Telecaster Time

My father, not one for quoting Chinese proverbs, used tell me that there was a Chinese proverb about how time spent fishing didn't count against your time on earth. Not sure if there really is such a Chinese proverb, but if there isn't, there should be. We'd sometimes (not enough times) used to go to the old fishing hole on a lazy summer afternoon and plunk our lures in the water. We'd watch as the sun slowly faded into the west - it marked the passage of time, but at the same time, it was like time stood still. My father was a "catch and release" man. He'd file down the hooks so if he caught a fish it would easily be "uncaught" and put back in the pond. He really didn't want to hurt the fish. Just maybe distract them for little while...

I do think there are some activities we do that are "out of time." One of my meditation teachers would say that in meditation you get to a place where space and time do not exist. Sometimes, when you are "in the moment" time stretches or bends, and you can sink in, and well you lose time, lose yourself, and maybe that's when it doesn't count, because well, it really counts, if you know what I mean.

Anyway, I kind of feel like when I play guitar, I can also get to this "no time and a space" place, and lately, I've been playing a lot. The guitar pictured here is my Fender Telecaster Thinline, kind of an "uncool" piece. It's a "cheap" Mexican made guitar, not a collectible, but it plays beautifully, and when I first picked it up, it just felt right. One of the pickups crapped out on me awhile back, and I totally gutted the guitar, I bought new pickups and wires, got out the diagrams and soldering iron, and well now it's kind of a rare instrument. It's got personality. There's a part of me in this thing now. Kind of like my boots (see previous post). So sometimes with this guitar in hand, time seems to stand still...do the Chinese have anything to say about time spent playing guitar?

These Old Boots

I bought these old Timberland boots back around 1990. They've been through the good times and the bad. I retired them recently. I had read in the "Laws of Power" that one must always be impeccable in appearance in order to gain the respect of others. Since lately I haven't been getting much respect from my fellow human beings, I thought, maybe it was time to let these old boots go. So, I put them on the shelf for awhile. But recently, I had a change of heart. Yesterday, I re-taped them and put them on. It was like welcoming dear old friends returned from a long journey. These old boots are so much a part of me. I wore them when I was a bike messenger, I have worn them when I've been up, sky high, floating on the clouds, and I have worn them when I've been down in the dirt, lower than a snake's dick. They are broken in, beaten up, cracked-open, scarred, there are holes and seams and creases and wrinkles and cuts and drops of paint, and blood and sweat, and yes, well, tears too. They kind of remind me of me. Who I am, and where I've been. Banishing these boots would be like banishing my arms.

So anyway, I was once told by a close friend that when they lived in Sante Fe, New Mexico they used to see someone about town who also taped up his boots - turns out it was the playwright and actor Sam Shepard. Now this is a coincidence that I take to heart. I began writing plays because of Mr. Shepard. So, the idea that we have both used tape to hold our boots together, makes me feel like I'm part of some secret tribe. Old Sam and I have something else in common - crooked teeth, but maybe that's a subject for another blog post.

It's amazing the looks I get when I wear these boots. Primarily from women. I mean, it's noticable. These boots are an attraction. It is not my imagination. For some reason, these beat up old boots make a poor impression, or some kind of crazy statement. Probably something to do with power and respect...and well, maybe only crazy people are supposed to wear boots like these? I guess I'm kind of declaring, "Not such an eligible bachelor!" or maybe "Loser!" or "Lookout, this guy will be speaking in tongues any moment!" I don't know...but anyway, they are my boots and I have a feeling I'll be long gone before these old boots give up the ghost, or before I run out of tape.

A Soulful Place

I can't help it, I am fascinated by Bjork. I saw her on Saturday Night Live and she was prancing around barefoot on stage, singing about being an "earth intruder." It was quite strange, other-worldly. I loved it.

I read a little profile about her and her new cd "Volta," in the Sunday NY Times. She's kooky and inspiring, doing very edgy, avant garde work, but in a pop music context.

She talks about her approach: "I was quite conscious that I wanted permission to be able to be sad and funny, and human and crazy and silly, and childish and wise, because I think everybody is like that."

And she expounds: "I believe in that place where you plug into the zeigeist, the collective consciousness or whatever. It's very folk. Soulful. Not materialistic. I believe in being a fighter for that soulful place."

Create and Destroy?

Some days you wake up and well, kind of like in the spirit of Keith Richards, you think, "I'm just happy I did wake up." Then there are those days you get up and well, you're happy to be on the planet, to be walking around and basking in the pure pleasure of existing. Then there are those days when that's not enough, you actually want to make your mark, to leave a legacy, or a body of work, or be remembered for something. I guess it's a matter of ego, or ambition, or a way of imagining a certain kind of life after death.

You'd think maybe the Zen way would be enough, live lightly and leave no trail. But then you can't help rearranging the rocks, or leaving a footprint, or bending a branch, just to leave some proof that you once walked these paths.

Some days you have to write the next play, record the next song, not because the world is clamoring for the work, but because you can't imagine not doing it. Whether what you create has any life beyond the moment is not a question that needs to be answered. It doesn't even need to be asked.

That is Jazz

I heard an interview with Jazz great Sonny Rollins this morning. He talked about how "every sunset is different - that is jazz." Yes, indeed. At one time, Sonny unplugged from the music scene, and he played his saxophone on the Williamsburg Bridge in NY. He did this for a couple of years. What an amazing image. It stuck a chord with me this morning, I too have a fondness for bridges - my particular love - the Brooklyn Bridge. Anyway, I think it's great, one of the best musicians in the human kingdom, blowing his sax to the four winds. Sonny (the old Lion) in his seventies and still going strong. Now THAT IS JAZZ!

Tell Me About It...

"I been trying to make some sense/Every action I take is of no fucking consequence." - Nick Cave

John Cage - Genre: Avant Garde, Chance, Experimental

The Lovely Carla and I participated in an event last night organized by the Black Mountain Collective, a group inspired by improvisational work done by John Cage back in the the fifties and sixties of the last century. It was a blast. I mean, it was strange and fun, and well, I guess you had to be there...it was ridiculous too...

The concept: get a bunch of painters, poets, musicians and dancers together, put them on stage, and see what happens. No rehearsal, just kind of a controlled chaos. It was quite fun, and we actually (surprise) had a nice, attentive audience that kind of went along with the proceedings.

I played guitar, or, well, I kind of manipulated my wah pedal, and basically played feedback. It was quite liberating. The Lovely Carla recited some text from our upcoming play, as well as her own poetry. Her voice stood out in the madness.

There were moments of complete cacaphony as well as quiet beauty. The proceedings were "conducted" by Dan Godston (trumpet, percussion) and David Hawkins (paint & canvas).

One of the highlights as described in the event's directions:

Section C: 8:50: Hear the Building Breathe (10 min.): During this piece the performance space is seen as a giant organism. Spectator / spectacle reversal. Focus moves from the “stage” to “audience” to other spaces in the building. We become the “doctors” who give the building a “check up.” We will be the stethoscope listening to the full organism of the building. Then we become oxygen cells that travel through the building’s circulatory system. Some of the time we will be “playing” the building, and some of the time there will be silence. The building is amplified—with contact and other microphones. Distortion and other effects can be used. The rafters, windows, radiators, and other building elements will be heard.

Hmmm, yeah, well,....you had to be there...!

I DIG THIS...

"Ordinary people only see the ashes of art, or the failures, or frozen moments. Only rarely onstage do bands achieve reality; mostly it's in rehearsals, in lost moments. Nobody ever sees that, or knows anything about it. Jim Brown would understand."

AND THIS...

"Your only reward is a genuine shot at being the best. The caveat is that no one but your brothers will ever know it. That's the deal we agreed to." - David Thomas, lead singer, founding member of Pere Ubu & Rocket from the Tombs, avant garage bands from Cleveland, Ohio.

I Didn't Know...

Something I learned yesterday:

This band, Sleater-Kinney, might be the best band in the country...I base this on seeing one video, their performance on David Letterman...not sure when they actually appeared, not sure if they're still in business (indefinite hiatus?!)...but there's something about their performance that totally knocks me out. Two guitars (no bass) and drums...so elemental, so cool, so passionate...they have that special r&r magic...wow.

The Silence is Okay Too

Yesterday was one of those gloriously beautiful days in Chicago (they are rare), blue sky, abundant sunshine, temps in the eighties. Kind of set the tone for the day. The Lovely Carla and I rented a car and went to visit our moms. We made the trek out to the western suburbs where we both grew up. It's a strange trip, kind of like travelling to your past, but everything is slightly off. We're different, and places we remember are different too. I mean alot of the buidlings and trees are still in place, but even the things that haven't changed, have well, changed. We're older, the world is older too.

I visited with my mom, we talked about the weather, her emerging garden, the Chicago Bulls and well, again, the weather. There's so much we don't talk about, the silences are a big part of the trip. It's okay, we can sit in the backyard, watch the birds and squirrels flitting and leaping about, and just sit there like it's the best thing in the world to do.

I went for a bike ride. I pulled my father's old bike out of the garage, pumped up the tires, it's been sitting in there all winter, and took it for a spin. This bike, an old Schwinn Sprint, I mean it's an old clunker of a bike, it's heavy, red, rusting, it's kind of dorky, from another era, means a lot to me. I like to take it for a ride, to take it to the places my father used to take it. It was the bike he was riding when he took his last ride.

So, I'm riding down the path, pumping the pedals, clasping the handlebars. I'm thinking how I have followed my father in many things, and how I've diverged too. His life and my life so similiar and so different. I rode for a few miles, looking for a favorite bench that my father used to ride to, to sit in the sun and watch the world go by. I went to the place, but the bench was no longer there. I mean, it was there, in some way, it's there now, but there was no bench to sit on, just an empty stretch of land that kind of filled in with grass, it looked like there never was a bench in that spot. It was emptier than empty. It's only an image in my head. I used to sit here too. My father and I, talking about something, or nothing, I mean, we loved to talk, but sometimes even the silence was fine with us.

And sometimes the silence is all you are left with...

Hell-fire

This last week has been my own personal hell-fire. I've been wracked by fierce headaches and stabbing pain. So odd, so sudden. I can't explain it. At the same time, I've been experiencing weird synchronicities, everything seems to resonate with meaning. It's my week of magical thinking. Maybe there's a "dislocation" from my body that has opened me up some how. I can't draw any higher meaning from any of this, I just note it. I have been treading very lightly. My grasp on things is quite tentative.

Migraine Music

As expected, my "waves of euphoria," described in an earlier post were followed by "waves of mud." I've learned that life is never one thing, it's a range of things, or a process, there's always this dichotomy and we're pinballing from one extreme to another, or somehow floating in between. So, I fell into a state of anxiety, followed by a major migraine. This is very rare for me. At the same time, I had a major breakthrough in the new theater piece I'm writing. So, I was in the midst of creative inspiration and and the same time I was reeling from intense pain. What to do? I thought of reaching for a Guinness, but I knew that would lead to a few more, and well, I could then add a hangover, with the bright bubbling of guilt to the mix. Instead, I bought a chocolate bar. I devoured the whole thing, and then I put some music on the box and draped myself across the couch.

So this is my special migraine music: Frank Zappa's "Weasels Ripped My Flesh," and Miles Davis' "Live at the Fillmore." Two absolutely brilliant albums. Not exactly soothing background music. But for some reason, the intensity, the creativity, the uncommon brilliance of this demanding music kind of cleansed me. In the age of IPOD not sure how many people actually listen to an album's worth of music from start to finish anymore. But these two artists reward the listener with such an investment. I know people bandy about the term "genius" quite liberally, but I do think Zappa and Davis are musical geniuses. They always pushed the boundaries. These two albums take you on a wild ride. There's jazz and rock and much more. The music is funny, challenging, intense, dissonant, beautiful. The full range don't you know? By the time I got to the end of the Zappa disc, "So that's what a weasel ripping into flesh sounds like!" The pain had started to ebb.

I then put on the Velvet Underground for good measure..."whip it on me Jim..." I was healed!

A Dark Suspense

"At the bottom of the American soul was always a dark suspense." - D. H. Lawrence

War Criminal

Remember that guy who told one of our illustrious Senators (Patrick Leahy) to "go fuck yourself." That was our own President of Vice, Dick Cheney. Did you ever see "It's a Wonderful Life?" I think Dick Cheney is channeling Lionel Barrymore (Mr. Potter). Or no, that isn't quite it, Dick Cheney seems like a combo of Mr. Potter, Dr. No, Darth Vader...fill in the blank here _____!

Except Dick Cheney is a real life villian. He travels with a small army. Enemies are everywhere don't you know. I do think Mr. Cheney is our own free market version of Milosevic or maybe Stalin. What an abomination. It would all be funny if he hadn't done so much damage to our country.

So, when the Big Dick goes traveling he is transported in a very, very big plane, and inside that plane he resides in an Airstream. It's pictured here. There's something really strange, and sick about this fellow.

Waves of Euphoria

Writing about meditation is kind of like writing about sex, I mean, it's a very hermetic, personal thing, kind of hard to convey the totality of the experience, I mean, bascially all I can really say is, you should of been there. Yesterday the Lovely Carla and I ventured out and attended a group meditation at Invision. It's something we do once in awhile. Eventhough, we are both dedicated meditators on our own, we find that sometimes we need to "recharge" our batteries, and sitting in a room with a group of other meditators all sitting in silent, focused awareness, guided by Ken Jones (he serves as the co-pilot on this particular trip), can be an event of incredible, ineffable, power.

So anyway, I don't know if it was the coffee, the music mix I had been listening to (Lucinda Williams, Sigur Ros and Tom Verlaine), the sunshine, the position of the sun, moon and stars, or...whatever, but I came to the session, relaxed, open and alive. I had one of the most profound meditations I've ever experienced. It's strange to write about it, I mean it's kind of like having a very profound dream and then trying to explain it to someone else. Something (probably the most important thing) gets lost in the telling.

I mean, this "telling" seems like an impossible task, so why even bother? Plus, there's the thought that maybe writing or talking about this special thing actually diminishes it?

I don't know, I feel compelled to write it down. WAVES OF EUPHORIA washed over me. I sat in meditation for an hour and the waves just totally washed over me. It's the greatest feeling in the world. If only I could bottle that feeling, that experience. I mean, probably there's some biological explanation, that euphoria was a burst of endorphins flooding into my body, whatever. The feeling was just amazing. I did not want it to end. All the way home, I tried to be still, to let the euphoria reside in me. It slowly ebbed away, although, even this morning, all my senses seem to be heightened, I feel more alive than I have in quite awhile.

So I can't explain it, I can't hold onto it, not sure I can even recreate it...but I have glimpsed it...I know it's there...and that changes everything.

Doog si Efil

Good news is out there too. We must be on the lookout for the good news from all corners. Too much bad news makes the baby go blind...

Gary Kasparov was arrested yesterday in Moscow, he was detained and then released. I think he and his "Other Russia" movement are playing a cat and mouse game with Putin. Putin would be the cat. He has shown the mouse that he can snatch him at any time. But you know, the cat doesn't always catch the mouse...and sometimes the mouse does get the cheese...

When I was in Laguna Beach awhile back, (it now seems like another lifetime in a place far, far, away), I bought a baseball cap, green in color, with the words, "life is good." I thought it would be a good slogan to carry. Funny thing is, when I see it, (in the mirror) it reads, "doog si efil." Doesn't exactly roll off the tongue, but hey, it will do.

"I'll be there..."

The one man our little piss pot authoritarian leader (that would be Bush), looked in the eye and saw as a comrade was another piss pot authoritarian leader (that would be Putin). You look at Russia and you see some of the same trends that are happening here, playing out in a much more stark and accelerated manner there. The chess grandmaster, Gary Kasparov has been risking life and limb, standing up for a free press and free and fair elections. Russia seems to have evolved or devolved into a little police state, with Putin consolidating his power and "neutralizing" his enemies. He's doing what Bush and Rove would like to do. Bush looks to Russia and see's a "decider" who really, really gets to decide. I think he's envious. So word is Kasparov has been arrested as he made his way to speak at a demonstration in Pushkin Square. You knew this was coming. I hope he has a few secret moves up his sleeve. There are still Gulags over there, and well, there are now Gulags over here too (they are the "offshore" kind - see Guantanamo). Kasparov is a hero, a man armed with nothing but his wits...if I was the praying kind, I'd be praying for him right about now. What was it Tom Joad said...? "I'll be there..." - from the Grapes of Wrath.

Unhappy Puppet?

The sun is out today. The first day in quite awhile. I walked down to the lakefront and meditated on a bench. A good day to be alive.

For some reason Jimmy Cliff's voice kept popping into my head. He was singing the line, "The harder they come, the harder they fall." A line from one of the greatest reggae songs ever put to tape. Also, the title of one of the best independant movies ever made, and maybe the best soundtrack ever recorded for a movie...and, well, hey, that's the trifecta!

Jimmy Cliff stars in the movie and sings some other great tunes on the soundtrack. When it came out back in the early seventies of the last century, it totally put reggae on the map, in a totally international way. Jimmy Cliff kind of led the way for the reggae explosion that burst across the airwaves, the vanguard of the sound included: Bob Marley & the Wailers, Peter Tosh, Bunny Wailer, Toots and the Maytals, Burning Spear, and yes, Desmond Dekker. Plus there are all those obscure artists who made a cool record, and then, disappeared. You can find some great gems on Trojan records - they have multiple cd retrospectives - I've got one called "Rude Boys."

There is so much great reggae music, it's now a fixture in the international music scene. But no one can outshine Jimmy Cliff and Bob Marley for charisma, and style, and well, they truly embody an amazing music.

So, the song the "Harder They Come," also has the line: "I'd rather be a free man in my grave, then living as a puppet or a slave." It's a catchy line, and I understand the sentiment...but man, the grave sounds so damn final...can I pick "unhappy puppet" and try to work it out?

Billy Pilgrim Died for Our Sins - Kurt Vonnegut - RIP

"If you can do a half-assed job of anything, you're a one-eyed man in a kingdom of the blind." - Kurt Vonnegut Jr.

If I think of myself as a writer, and I do, then the man who lit the wick, who sparked the spark was Kurt Vonnegut. My English teacher in Junior year of High School had the class read a short story from Vonnegut's collection, "Welcome to the Monkey House." It was a revelation. I had finally found the Oracle, the secret of the universe.

I devoured everything I could find: Breakfast of Champions, God Bless You Mr. Rosewater, Sirens of Titan, Player Piano, Slaughterhouse Five, Cat's Cradle...

These were the standouts for me, but everything he wrote was informed with style, wisdom and sly wit. Thank you Mr. Vonnegut...

Oh yeah, the secret I discovered in the pages of his books - even in the darkest, bleakest moments of life: the universe laughs...it's a mad, silly, life-affirming, death defying, laugh, it rings out...you can hear it even now. Love and Peace Mr. Vonnegut.

The Happy Generation

Can I claim that I am a member of the Happy Generation? Well, I suppose so. If I think back over my life, the good times have out-weighed the bad. Count me as one of the lucky ones.

The Tibetans are said to be "the happy people," maybe it's their Buddhism, or the high altitude, or maybe there's something in the Yak butter that just makes them look so darn joyful?!

So, this morning, I'm reminded of the changeable nature of nature. It's a spring day in Chicago, cold, raw, rain, sleet and snow, the wind is blowing three directions at once. Of course, against all common sense, I decide I must go for a run on the lakefront. Heck, it will do me good!

So I brave the elements - we Chicagoans think there's something brave or heroic about contending with the elements. There really isn't. Instead it could be a sign of simple-mindedness, but okay let's go with heroic, kind of like climbing a mountain, or jumping from a plane, or driving loaded on Jack Daniels, is there a kick to doing something stupid and then surviving it, and by so doing, beating or cheating death once again, and maybe there's a joy in that too?

So, I run, I'm pelted with snow, like darts, my shoes get soaked, the cold wind cuts through me, Lake Michigan is a violent, roiling, crashing, chaos of water...still I make it back in one piece, and well, it's almost like I actually accomplished something.

So, back to Buddha, he said something pithy like: birth is pain, life is pain, death is pain...

And then he probably smiled and said, "have a nice day." So, if you start with that in your kit bag, any little joy, or beauty, the impossibility of love, must come as a real kick in the pants...enjoy the day!

The Holy Spook

The Church of the Holy Spook. Shane McGowan of the Pogues once wrote a song of that title. All about the Holy Ghost don't ya know? The Holy Ghost is kind of like a mystery pidgeon, or a holy dove, I mean, I have this image of a bird, but really I think the bird was just a stand-in for a spirit, it's a visualization of the spirit of the Lord, part of the Holy Trinity. I'd say the Holy Ghost is the most mysterious of the three. Now Shane, is Irish, Catholic, and a serious drinker. He has a lyrical bent - check out some of his work with the Pogues for some definitive raucous Irish rock as well as some very powerful and poetic imagery. Shane has a little problem, the same one I've had from time to time, he likes to indulge in the old demon alchohol, it's a demon that will drive you into the dirt, and like Tom Waits, I think all three of us, at one time or another could say: "I don't have a drinking problem, except when I can't get a drink." Sometimes it's best to abstain. To show a little discipline, to teetotle, to just say "no." I find that now when I drink, even if I drink in moderation, I wake up that old demon and deep, primal feelings of guilt and pain rise up into my consciousness. I come from a long line of drinkers from all branches of the family tree - Irish, Polish, German. Man that's a combustible mix. I find that if I don't drink, those feelings stay buried in the deep. So anyway, Shane is back on the road with the Pogues after a long breakup - the drink had gotten him kicked out the band many years ago. And well, from what I've read in the press and seen on YouTube, Shane is living the debauched, rock and roll lifestyle to the hilt, with a little D.H. Lawrence and Dylan Thomas thrown in to boot. I wish him good luck. I think I'll offer up a few kind words to the Holy Spook upon Shane's behalf. The world needs it's mad, sodden, poets. Yes it does. And the Spook works in mysterious ways. Sometimes you happen to find the inspiration in the strangest places...

Light Doesn't Age

I'm not physicist, or rocket scientist, but as I understand it, light does not age. And anything travelling at the speed of light won't age either. Now even the fastest among us looks pretty damn slow in a contest with light (light travels at 299,792,458 meters per second, or 186,000 miles per second). Even an Ethiopian marathoner looks like he's standing still compared to the speed of light. So, we age, yes, we do. And as they say, life is precious, and we need to make every moment count. And even if we know it, I mean, really know it in our bones, sometimes it is hard to do. There are times we just go through the motions, or watch the clock, or forget about the moment and bury our heads in the past or the future, and well, the clock is ticking away my friends...precious moments are whizzing by - what's that, that just flew out the door (?), well, that's your life brothers and sisters!

Then there are those events that bring you up short, that take your breath away, and remind you again...yes... it's all so precious...I mean when death comes knocking and takes a loved one, or a serious illness grabs you or someone you know (it's the cancer - you know, the good kind like Charlie got in Party of Five!), or a divorce, or, well, you know one of those once in a life-time, irrevocable, occurances comes along that make you wonder what's it all about, where are you going, what makes life worthwhile and well, shit, am I really doing it?

So, yes, the light...if I can't propel myself into the universe at the speed of light, can I acquire a little of that "enlightenment," a little sliver of that precious stuff that tells me life is precious, and we are alive, and it's good...and if not, if I'm age bound, and those irrevocable events are coming for me and every one else too, is it even more precious and good and well, I guess that's one of things we're here to figure out.

Whatever Happened to the Singing Cowboy?

It's Easter Sunday, a day that has special resonance for me, "you can do what's never been done, you could sing what's never been sung." I mean, people can do some amazing things - the worst, the best and everything in between. I imagine a big stone, rolling from the entrance of a tomb, and brother, strange as it seems, it's blast off time!

If we can imagine it, can it become a reality?

So, of course, I'm asking myself this morning, "what ever happened to the Singing Cowboy?" Gene Autry was the man. He was the mold. They didn't break it, they just tweaked it over the years, and eventhough Autry kind of morphed along the way, (I mean there's a continuum from Autry to Roy Rodgers,to Bob Wills, to Johnny Cash, to Willie Nelson - my favorite singing cowboy smokes weed, has hair down to his waist and plays an old guitar with a big gaping hole in it!), that original Autry DNA can be traced from the latest to the first.

I remember watching Autry and then Rodgers on Saturday morning, roping, riding, and improbably, singing. The happy go lucky cowboy, always doing the right thing, staying in tune, and in key.

So yes, the Singing Cowboy lives...Autry rides again, and again, (I mean he is risen!), and as they say, you can't keep a good man down.

Funny Ain't It?

Ah well, how to explain it? I can't really. I fell into a very black, I mean, blackest of black moods yesterday. I wonder if it was the barometric pressure, or genetics (I come from a long line of dead people and well, they descended from some hairy creatures who liked to hang in trees oh those many years ago), or some chemical imbalance, or well, maybe it's because Sister Mary Aquanata rapped my knuckles in third grade (a left-hander don't ya know?), or maybe because my dog died when I was in high school, or maybe it was all those books on existentialism I read in college or, well, maybe it's the music I listen to now, including the Doors, Led Zeppelin and Mazzy Star, and well, maybe there are demons dancing in my head, and maybe every once in a while they stomp around just to let me know they are there?

Beats me. My mood was black. Like Long John Silver's eye-patch black. Like Witches' Brew coffee black. Like really bleak, dark, black. I started out fine, had a nice morning, things were actually looking up and then, well, some kind of cloud enveloped me. I wandered about the city in wretched state of disgust; with the world, humanity, myself. Like I said, bleak black.

So, I went with it. I didn't flee, or drown myself with alchohol, or seek out counselling or medication. I sat in the depths of the black. I didn't murder anyone, I didn't take a razor to myself. I sat and read the paper. I scoffed and laughed derisively at the stupidity of my fellow man. I laughed at myself too. So, I hit bottom, and stayed there. Then, finally, I went to sleep. A long, fitful, dream-filled sleep. And today, well, the cloud has lifted. I'm feeling bright and chipper, with just a little tiny hangover of black on the outer edges of my mind.

I can't explain it. And well, maybe I don't need to. The black cloud came over me, and then it left. So, well, if I can't explain myself to myself, how am I gonna explain anything else to anyone else either? Funny ain't it?

UPDATE: After I wrote the words above, I opened Steve Pinker's "The Blank Slate," and read the following: "Ambrose Pierce's The Devil's Dictionary contains the following entry - Mind (n.) A mysterious form of matter secreted by the brain. It's chief activity consists in the endeavor to ascertain it's own nature, the futility of the attempt being due to the fact that it has nothing but itself to know itself with."

Kind of spooky innit?

The Blog World

In the heat of the last presidential election, I was in a blog frenzy. I think I had about forty five blogs in my favorties folder that I'd visit to get the latest on the political scene. Recently, I cleaned out my favorites and just kept the essential blogs. Here are the blogs (political or not) I visit nearly every day.

1. Josh Marshall - this is the first blog I ever came across. I was researching some political story (I forget which one), and typed the subject in Google and Talking Points Memo came up. It's essential. Josh does political analysis and he has a team of reporters in Washington D.C. doing great work on what's happening in the corridors of power. His reporting on the Niger Forgeries, the Abramhoff Scandal, the Attorney Purge, etc. and his overall political analysis is superb.

2. Atrios - this self-described "dirty fucking hippie," (I'm one too!) has his finger on the pulse at all times. A great resource, he links to the world, a progressive, funny, blogger from the city of Brotherly Love.

3. Juan Cole - a midwestern professor of middle eastern studies, this guy can actually read Arabic. Essential information and insightful views of an extremely volatile side of the world that has relevance to everything you and I read in the papers daily.

4. Andrew Sullivan - he's a gay, British, Catholic, conservative now residing on the East Coast. He's a good writer, quite thoughtful, willing to listen to reason, can admit when he's wrong. He's been very eloquent on the horror of Abu Graib, Guantanamo, torture, and the failure of the Bush administration. He's certainly a contradiction (he voted for Bush in 2000, Kerry in 2004). He stuck with Bush on Iraq way too long. Still a great read. Often I disagree with him, but I respect his willingness to entertain many sides of an argument on politics, religion, culture.

5. James Howard Kunstler - this is Mr. Long Emergency. He usually posts once a week (see Clusterfuck Nation), but what he has to say is usually biting, funny and essential. He is the canary in the coal mine. He believes the "end is near," for suburbia and the car culture. If oil has reached it's peak and consumption continues to go up, that black gold will vanish sooner than we think. Much of America is a ridiculous joke of cheap malls, poorly built housing tracts in the middle of nowhere. When oil goes to $100 a barrel or more, won't it all come crashing down around our ears? I don't know if he's right or not, but he makes a compelling case.

6. David Byrne - a renaisssance man, a great musician, singer, songwriter, world music advocate. A great mind. It's always a pleasure to check in and see what he's up to...a world traveller, lives in New York, rides a bike. A long way from CBGB's, but then again, not so far either. He's got great insights on music, culture, politics, whatever...

7. James Wolcott - he writes for Vanity Fair, but I like reading his blog for the immediacy (plus you don't have to wade through all those perfume ads!) He came of age in the old CBGB days, he's always referring back to Television, Patti Smith, the Dead Boys, Iggy. He's a great writer, with a poison pen for his enemies. Politically progressive. Politics, music, movies. He's a pleasure to read.

Of course, there are many more great blogs out there (see my blogroll on the right!). Each of these bloggers has a blogroll of interesting blogs that they read. There's nothing like brewing up a fresh pot of java, skimming across the blogosphere and picking up the latest from great writers across the land.

Fall Out Boy

The first Tuesday of every month, the city government where I reside, tests out their emergency siren. It's blasting now as I write. It's kind of a mechanical fog horn blast, I'm thinking it's a C note, blared for about sixty seconds. There's some kind of wurlitzer effect, the sound kind of swirls or pans left to right across the horizon. I'm thinking Pink Floyd could of put it to great effect.

"This is a test, it's only a test." That line always goes through my head. Yes, well, isn't it all just a test? And as Woody Allen once asked, "why couldn't it be multiple choice?" But of course, it is multiple choice. Or, at least, sometimes it seems that way. Then again, other times, it seems like the choices are made already, we are just sort of fulfilling them. So there's the illusion of multiple choice. And as the great UCLA basketball coach John Wooden (yes, he's still alive, he's now in his nineties) said on the radio a few days ago, you must "be yourself," and yes, well why are all the great, insights so mundane and bland?

I guess saying the words is easy, to play the game that way, at all times, in all circumstances...maybe not so.

So yes, what if this was an emergency? What if the aliens were invading, or the bombs were falling, or Lake Michigan was Tsunamiing? What would I do then? Hide under my desk? That was the old plan, in school, at direction from the nuns. The horn blasts, hit the floor, roll under your desk and cower in fear.

I don't think so...I'm fortified with some kickass coffee this morning. So, I guess, my feeling is "bring it on." Whatever is in store, I can deal with it (or not). The proof is in the mechanics of a day.

"I was praying the pieces wouldn't fall on me." - B. Dylan

Guitar Master

Nearly two years ago, I bought an amazing guitar, made by a little guitar shop in California. I was in the market for a really nice instrument, and well, I wanted to buy an American made piece, and I thought it would be cool to seek out a guitar maker who didn't work via a big assembly line. I settled on Suhr Guitars founded by John Suhr. Probably his most famous client is Mark Knopfler from Dire Straits. Anyway, I found a retail shop in Riverside, California that carried a couple of hand-made Suhrs and via the internet, I zeroed in on the one pictured here - it's basically a custom made Stratocaster, based on Fender's classic design. When I found myself on the West Coast, (I do not recommend buying a guitar without first having it in your hands), I ended up making the trek to Wild West Guitars (which is kind of like a Disney Land for musicians), I plugged the guitar in, and well, I guess you could say I fell in love. I'm still learning how to play it, it's an amazingly versatile guitar, I've lately been trying to learn how to incorporate a whammy bar into my sound, and well, it's got three pickups and multiple settings and gee, it's a real dream to run your fingers up and down the fret-board. So anyway, yesterday was April Fools Day and I was playing & recording music, and I came up with kind of a psychedelic jam, which I entitled "Fools Day." I uploaded it here. It's another instrumental that I am making available as a free download. I'm very happy with my guitar sound (three different tracks), plus, that bass-line grounds the song quite nicely. I do love that classic Strat sound, I'm pleased to get a glimmer of it for myself...thank you John Suhr you are truly a guitar master!

UPDATE: Wow, I just checked the current stock of Suhr Guitars at Wild West, and well, I must tell you, I purchased my Suhr for substantially less than the listed prices...not sure if that means I got a lucky deal, or listed prices are misleading, or the value of these guitars are rising because of demand, or what else? I know some people buy guitars for the investment possibilities, or as collectibles, but hell, if you can't take the thing out and bang away on it like Buckethead, or Townsend, or Hendrix, or whoever, I mean, what's the use?!

Meat is Murder

An interview with legendary Smiths guitarist Johnny Marr (now with Modest Mouse), on meeting Morrissey and about the strange alchemical connectedness of music. There's a long and winding continuum from the Marvelettes, Marvin Gaye, Phil Spector, the Shangri Las, the Velvets, The New York Dolls, Patti Smith and finally, improbably The Smiths. Johnny has distinguished himself as one of the great guitarists, with an amazingly, shimmeringly, distinctive sound. Oh yeah, that guy Morrissey had something going on too!

Explosions in the Sky

I really like this band. They remind me a little of another favorite, Sigur Ros (less the tympanis, glockenspiels and made up vocabulary) an incredible band from Iceland. I think these guys are from Austin. Lately I've been attracted to instrumental music. My head has been a jumble of words and thoughts, sometimes it's nice just to ride the tone...plus I'm always a sucker for a good guitar lick or two.

Bread

Man does not live by bread alone, but hey it's a start. One of our young neighbors is training to be a bread maker, I mean, he is a bread maker, he's planning on going to France to train with the best. In the meantime, he bakes at home, and well, he's been cooking up loaves of bread for the Lovely Carla and I, as well as his own family. I mean, this is an amazing development. Victor Hugo wrote about a man who was hounded for stealing a loaf of bread, and well, we have a Bread Angel who brings us fresh baked loaves of bread once a week. Our bread-maker has also made some incredibly good pastries and croissants. We have been honored and grateful, and well, of course I dumped the raw food diet (freshly baked organic bread - it can't be beat!), in honor of this delightful development. Today, our Bread Angel (Daniel) delivered a fresh Kalamatia Olive Loaf. It's big, beautiful (you almost hate to cut into it), warm, just out of the oven. I thanked him and in return I gave him a CD of instrumental music tracks I composed and recorded - I figured he would not appreciate the product of my meager cooking skills (tofu dogs?!), so I thought I'd give him a little taste of my music. We made the exchange, he smiled, I smiled, and together we said, "A GIFT!"

Magic

The Lovely Carla is on a business trip to Michigan. I'm here alone with the birds. I've kind of entered a void, and as Woody Allen says, it's an empty void. I'm looking for ways to fill the void. I have a lot to say, or to blog, but it's almost like I have so much to say, I just can't get it out.

I'm waiting for an answer on a business proposal, and well, yes, the waiting is the hardest part. I'm in that drifting mode, not sure where I'm going, or what I'm doing. My band is kind of on hiatus, my theater project is still evolving, I'm working on some music, but home recording is kind of lonely proposition: sunny jimmy's lonely hearts club band.

I'm good at being alone, in fact, usually, even in a crowd, I feel alone. I think I'd make a helluva good hermit. So anyway, I had this strange (it seemed important, prophetic) dream last night, one of my spiritual mentors appeared and told me that "we work from magic." I recently heard the same thing from one of our good friends on the West Coast.

Now I'm not exactly sure what "magic" is, I mean, I'm pretty aligned with the Scientific method and all. I don't think we are the center of the universe, I do think we descended from apes, I don't think we fully understand our own minds. I do think the world is a mysterious place, and there is much that we don't know and maybe never will. And, well, as per John Sebastian of the Lovin Spoonful, I do believe in magic, even if I'm not sure what it is, and well I'm willing to accept and live with the mystery, eventhough, I'm looking to shine the light of clarity in all the dark corners of my life, and well, I figure that sometimes there are unknown, unforeseen forces that we have to reckon with and it's a good and a cool thing too.

The Past

"The past is never dead. It's not even past." - William Faulkner.

It won't last, but...

...it's a beautiful day in Chicago. It's rare you get to write those words. I come from a city where the weather will pummel you, it will tackle you, it will freeze and stomp on you. It will also blow holes through you. It will slap, and taunt and yes, even torture you. It will make you wonder, if there is a god, why is he or she so damn cruel? You might even ask yourself, in a moment of weakness, "why does god hate me so?"

I've been on that piss-stained platform at Howard street, freezing my ass off, stomping up and down, trying to stave off frost-bite. I've ridden a bicycle down those concrete canyons downtown, where the winter winds seem to blow through you two ways simultaneously. I have slogged through snow drifts, been pelted by rain, sleet and hailstones. I have an old leather jacket and a pair of boots that carry the scars and wounds from the elements (I look in the mirror and those same scars and lines are there too!). I have also roasted in sweltering summer heat and humidity. The weather can kill you six ways to Sunday, my friend.

Then, once in a great while, the weather will carress you. It will lightly pat you on the head, it will tell you, "hey, it's good to be alive." it will give you a kiss on the forehead, it will hold you by the hand, it will whisper sweet endearments in your ear. It will make you stop and wonder at the beauty of your life and it will make you thank your lucky stars that you are healthy and happy, and well, it will remind you that nothing can stop you from living life to the fullest.

So, yes, it's a beautiful day in Chicago...

We are those "Other People!"

This truly is a great time for music. Maybe not so much for the music business. CD sales are down, radio is a parched wasteland, but if you take a little time to look, there are great bands and artists creating wonderful music today.

I am not one of those who thinks that the "golden era" of music was way back when. There were great times and places back then - see Sun Studios in the fifties, Motown in the sixties, the British Invasion in the mid-sixties, the Punk explosion from the broken streets of Brixton in the late seventies, the San Francisco Pyschedelics on Haight in the Summer of Love, etc.

I've always tried to seek out the new, at the same time keeping close to some of my long-time favorite artists: Dylan, Bob Marley, Peter Tosh, Neil Young, the Stones, the Who, the Beatles, Elvis, Springsteen, U2, Jeff Beck, Tom Waits, the B52s, Lucinda Williams, Yoko, Patti Smith, Sonic Youth, Howling Wolf, Muddy Waters, John Lee Hooker, Television, the Allman Brothers, Joy Division, Nick Drake, Miles Davis, Velvet Underground, John Coltrane, Elvis Costello, the Ramones, the Clash, Van Morrison, Jeff Buckley, Frank Zappa, Captain Beefheart - this is not a definitive list, just some favorites off the top of my head.

Over the years, I've also discovered great artists who are putting out superb music right now, including: Wilco, Radiohead, Sigur Ros, Explosions in the Sky, Pelican, The Flaming Lips, the Hold Steady, Antony and the Johnsons, Bright Eyes, Mars Volta, Green Day, Beck, Yo Lo Tengo, Drive by Truckers, Nick Cave & the Bad Seeds, Robyn Hitchcock, REM, Cat Power, the White Stripes, etc.

Yesterday, I came across one of the "old-timers" who isn't acting old at all, Ray Davies, founder of the Kinks, put out an album in 2006 called "Other People's Lives." It's witty, brilliant, funny, rocking, cathartic, quirky - Ray is a word-smith and a rocker through and through. I just love it. Plus, I love that he's a man of "experience," he's been around the block a time or two, (or three), but he still has the fire, the inspiration, music still matters to him, and yes, it matters to us too. Ray goes way back, he was part of that original British Invasion, he has an incredible back catalog of brilliant music, but hey, put this disc on the box and enjoy now! It's a real pleasure. Really, I kid you not!

The First Time Farce, the Second Time Farce

Yes, well, President Pissy Pants is starting to sound very Nixonian over this fired Attorneys scandal. His little temper tantrum press conference just makes one think that there's more dirt to be found under the carpet. This rings so many bells for me. Watergate started with a little break-in at Larry O'Brien's office. A little nothing break-in. The toxic Nixon empire crumbled; a sweating, shifty-eyed Nixon slowly dissovled right before our eyes. Little Bush just continues to shrink before us. As the years have gone on, he has become a smaller and smaller speck of a man. As one commentator (I forget who), said, "not only the worst president ever, but also a miserable excuse for a human being." He's such a little cry-baby. The more he gets mad and stamps his feet, the more you know he's fucking guilty (let me count the ways). I would hope that every dead American and dead Iraqi will come back and haunt his empty little brain cavity (not likely - there's no sign of life in there), at night. The first time tragedy, the second time farce. In this case, it's farce to farce - but shit, the joke (as always) is on us.

Surfing with the Sea Turtles

The last two evenings I have been hunkered in my home studio, recording new music. Ever since our successful outing on the 15th, I've been working on some stray riffs, broken chords, and misplaced beats. I came up with my own "surf song," in tribute to my friends out on the West coast. In my heart of hearts, I always thought I'd end up in a surf shop in Malibu or Laguna, or maybe somewhere more low-down and funky. I've posted this instrumental song as a gift from me to you - Sea Turtle Surf Song. It's available as a free download (just click on Sea Turtle Surf Song, and then hit download and it's yours!), because, you know, they say the best things in life are free, although, contrariwise, that old classic rock and roll ditty reminds us, "you can save it for the birds and bees...!"

So, I've had this image of surfing with the sea turtles; out well past land, the sun shining, the ocean blue, no humans except for me, and somehow I do a kind of mind-meld with these ancient, graceful, creatures. And just how do I keep up? I ride the Stratocaster whammy-bar sound waves in my head; the pure, crystalline, mercury sound of D'Addario strings stretched out well past the point of logic; smooth and silky, kind of like a long and lonely Laguna sunset - lingering, lingering, that little ball of fire just teetering on the edge of the world, splashing color across the horizon, and...oh, wait a minute...it's gone!

The Originator -"where did the money go?"

Bo Diddley, his voice riding the radio waves straight into my head this morning: "we are a nation of slow understanders."

Neighbors

Yesterday, for some reason, I had Neil Young on my mind and on the cd player. I also listened to Bob Dylan and Wilco (I have really been on a Wilco kick lately - they are a band making great music, their last three cds have shown tremendous creative growth and nerve), and well, I spent much of the day, reading the paper, listening to music, and just chilling out.

In the afternoon, I went to Starbucks and bought Neil Young's "new" cd, an archive release from a concert in 1971, "Live at Massey Hall." It's a legendary show, Neil Young, alone on acoustic guitar and piano, playing a raft of newly-written, unheard of before songs, some destined to eventually show up on his great "Harvest" disc. So, I spent time sipping a latte, reading the paper and listening to Neil sing his heart out. There's no other instrument on the planet quite like Neil's mournfully expressive voice.

Later in the evening, I watched Richard Linkletter's comic version of Philip Dick's "A Scanner Darkly." It is the perfect movie for our distinctly paranoid and schizoprenic culture -written in the wake of the war on drugs, Richard Nixon's enemies list and his assault on our constitution (see "The U.S. vs. John Lennon, " for more background).

"What happened? How did I get here?" - Bob Arctor.

Anyway, in the middle of the movie, my upstairs neighbor starting jumping up and down on her floor, my ceiling. The force of her jumping was such that the little plastic fire detector in my hallway came crashing down. This neighbor (a thirty something woman) has done this kind of thing before, she starts jumping up and down, and sometimes she can be heard yelling. She lives alone, I've seen her out and about, she seems "normal," but this jumping and yelling thing is quite the strange and baffling phenomenon.

This time, (I've usually just ignored the jumping and yelling and it usually stops after a few major thuds), I decided I needed to get to the bottom of what was going on up there, so I ventured up a flight of stairs and knocked on her door. Vigorously. She didn't answer, but I could hear her stomping around and shouting. Thoughts of concealed weapons, and bloody steak knives went through my head. I stopped my knocking and started to turn away from the door, and then I heard a very disturbed snarl come from somewhere behind the door, "Neil Young is an asshole!"

I walked back to my apartment, somewhat stunned, I guess it's safe to say, she's not a Neil Young fan. Something tells me Neil's music is gonna find it's way to my cd player (I can't help myself), frequently in the coming days.

"You Know How Time Fades Away." - Neil Young

Saturday Morn: My Life in the Bush of Ghosts

It's a beautiful day. Life is good. I'm listening to My Life in the Bush with Ghosts, the great, visionary collaboration between David Byrne and Brian Eno, two artists at the top of their game. It's a beautiful musical collage; inspiring, kind of funny, plus it's real funky. I love the bass lines, the groove, the "found" voices. If you have not heard it, seek it out, or if you haven't listened to it in a long time, I recommend you take it out for a spin. It's good medicine for the ears, the heart, and the soul.

Love - The Show

I'm still sky-high from the rock show we did last night (see previous post). It was a gloriously sweet evening. There is nothing like the kick of performance, whether it be in a theater group, or in a rock band. I happen to be working and creating with an extraordinary collection of souls. To have a great audience, who seemed to be with us every step of the way, just helps propel you into another stratosphere. I just want to give a tip of the cap to all my co-conspirators in this incredibly rewarding enterprise. We are in the business of show, but really "the show," isn't a business, it is pure unadulterated love.

"I Don't Know What I'm Talking About, I'm Trapped In This Body And Can't Get Out." - Thom Yorke, Radiohead

I'm in two bands. I find this a very happy circumstance. We have a show tonight, (both bands are on the bill), and it's all for a good cause, Rock the Cure. If you'd like to give your ears a glimpse of some of the music on tap, check out these sites:

White Wolf & Sonic Princess
TarHead (a combo of two bands, Tarpit & Head Lice!)
The Telepaths

There's also an all-girl hula-hoop group performing between and during some of the acts. If you've never seen them, you don't know nothing bout hula-hooping:

The HoopaFreaks

If you're in Chicago tonight, come by and say hello: Silvies Lounge

The White Wolf & Sonic Princess is my glorious collaboration with the Lovely Carla. We're kind of a jazzy little duo, tonight featuring my brother (Bacchus Blue) on harmonica. Not sure how to categorize our stuff. I love Carla's vocals and poetry. I do my best to keep up on guitar.

The Telepaths have been more legend (this band needs a VH1 Behind the Music episode!), than band, but with a lot of persistance and high-decibel practice, we've actually rounded into quite a tight little outfit. Think LOUD, RAUCOUS, ROCK & ROLL. We are A Motley Crew (not THE Motley Crue). We have a great Esprit D' Corp. We actually like to play together and well, hell, it shows. Plus we have excellent collateral matierial (t-shirts, buttons, posters).

The Telepaths are:
Cory H. on bass and vocals - a real R&R Star.
Peter V. on drums - think Keith Moon, John Bonham and Karen Carpenter all rolled into one heavy-handed, sweet-souled drummer.
TPM , Lead Vocals - imagine a combination of Johnny Rotten, Tony Bennet, Mariah Carey, and Al Jolson (plus, don't forget the King)?
sunnyjimmy on guitar and vocals - if my guitar stays in tune, I'm gonna be alright!

The Telepaths are the guys Brittany was hanging with when she got buzzed and tatooed up. Also, it was the Telepaths who gave Paris Hilton her first video camera (we thought it would be a good hobby?!). It was the Telepaths who set up John Entwhistle with two hookers and two lines of coke in Vegas, what better way to unwind? I mean, (what happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas) who was gonna know?

Talk about bad influences.

It's Party Time?

"We live in a dark and romantic and quite tragic world." - Fashionista, Karl Lagerfeld

Gimmee the Hustler

I don't know if this little encounter is true or not, but it certainly is amusing. Henry Stanley of "Dr. Livingstone, I presume," fame, met Thomas Edison, and Edison showed him his new invention, the phonogragh. Supposedly, this conversation ensued:

"Mr. Edison, if it were possible for you to hear the voice of any man whose name is known in the history of the world, whose voice would you prefer to hear?"

"Napoleon's," replied Edison without hesitation.

"No, no," Stanley said piously, "I should like to hear the voice of our Saviour."

"Well," explained Edison, "You know, I like a hustler."

"Hello Darkness, My Old Friend..."

Okay, so lately, I'm on this kick, reading Michael Frayn's book, "The Human Touch," which is basically 500 pages of text about all the things we don't and maybe even can't know, which kind of leads me into a Chico Marx kind of frame of mind, I mean, like so, "how can I find out, what I got to find out, if I can't find out what I got to find out?" So, of course, now everything I touch, do and see, kind of resonates with this mind frame.

This morning I'm paging through the New York Times Sunday Magazine and come across this article: about dark matter & dark energy. Cosmologists and physicists, and all those other glorious eggheads that are trying to help us understand the universe now believe that what we call "universe" (plants, stars, galaxies, us) is really only 4% of what's actually out there. And what's out there beyond the 4% may be beyond our powers of understanding or even perception.

Now my forte is summing up stuff that I don't really understand into some kind of form of entertainment (at least entertaining to me), this is my working method in writing plays, interacting with the world, and all the people in it, but this article (I'm linking to it, so you can see if you can make heads or tails out of it yourself) seems to be saying that we really, really don't know what we're talking about when it comes to the universe and much of the phenomena in it. We can observe lots of stuff, we can put labels on it, but really, come on, we can't explain shit!

It's kind of humbling, and well, maybe we should reflect on this as some kind of lesson. In the human realm, some of us claim knowlege well beyond our capabilities. We all need to be really careful about what we claim to know. Most of our knowledge seems to be tentative, subject to revision. Dark matter, dark energy - it's kind of like some cosmic Godzilla out there, we can't even perceive it, but it's out there, yes, we know it, and well, what's up with that?

UPDATE: I want to be clear, that I admire the folks who are trying to find clarity in the dark forests of our experience. I admire and put myself in the camp of the seekers, the questioners, even if, in the back of my mind, I think it may be a fools errand. I do think we should strive for "clarity," but at the same time, it seems clear that the more we look, the more we see, sometimes the cloudier the picture gets. The universe seems more mysterious than ever. It's not a clockwork, it's more like a living thing, a process, without any clear goal. Or something like that. It's marvelous, and beautiful, and overwhelming, and well, we are just human beings, we evolved from other life forms, and is it really that strange that we might find some limits to our little minds of rationality? And remember that little island of rationality sits in a much vaster ocean of irrationality. Welcome to the Human Race.

Andrew W.K. - Mr. Party

I don't know anything about this guy. Except he wrote a song called "Party Til you Puke." That's some heavy partying. I've been there, done that, and I guess, once you've been around the block once or twice, you realize that sometimes fun isn't really what it's cracked up to be.

But anyway, the following quote totally hits home with me. I've been reading Michael Frayn's philosophical tome, "The Human Touch," it's a big, ridiculous, brilliant book about how we are in a dialogue with the universe which in effect "makes" the universe. If we weren't here, the universe would be one big, silent monologue. Or at least, that's an example of the type of concept we'd come up with, if we could imagine a world without us in it. Or something like that. Frayn's book goes on for about 500 pages, I'm halfway through it, and it reminds me of kitchen discussions my cousin and I had back in the early seventies after a smoking a joint of primo weed.

So this morning I come across this from Andrew W.K.: "I have been very into the idea that the only way the external world exists is by you observing it, and that the ony way you can interact with that external world through that observation is to intend it to be."

Seems Andrew W. K. has been reading the works of the philosopher Martin Buber. He's also exuberant about ideas like the nature of coincidences and paradoxes and solipsism.

Sounds like my kind of guy. Other song titles he's penned: "It's Time to Party," and "Party Hard." I detect some kind of overarching theme here.

Prophets Intervene

Slept in this morning. I notice if we sleep in, get up gradually, the coffee tastes even better. I truly do have a monkey on my back, but I'm willing to give him a ride anytime.

So, I'm sipping coffee and I rifle through a stack of cds and put on the Dylan soundtrack from his movie, "Masked and Anonymous." Some great cuts from artists all over the world, plus Dylan and one of his better bands. At the same time, with Dylan ringing in my ears, I'm paging through the NYTimes and come across this notice about the current Pope's qualms about having Dylan sing to Italian youth back in 1997:

POPE NO DYLAN FAN - In his book, "John Paul II, My Beloved Predecessor," Pope Benedict writes without further explanation, "there was reason to be skeptical - I was, and in a certain sense still am - to doubt if it was really right to let these types of prophets intervene."

Well, I can feature a skeptical Pope, and I do believe you have to pick and choose your Jewish prophets wisely. I'm willing to let Bobby Dylan intervene any ole time. I've never seen him walk on water, or turn water into wine, or raise the dead, I don't think he will die for my sins, but man he knows how to spin up a great lyric, some of his lines are indelibly etched into my brain. And hell, the dude can rock out too. I mean Jesus might have been a holy roller, but I don't think he was much of a rock and roller

Doors

Well, they say, "as one door closes, another opens."

Do they really say that? Well, if they do, whoever they are, I know what they mean. I've lately had doors slammed in my face. It is not a good feeling. But then again, new doors have swung open wide, and well, what's a good boy to do? I'm gonna take a chance on door number one, two and three. That's a deal I can't refuse.

Spring is in the air here in Chicago today. The days are starting to get noticeably longer, and well, hope springs eternal. My life has taken a few wrong turns lately, but surprisingly, these wrong turns may turn out to be right. Isn't that just a kick in the pants?

I've never really been good at planning things. My life just seems to keep on coming and well, I take it as it comes. You can't keep sunnyjimmy down. Not when the coffee is good, and the sun is shining, and well, you find a few like-minded souls who know that everything really is magic.

So, yes, a door...and a window and an escape hatch, and a trial balloon, and a life raft, a getaway car, a rocket to Russia, a jet pack, a parachute, a saftey belt, a bungy cord, anything that keeps the game moving forward. I'm in.

Eye in the Sky

This line has been going through my head this morning: we re-make the world with every blink of an eye.

We truly are in a dialogue with the universe. If we weren't here to observe it, would the universe just be an undifferentiated oneness?

It's kind of spooky and strange to think that in one sense (at least) the universe would not be here if we weren't here to observe it. I mean, I guess there'd be something here if we weren't, I mean, we can imagine a universe without an observer, but without the observer, what really do you have?

Without imagination, what would you have?

Space, time, number, language, causality. We made these things. We apply them to the world. Sometimes they fit, sometimes not. We get to decide. Or not. It's a heavy responsibilty we have, don't you think?

We make the world with every blink of an eye...

A California State of Mind

The Lovely Carla and I spent nearly six days in California. It was a great, enlightening trip. Here are some highlights, in no particular order:

1. Flying in the air at 35,000 feet, looking down at a great mountain expanse. It's comprehensible and incomprehensible at the same time. I mean, air travel is not magic, a mountain is just terrain, but then again, if you really start thinking about the billions of years it took to create that terrain, the vast chain of humans it took to conceive of flying, to invent a plane, building one and letting people buy a ticket and fly. All this just so I can get to California in a couple of hours? I know what a mountain is...remind me, what's a mountain again?
2. Sunset Boulevard. The human show in all it's mad, ridiculous glory.
3. Los Angeles, the city of angels, there are now so many angels, they can no longer fit on the head of a pin. They're all jammed up on the 405. A freeway is not free. You sit in the endless traffic jam and you think that this way of life is not sustainable.
4. Hiking in Griffith Park with our good friends Kris and Noel. Four hawks flying above us. We marvel at them hovering in the air, effortlessly, do they marvel at us marvelling at them? There's magic in the air. We look down from the trail to a see a thriving metropolis. We are overwhelmed by the sky, the sun, the purity of nature. Beauty. Absolute.
5. The Griffith Observatory. James Dean, Natalie Wood, Sal Mineo; they were here.
6. Santa Anita, in the shadow of the mountains. I missed being the king of the world, by a nose. But the thrill baby...yes, the thrill!
7. Morning in Laguna Beach. Sipping a cappucino, watching a group of dolphins dancing in the water. A big, old pelican watches me, watching him. Later in the day, a grey whale comes into shore to rub the barnacles off on a rock. The beach scene comes to a complete hushed silence. "A whale!"
8. Sometimes man overwhelms nature; sometimes nature overwhlems man. In the California frame of mind, this dual overwhelming happens simultaneously, all of the time.
9. The vagaries of a life: yesterday, running on the beach, sun is shining, 70 degrees, ocean lapping at my running shoes. This morning running next to the frozen lake, kicking up snow as I go. Home again. And yes, well, why do some of us live here and not there? Yes, and well, tell me, what's a mountain again?

Here Comes the Sun?

Heading out to the west coast today. Still no laptop, so blogging may be sporadic. I wonder what's in store?

Machiavelli in Hell

"For a long time I have not said what I believed, nor do I ever believe what I say, and if indeed sometimes I do happen to tell the truth, I hide it among so many lies that it is hard to find." Niccolo Machiavelli, in a letter to Francesco Guicciardini, May 17, 1521.

sunnyjimmy: Sometimes I do think we all live in Machiavelli's Hell. Or as Bob Dylan once put it: "you must be honest, to live outside the law."

Lust for Life

I'm not sure if many thought that Iggy Pop would make it to sixty. I mean, back in Detroit, when he'd be up onstage with the Stooges, crawling around on broken glass, it would not have been bizzare for many in the audience to think that Iggy was not long for this world. Well, he's never really gone away. He's rocked all these years, he's been on stage and screen - see Jim Jarmusch's "Dead Man," or "Coffee & Cigarettes," or John Waters' "Cry Baby," to appreciate Mr. Pop's on- screen charisma. Iggy's back with a re-constituted Stooges (the great Mike Watt from the Minutemen is now on bass) and reports are Iggy's really lost none of the original, raw power, rock and roll fire that he first unleashed all those many years ago. He practices Tai Chi and sips fine wine nowadays, and he is still dedicated to finding the inner "stupidity" of the 3 minute rock and roll song. Long live Iggy Pop!

Devil in My Tube

After sitting down and watching a television extravaganza, one is left with the realization, that the important things, I mean, the really important, life-changing, life-affirming stuff that dreams are made of, are not to be found on television! Television is a lie. It's a lie our culture has embraced. We have fallen for the delusion that if it's on TV it must be important, and just the opposite is true. In fact, if it's on TV, it is by definition not important, it is trivial, it is a sham, it is shallow, it is bad for your health. It will suck the the soul out of everything it touches, and it touches us all over the world. Even if the underlying reality (it's out there somewhere, I know it!) is important, or grave, or horrible, or beautiful, or true, the medium of television destroys, distorts, deconstructs it. It's a strange and marvelous drug. It has found a place in our cultural blood-stream, but it is a parasite, a bug, that sucks the life out of everything it touches. Television detroys what it shows us, and what it shows us destroys us too. I kid you not!

Never Fuck with the Lepers!

Once I get on a kick, look out, kind of like James Brown, I will take one idea and keep pounding it until it's lifeless on the ground. I've been on a John Carpenter kick, and I've discovered another film that I just love. It's from 1980, it's called "The Fog." It's not really a scary movie, more like a very effective mood piece, it's so well-made, so to the point, beautifully filmed, and again, I started seeing "levels" that meant so much to me in my near vegetative state (the sickness had it's hold on me, and I was helpless before the malignant power!).

No sense in giving a plot summary or analysis. It's a cool movie, it left me with the idea that yes, the sins of the fathers will be wreaked upon later generations of sons and daughters, it's inevitable, it's the way of the world. We will be held responsible for things out of our control.

Also, if our little paradise world is built on lies, suffering, murders, buried bodies, stolen treasure, bad deeds, (see American History 101, Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee, or the latest headlines), they will come back to haunt. There is some kind of karmic law, it's like gravity (and Jamie Lee Curtiss fits in there somewhere too). Maybe this only is true in movies? No, me thinks it's in our legends, our myths, it's encoded in our cell structure, because it is the law of the land. And we know it eventhough we don't want to know it! Beware the Fog!