink it cause they said I could have all the beer in the house. Grey Goose is obviously not beer. I mixed it with pineapple juice on ice. Vanilla Grey Goose mixed with fruit punch or cherry Juicey Juice taste like cough syrup if you were every wondering. I will have to buy him some more this week.

Today the former DL Governer of New Jersey who was having an affair with an Israeli gentlemen released his memoirs. He will be on Oprah today. My father will probably watch this because of his hawkish instincts concerning the political process. I will be watching to see what his experience was like and to see how he identitfies himself. I think he is gay after reading the New York Times articles on him. It will be more interesting to see what the women's reactions will be to his confessions. I can already see where it is going.

Maybe I will watch it with the rest of my family. We don't pry into each other's business, at least here at my father's house. Instead all manners and matters of sex are pretty open to discussions though my father places all homosexuals within the ranks of Michael Jackson and Little Richard. And as time has gone on, I think he believes that they are freaks because they are not married and/or don't have kids. It is not a sex thing but a manly thing, and I think that this attitude has shaped my sexuality greatly.

Other than that, Bush's speech to the UN is on today. I think that it will be a non-event. A line from the the movie Elizabeth with Cate Blanchett comes to mind. It is that point where young queen Bess is sitting with her ministers and they are pushing for war with Mary of Guise played by Fanny Ardant. She is clearly stressed and nervous and busy asking for her minister's advice when after glancing at the papers she utters something about not liking wars because "the outcomes are uncertain." The short of it for us living through this 21 century fiasco is that the forces of war have been unleashed, and whether we paint ourselves as the rational West and they paint themselves as the valiant self sacrificing warriors of Islam, death and destruction are on a roll and no one knows what it will take for peace to ensure. Nor do we know when it will climax. This is becoming rapidly a war where issues concerning energy consumption are mixing with religious themes and issues of colonial partition. And Scooter B (?).

My barber in Tennessee said it best. "Did you see Bush this morning?" he screamed to the whole room. I simply nodded my head a little, he was busy cutting the back of my head. "That thang is crazy! He wasn't making any sense! He was confusing himself."

And if you every have seen a whole press conference, during the day, uninterupted or interpreted by CNN, then you will see why my barber said that.

PS
Gotham Book Mart is in trouble again. I wonder about their business model or if they are receiving the right counciling. I talked about Edwardian and Jackie O afterparty remix white folk with J. These are the guys that come to mind. I hope the world has not passed them by. And I wish with all my heart that they could find a way of transfering their literary position and tradition to our 21st century world.

The Lost Tapes, Part I (Sept 20th)

I wrote this on September 20th. I have decided to publish it as is, I don't really feel like spell checking it. I thought it was an interesting observation. Especially after a rum and coke.

-----------
It is about 8:00 am. I have been up since 5 in the morning watching news, doing laundry and finishing up this or that. Couldn't really sleep. I am going to give my new clients a call and see what I can do in terms of marketing research for them. We will meet this weekend in the city, probably in the Bronx. It will be great, yesterday the tensions started to rise in the house for just one second.

Saw McGeevey yesterday and I must say that I was really proud and touched by his confessions. I was kind of pissed off with Oprah a bit when she started to ask question about his feelings during sex with his wife. She was asking him if it was real or not, and as usual she took him to task with all the women clapping at the definitive moments of women's truths.

Now the thing I want to ask all the women in the audience and everywhere is why they find it so hard to accept why he got married. He talked about having same sex feelings when he was young but after reading all the materials available at that time he figured that it was a perversion and that is not what he wanted to be. So, the social programming started. Oprah then asked him why he got married any. Duuh! When will women start to ask questions about how they perceive masculinity in our society, and how they emasculate gay and bisexual men in their way of address, in their expectations of us and their clear denial of certain types of intimacy, or in other words being casted into effemicacy. Many women believe that since I have relationships with men that I am gay, and on top of that, there is no way I could know about an engine or what is wrong with the barbaque grill. Stuff like that.

McGeevey was receiving all his cues on self worth through the idea of being a knight in shining armour to someone and he played the role. But I don't get why Oprah and the studio audience can not deal with the fact that their expectations and social training also feed into the betrayal. That is all I am saying. It is the viciousness of the down low witchunt. Now, I think McGeevey is brave, and I think that his actions were at moments pretty bone chilling. Not so much the anyomous sex in dark alleys and video stores; but, sleeping with his male lover in the same bed that he shared with his wife while she was recovering from a difficult labor was hard to hear. But, I am pretty clear with all the women I am with concerning my sexual preferences and practices. Some dismiss me as gay a guy until they figure out that I am a top, then they want to know why I am not with women. Some say all I need is a good woman and I will be cured. Interesting.

The only thing I do have a problem with concerning the confession is Oprah's knife turning on the notorious page 228 where he made him read about the affair and then cornered him on sex with his wife. I thought it a bit vicious. And, on the flipside, McGeevey talking about those dark same sex places where the presence of women is negated was interesting. It was like revealing a secret from a coven or clandestine society. I remember a friend of mine from Germany who was originally from LA. He said that men should keep certain secrets to themselves. I am sure he was talking about the woman he loved and the brothel he visited. And strangely enough, I think he meant the woman I loved and the bars that I visited. Something about secrets, the reality of monogamy for men, the economic and social stability of marriage and the emotional and pyschic cost of a long term relationship with a woman. Oprah's bird's eye view and subsequent excitement about places where men gather is the demystification of a certain practice that I am sure you can find from the banks of the Great Lakes to an overcrowded bus in Calcutta. But it is this gaze that is unnerving to me. Oprah's commentary is speckled with judgement, "The men are lying to the women." Maybe, but how are women participating in this lie? I think through expectations of what a man should be for them, yet we have years of practicing the active liberation of women from certain roles and models of behavior, not to mention learned desire.

The Old Gentried Guards and the Princely Pages

There will be congressional hearings about young pages and stewards working in the halls of our congress. I can feel it. This is becoming a public spectical and it is easier to stage after all that internet stuff congress and the Attorney General brushed up a while back.

It is all going to start to unravel and I wonder if we will ever have a true picture of what Congressional culture really is?

The majority of the interns are saying that they have had no problems from the congressmen. I do believe that is the case. I just wonder about the former pages that are caught in the middle. I know that working with young people is a very delicate thing. They hold there mentors and elders in high esteem, and disappointment can be devasting in ways that are not easily seen. But admiration is also a ficlked thing and could turn to attraction. I wonder how far Foley actual went with the pages. I think this only scratches the surface of some compulsive behaviors this guy harbors.

The Children

Something is cosmically out of wack. There has been an assault on young girls from elementary to high school. And this is not stalkers, we are talking murder execution style. Pretty terrible.

There is something wrong with us. The violence that we unleash on others is pretty terrible. I am convinced that repression has something to do with it.

Another White House Page Scandal

OK, Mark Foley! What is up? For real.

And this time just before the elections in November and you hold a seat in southern Florida for the Republicans. This touches on many things, kind of like the McGeevey case. I wonder what will be the final outcome of this guys career (flushed down the toilet and heading for the Gulf of Mexico as I type). It was remarkable to see him smiling and walking down the street with his buddies. I wonder if that is old or new footage.

G.O.P. Cover-Up in Post-Catholic Priest Scalded and Scandalized America That would have been my headline on the front page of the New York Times. Americans will look at this as a trust issue, and the behavior of the Republicans will come into laser view. It is an interesting turn of events.

I guess we have to await the outcome. It makes you wonder about the kinds of sports and stunts that are happening in the halls of Congress. And what about in the past, like 1850 or so? Were there pages? Oh!, if those august halls, and well worn carpets and sofas, could talk . . .

Just a thought.