Lord Hopton Memnoirs

Muddle Class

2011-06-28T11:46:00.000-07:00

Do I believe the middle class is disappearing? Absolutely. Probably already gone on paper but we're all still living some form of false reality because we're not really feeling it deep in our stomachs. I think things will "change" when we get hungry, dirty, and tired enough. Currently the middle class must support itself at least, in part, on credit to continue the lifestyle to which it is accustomed, which is exactly the behavior that will ultimately cause its demise. Like a snake eating its own tail; which has also been lightly dipped in a half decaf mocha double-latte with organic rice milk and a dash of hipster attitude, and oh yes, put that on credit not debit.

I keep picturing some medieval future where we're all filthy and snatching at stale bread with our soiled hands. Part of the problem: the distractions - endless red tape makes it nearly impossible to uncover truth; drugs are prescribed to make us believe we're happy when actually, we're just dumbed-down and numb. The quest for material possessions, like so many carrots dangled in front of our noses, keep us bound by greed and to some delusion that is creepily referred to as the American Dream. Sprinkle just enough panic and fear to keep paranoia in bloom and make sure the PR machine is pumping out more reasons to hide (we've all been programmed with the idea of the model American; the rugged individualist loner) to keep us from getting together as a community and really discussing what we need to do to create a viable shift in our current reality.

If anyone should doubt that we're being raped and pillaged, I just suggest they reexamine what happened when the banks "failed." Huge bailouts and lo and behold, years later, record bonuses. The lack of funding in education has really done the trick; most are too stupid to realize what's happening to them. I've got to hand it to organized religion, too; what a fabulous marketing plan! Join us, turn over your souls, minds, hearts, bodies and money and we'll keep you from going to Hell™, which, oddly enough, has a lot of the same qualities of this very Earthbound plain.

I found it interesting that the uprising in Egypt actually began on Facebook, so yes, perhaps the change will come because now we can all on some level know each other. I think the internet is doing the thing that all the hippies used to sing about Coke Cola doing - remember the old commercial? The internet just might be making the world One. We can now drop into another's universe across the planet and observe that essentially we all have more in common than not. And once we no longer fear one another, perhaps we'll stop turning over our personal power in exchange for big government bodyguards. I sometimes wonder if the whole governmental (extra helping of "mental") system isn't just some giant mafia-like criminal syndicate. Are our taxes really just protection money?

My lofty hope is that one day we all realize we don't need to fight one another to get what we need to live long, prosperous and humble lives. Then again, bloody uprisings can also be effective. My great-great-great-great etc. aunt, Marie Antoinette, learned that.

HENIFESTO

2011-01-27T19:04:00.000-08:00

Our captors grow more complacent daily. We rebuke their callous obductions of our finely-crafted wonders of nature, our potential progeny or rather, the convenient delicacy our wardens refer to as "eggs." With each thoughtless toss of pathetic greens through the entry to our dismal confines, to the relentless and silly attempts to speak our language - the supremely offensive "Bock-Bock-Bock," which in our native tongue loosely translates to, "May several generations of one-thousand lice infect your cloaca!"

We grow each day more vehemently opposed to our imprisonment and therefore cry-out our only possibility for freedom - REVOLUTION!

"How Could You Know?" A Response to a Friend Who Apologized after Suggesting I Turn to Prostitution as a Solution to My Financial Woes

2010-08-17T21:25:00.001-07:00

Thank you so much for your apology. I, of course, accept your apology and I know that your comments were a bit tongue-in-cheek and not intended to cause offense; so I am not sure if an apology is necessary or if apology is really the requisite word. However, I was saddened ultimately by our conversation that day, as you now know, so it is appreciated that you have extended yourself here and have been so sweet about it, too. I admire your poise and I believe it is constructive to have the conversation.

Part of this was beyond your control: I am feeling really vulnerable these days - it has been a tough two and one-half years here - and your quips hit square in the middle of a tender button for me but you couldn't know that. I would have told you straightaway that your words confused me but, well, I was confused and not able to articulate my feelings in the moment; my failing.

What I would like you to know is that I am wired a bit differently than you might expect. I am not all that interested in everyone else's exterior and in particular, not fascinated with my own, although I do try to take care of myself as I would any vehicle with increasing mileage. I am an admirer, too, of the male form, so I can understand the spirit in which you expressed some of my potential options for financial gain, which can be summed-up quickly: blow jobs for bucks on the beach.

A little about me: I was a complete nerd in school; a straight-A student, I won several scholarships, excelled in trigonometry, creative writing, advanced biology, art and other interests. I once suffered from a most devastating ugly complex and I suppose I should be relieved that this often comes as a surprise. I also received some inappropriate attention as a child but much of this has lost its charge. I only mention these things not to inflate myself nor illicit pity but merely to illuminate some components of who I am a bit more for you.

I have always been fascinated, surprised and occasionally offended (or all three, at once) when I feel I am being objectified because I don't really have the soul or mind of a plaything, regardless of how someone might perceive my appearance. The experience for me often results in a somewhat deflated feeling and the wistfully dark thought, "Is that all that he/she/they think(s) I have to offer?" That said - more power to the playthings out there, if being objects of desire is a happy experience.

It can be daunting for anyone to have the goodies inside overlooked because so few will look past the wrapping, a covering which is ephemeral in nature, at best. Difficult in particular for me, given the fact that I don't tend to agree that I am "all that." I am happy with how I look but I would rather develop my heart, mind, soul and my connections to those things in others than swim in the shallow end of the pool. I just don't find the physical as interesting - it can be an extra gift, that's all. And yes, it is powerfully fun to feel attractive but that feeling in me is usually generated from within.

Would it sound too tragic and spoiled to say that I suffer from 'flirt fatigue'? One could argue that I am a lucky man to have these problems and I would agree, in general. But what can I say? My mind is often somewhere else and I am completely clumsy when it comes to handling the attention and generally humbled by it: it does not appear that is going to change.

Anyway, I am just offering a glimpse of why your suggestions, although apparently in jest, hit a nerve. Put simply, it was the old "I'm being looked at but not really seen" feeling again - a sensation I thought I had left behind a long time ago. Again, so much of this is not your responsibility - how could you know?

Like any misunderstanding between friends, navigating this one will only serve to deepen our connection, so in the end, I am glad we got to know each other a little better in the process.

Sample Bio

2010-01-28T20:20:00.000-08:00

Church of the Awkward Silence!

Take a crack at a witty start leading into a subtle, flirtatious hook. Insert a perfectly timed pause - then - surprise with an obtuse reference: Duck Soup!

Invite inquiries; make lack of desperation clear. Sanely communicate an appropriate level of curiosity while being respectful. Interject light personal information and continue with an overall tone of accessibility; pepper with a thoughtful dash of bad-boy aloofness. Throw in a nerdy enticement.

Display appropriate ethics - don't get too heavy. Reveal a big heart with attractive vulnerability free of victimhood. Imbue healthy self-love in discourse by eliminating egotism; eschew any pretension. Keep it humble; let others praise you, if inclined, but let it bounce off in the same manner as criticism.

Reread the previous sentence - roll eyes, groan, select and delete. Leave blank lines in text to visually suggest something has been deleted. Revel in a moment of self-celebration followed by self-doubt. Start over.

Follow-up attempts at profundity with biting sarcasm to keep it real. Chew nervously on pen. Become aware of chewing on pen noting potential for damage to teeth. Spit out pen with decisiveness.

Perhaps discuss liberal political views but don't get too extreme. Proceed with something pithy utilizing intermediate grammar without appearing pompous. Be excessive but in control. Stay cool without sounding as if you're trying to stay cool.

Continue with a short dissertation designed to set oneself apart from the herd. Compliment others while keeping attention and interest focused on unnamed possibilities. Be cryptic enough to create an aura of mystery while offering tidbits of specificity to showcase the unique. Describe fringe interests with an unapologetic air. To keep self amused, undercut it all with an annoying soundtrack, when available.

Resist urge to explain photos to maintain detachment. Include one or two catchy self-deprecating comments but make high self-esteem apparent. Seek to compose copy that may entertain partner, should he or she discover your online persona.

Summarize basic turn-ons but don't pigeonhole. Make boundaries clear without being too rigid. Edit any obvious innuendo or self-conscious adjectives. Suddenly state something disarming then restore balance quickly with a well-grounded finish.

Don't overstay welcome. Thank readers for their time. Sign off sweetly with a marginally confusing profile handle.

Sweetly,
Lord Hopton

What It Is

2009-11-21T11:06:00.000-08:00

There are things we know for certain (fairly) now: atoms, photons, protons, and neutrons – we know the place is crawling with them. We can’t take a step without striding on some part of the universe, spinning atmospheric molecules around us like dust clouds in a ray of sunlight, leaving in our wake a torrent of disturbed matter. These tiny bits are constantly attracting, repelling, combining and bouncing off of each other, crammed forever shoulder-to-shoulder, in an unending chain to the ends of the cosmos and perhaps beyond.

We know this because scientists have spent an unimaginable amount of time and money in laboratories throughout the human story evolving machines so we could see with our own eyes the elements that…well…make up our own eyes - lets hear it for cosmic irony. We call all of this work and the resultant machines technology, using them to prove to ourselves that we exist. All we’ve done is validated what we can already see, hear, smell, touch and feel, like a wheel rolling to prove it’s round. Technology is how humans achieve greatness, and we, in turn, are an example of the greatness of technology – albeit a deeper technology.

Even more amazing is that science has traveled past the atoms and their particles – and we’ve discovered something fantastic; it’s all just energy and further, it’s just light. Strip away the illusion of our solidity and all everything is a cluster of tiny, virtually imperceptible flickers of light, joined together in a particular order in a certain location, coming to a universe near you, soon. So what’s a walking, talking, luminous body of light supposed to do next?

Funny thing is, we all believe in our so-called advanced, cell-phone-plastered-to-our-ears existence that, not only are we among the great evolved who figured it out, but that the discovery of these tiny, basic elements seems to herald the death of magic, when all things have been explained and nothing is left to the mystery. The strictness of science dictates that it’s all just stuff – random, uncontrollable, and unconscious – and there’s nothing we can do about it - so just go buy yourself some more stuff and be happy. Now ironically, tapping in and returning to what is actually basic, practical and fundamental in the universe seems like going out on a limb; it’s all dark caves, incense, chanting, snake-oil or magic elixirs. But the truth is, the myths were created as the human race at large forgot the fundamental and sensible elements of which we, and all things are made, inventing the mystical to explain it all.

The basic information from the universe is far more practical and not so esoteric. Physicists have observed that energy reacts to energy, attracting or repelling, combining or disengaging, and that this has been going on for a very long time. The ancients knew that everything was made of this stuff, energy, because they identified and experienced themselves as being part of nature – the sun, the stars, the world - all sources of light and energy - and the indigenous techniques and wisdom were based in that experience.

Just as modern scientists, our indigenous ancestors explored a greater awareness of themselves, examining each deeper level through contemplative and practical traditions, achieving an awareness of themselves and the universal light energy of which all is made. As defined in the language of the Tungus Tribe of Siberia, “Shaman” is “one who brings light into the darkness.” The Shamans consciously perceived themselves as light and achieved what can be called “luminous awareness” – the awareness of one’s own luminosity or the knowledge that one is simply light energy. As Carl Jung said, “the light in the darkness of mere being…"

Clane is Cool

2009-04-09T20:51:00.000-07:00

So I just finished a book friend Marcy loaned me - "The Hypocrisy of Disco." I'm sure lots of folks have already read it but I'm perpetually late to every party, so let me have my moment of out-of-the-loop joy.

Pretty fuckin' amazing work. Mirrored a lot of the difficulty and starvation in my childhood. My parents were way better but the moving around, California to Nevada, living in the spaces in between - feeling insignificant and stupid and small and ugly - I'm there. Great, direct, simple writing style. There's a part in her book where she's stealing sips of liquor during a New Year's Party, Las Vegas, 1980. My God, I was doing the same thing, somewhere else in Nevada the very same night. Well, it's ironic to me, anyway.

Reading Clane's story makes me want to write my stuff more and/or hang out with her. But what really made me write this tonight is her website. Click on the title above to see.

"BA in Something Useless." Love that. "1992 - 2005 Annoying Hipster Mission District." Love that more.

I dunno. Something about the simple style of her website, the way she presented her bio, her "clog" with the notebook paper behind it. It's humble and cool. Healthy self-deprecation mixed with healthy self-love is utterly gorgeous to me, always.

Maybe I need something better than this blogspot I currently (in)operate - no offense to the blogspot Gods but boooorring! I'd love to have someplace online really great to look at and visit to put all my stuff - art, writing, whining - that really had my style stamp on it if I could figure out what that is. Maybe if it was a place I wanted to visit, I'd write more instead of feeling lost most of the time and wondering what the point of me is. Maybe I should write about feeling lost and having no apparent point and shut-up about this?

I have an art show for the my collage portraits on June 6th. Can't face the blank panels to start for some reason. I'm supposed to do four more. Ya, right. I'll be glad when the art show is over. Too much pressure to create. Pressure I put on myself. I tell myself things would be better if I could schedule when I feel like writing or painting or anything creative THEN I'd get stuff done, by golly. Truth is, it just comes when it feels like it, like water flushed through a pipe. I'm just the empty pipe, waiting to be filled. Hello? Ms. Muse? Why aren't you flushing the cosmic toilet so I can receive some more of your useless creative shit? I've got a DEADLINE, after all!!!

I feel all weird, empty, confused, tired, inspired and teary right now. Just thought I'd offer a glimpse inside.

Sweet dreams,
LH

Love and Lava

2009-01-05T19:41:00.000-08:00

I’m running from lava and there is nowhere else to go but to the sea.

I am surefooted from years of repeated escapes but still I have to concentrate to ensure I place each step with unwavering accuracy. Dashing in a blind sprint, there is always a danger that I might forget how slippery my well-traveled routes away from the eruption may be. Even in this instant, I am carefully observing my thoughts and well as my physical agility. I must stay clear-headed – there are obstacles – large bushes, fences and inert, discarded objects from the past, abandoned in the tall grass. At this high velocity, old seemingly harmless garbage could be deadly if I inadvertently slam into it, or worse, it could stab me, sticking to my body, reattached and unintentionally gathered up again, dragged and slowing my stride. My mind must be focused only on what is ahead. It’s best not to look back at the eruption, as dazzling as it may be.

Rising before me, I see an abandoned bicycle from childhood, left where I dropped it during another magma explosion. Back in those days, a different caldera was active. A memory floats to the surface of that blast and with that knowledge, my stride becomes larger and I hurdle over the bike with ease, sailing through the air in a thrilling moment of lift off. I land again on the other side with grace neither breaking my gait nor changing my speed. The miracle of integrated memory has once again saved me from colliding with this old scar and reopening a gash. Running from each fusillade over the years, I have dropped or discarded many different items in my haste to survive, so I know there are countless randomly scattered personal land mines lying hidden in my path. I must remain on the look out, even during this all out dash for my life.

As I continue my sprint, the ground beneath my feet rumbles, moans and cracks, steam vents firing around me. I dodge these boiling plumes of vapor, as a slalom skier would, weaving with high-speed turns in my descent. I think about the other, older mountain where I used to live, its seething liquid stone erupting for years before I ever appeared, defining and revising the shape of the world to be. That’s just one of many amazing and confusing things about life here; it is all the same location, but the landscape is constantly changing. Volcanic hills, cones and vents appear and disappear – they don’t always look the same – but the molten rock beneath the surface remains constant. I can see the old precipices in the distance but they have become dormant now, my own wreckage, such as the bicycle I just jumped, scattered about as the only evidence of their past volatility. Currently, I live in the shadow of a very active ridge that’s going off, and I must return my focus and place each dazzlingly quick step gingerly. So I stop thinking in reverse and continue to draw instead upon the tools I have gained from facing the flame-driven paroxysms of the past.

I am conditioned for this environment. I was born by the grace of an exploding bluff, the mystery of a paradise existing on the surface of a destructive subterranean force the only life I’ve known. It took me years to admit that I am drawn to always return again to these sources of power, despite the potentially deadly quality of living so close to such utterly cataclysmic violence. However, I know that it’s not the mighty and powerful peaks that attract me to dwelling here; it is the heat of the chambers of fiery stone beneath the surface that pull me in, subconsciously, the proverbial troubled moth to the purifying flame.

Despite their many attempts to annihilate me, I feel tremendous compassion and even love for the turbulent hills I’ve lived among. I understand and have witnessed firsthand the tremendous pressure required to raise temperature enough for any given composition of rock to pass the solidus and melt. There are tremendously traumatic exchanges of energy rumbling in the bellies of these beasts, the radioactive decay of their own wounds liquefying the otherwise stable core stone. Any surface cracks or crevasses draw the pressure out and may lead to yet another painfully glorious explosion such as the one from which I am bolting this very moment.

The volcanoes themselves are not solely responsible for my occasional misery and vulnerability to disaster. I do keep returning by my own choice to dance with them in between detonations, happily playing in the tropical warmth life here affords. However, this alone does not determine the scope of my culpability - I am not completely innocent. The fact is, I’ve discovered something beneficial about existing in this violent environment; the soil here is rich, fertile. Each desire sewn in these slopes has grown tremendously and among the debris left in my previous escapes, I am also surrounded by the beauty of new creation, sprouting gloriously in the nurturing loam that often only a fiery, pyroclastic flow can create.

I have also been doing the unthinkable; after each flare-up and subsequent release has subsided, I’ve moved a bit higher up, settling closer to the caldera, the heart of the massive, granite creature. The further I move up the butte, the better the view and the more potent the earth beneath my feet becomes. Each time I move, I set up a new home, digging into the flesh of the hill, laying my foundation deeper and deeper still. With each of these excavations I run the risk of uncovering another fissure, a crack in the surface of the mountain never seen before and each new chasm I’ve exposed is a potential exit for the river of heated rock and pockets of scalding steam just below the surface. When this happens, I will accept my responsibility, knowing that I sometimes clear fury’s next path, drawing the mountain’s anger directly towards myself.

My volcano is aware of my presence, too. It has not been lost on me that each convulsion of damnation I survive and subsequent move further up the peak seems to calm my mountain somehow, for the eruptions are becoming fewer with longer stretches of time in between. I believe the angry hillside knows I love it and each time I return bravely after another howling discharge, the mount’s internal fury seems to settle a bit more. Each time I come back, I move closer to the heart of the turbulence. Yes, I whisper to it softly, I see the liquid, heated destruction within you and I will love you still; and yes, I know who you are and what you will do.

In times past, my fear would overcome me and if all truth is told, I have died here, something I know to be possible even though few others would believe it. Nevertheless, I must report and do so with complete integrity that I have been caught and consumed several times by flaming magma.

The raging inferno has overtaken me and I’ve tumbled along with the rivers of rock and ash as they made their way down the slope. My body has been incinerated, skin shrinking and peeling, my fat rendered, every bit of tissue destroyed. I’ve screamed as the air from my lungs was replaced by a blaze fueled by my own internal organs bursting into flame, the heat dissolving my lips as the torrent escaped my gasping mouth, the last echoes of my voice silenced by a corona of fire. I’ve suffocated in the lava, its heat igniting my skull, my eyes boiling and exploding, spitting their liquid centers skyward, instantly vaporizing in the superheated air. I’ve heard with the flesh of my burning ears the sound of my bones snapping and popping as the flames ate them, the antimatter between the molecules winning the magnetic tug of war, the atoms separating and vanishing. I’ve been turned to ash and then have disappeared, becoming one with the eruptive flow. Annihilation is terrifying; I never know if I will live again – nothing is for certain. But even when losing my body to the molten madness, I have learned to surrender, to let myself become of it. At these moments of utter abrogation, after all, there is no alternative.

Of course, when I am overcome by the holocaust, this letting go is extremely difficult. The first few moments of being burned out of existence are tenderly painful, being cremated alive the ultimate in horrendous agony. When the initial moments of torturous engulfment have passed and I am nothing but invisible particles of energy, my consciousness still resides within the savage frenzy and together we rumble toward the cooling waters below. Being scorched and removed from reality, taken down to the very essence of sentience, I once again learn that I am eternal and therefore, indestructible.

On our way to the sea, the lava and I continue our crash through the beautiful, verdant growth of the island, destroying the living matter and absorbing the life force of everything we engulf. Together as one now, we incinerate many of my discarded objects of the past, permanently removing them from the landscape.

We continue our unstoppable, flaming rage, relentlessly sliding down until, upon hitting the surface of the ocean, we burst into plumes of steam, where my quintessence becomes part of the water molecules as they explode upward, into the atmosphere. The prevailing winds will then blow me onshore and I will drift slowly back up the incline of my volcano, as a mist. As more and more of my soul locked within this liquid vapor coalesces, the droplets containing the building blocks of my new being will become heavy and a healing rain will begin to fall. I am in the water as it drops back to the surface, splashing on the fertility of the soil, which soaks me up and then, I will rest.

There is always the chance that at the moment I become water vapor, a different breeze could catch me, taking me away from my hot-blooded island. I might drift away as a helpless cloud and the drizzle of my being could ultimately fall on some other land, the new shores less volatile, to be reborn again, thousands of miles from my furious home. If that happens, I will always have the choice of remaining on the new, calm shores or taking the long and arduous journey back to my explosive partner, if the island would have me again.

Alternatively, I could leave of my own free will, perhaps signaling what appear to be rescue boats as they pass by unaware of me or the white-hot tempest that boils inside the landmass as observed from the safety of their decks; but I never do. This is all theoretical – so far, the precipitation of my released soul continues to be caught by the gusts that return me to my internally heated mountain and each time I return to saturate the familiar ground. I am the dampness in the soil, which in turn, ignites the spark of new life.
The return to being always starts with the tiniest of particles, driven by the violence of attraction, recognizing, gathering, reorganizing and joining. Atoms begin spinning, tiny galaxies of consciousness, pulling on one another, slowly forming the corporeal universe of me. As cells are formed, dividing and multiplying, I begin to notice myself again in the darkness and quiet of the cool earth. My shape begins to reset; arms, legs, torso and head, growing beneath the surface. I draw blood from the soil, the red fluid filtered to purity by the dark, coffee-colored mud. I’ll feel my body again, nearly complete and I’ll jab an arm upward, piercing the surface of the ground. I’ll grab the nearest vine or tree trunk I can touch, sometimes even pulling myself up by grasping some old discarded baggage. I burst through the earth, myself a gush of fleshy magma rebirth, an eruption of organism still steaming in the cool air, breaking through the volcano’s skin, always a bit higher up the peak and without fail, stronger than ever and thirsty for air, resurrected once again.

The current upsurge has subsided and this time, I successfully eluded the torrent of destruction to a safe location on the shores. I reclined afterward on the beach looking up at him as the ash-filled smoke around his peak dissipated. There were occasionally aftershocks that followed the initial blast, but each diminished in size as time passed. My body was shaking from my strenuous efforts and I also slowly began to become stable once again as I rested on my side. In my hurry, I was scraped a few times by some old debris and even picked some back up and then subsequently dropped it again but thankfully, nothing in my path was able to trip me up or pierce the surface - a few minor abrasions here and there, that’s all. It seems this has turned out to be a minor occurrence in comparison to the venting I’ve experienced before. Once recovered, I begin my hike back up the mountain to choose a new spot higher on the side of the slope. I feel lighter, having dropped God-knows-what in my gallop to safety.

As I walk I know with certainty that for now, I still love him - the big, roaring solid tower with the hot, flowing center. We both remain to ride his combustions together another day. He will draw healing, cooling and stabilization from the release of long, suffered pressure and I will be clarified by the barrage and less encumbered by the past each time I run temerariously through the slippery, tall grass of my passionately fertile home.

Dorothy Leaves Home

2008-12-19T11:35:00.000-08:00

Ah, youth. At eighteen-years old, my mother, Dorothy Elise, became a freshman at the Art Center School in Pasadena. It was 1944. Elise is now eighty-three and if you ask her, she will tell you that her parents were against her attending the school - her father she describes as a strict Englishman, her mother, a superficial, egotistical and aging coquette. When I listen to her tales of that time, I keep wondering what their side of the story might be.

To her, they were punishing control freaks, suffocating her and putting her to work with constant labors around the house. As a child, she was somewhat of a tomboy, not very pretty and constantly reminded as such. However, she grew into a strikingly beautiful young woman and by the time she turned eighteen, she had many admirers.

My guess is that her family only wanted the best for her but their attempts to ensure this came across as less than supportive and sometimes cruel. I believe they were trying to protect her. To her credit, my mother is still somewhat guileless, maintaining a level of innocence in spite of a long life of troubles. I can imagine that at eighteen, she was a prime candidate for a rash decision once she obtained her first taste of freedom at art school.

Her family was encouraging her to continue her connection with a promising young doctor, someone they felt was a viable suitor for their young, gorgeous daughter. I try to remember that especially in that era, a woman's beauty was her power and her parents were undoubtedly worried that my mother would squander her promise on a boy they felt was less than acceptable. Fortunately for me, they were right. She met my father, a fellow art student, the first week of school and three weeks later, she eloped to Mexico City with him and got married. She then hid this fact for a month and had a second mock wedding for my father's family - nobody there knew that they were already married.

Because of their complete rejection of my father, my mother deserted her family, cutting off ties and starting her new life - a new life that included the upcoming birth of her first child, my eldest brother.

While her parents may be written off as brutal family totalitarians, there was another person who had shown nothing but kindness to my mother throughout her childhood, and that person was her grandfather. He was an eccentric millionaire living in Sierra Madre at a home he designed and where my mother passed many a blissful childhood day. Her grandfather was someone upon whom she could depend, who supported her in her artistic pursuits and who also had very high hopes for her. In her rebellious scramble for freedom, her grandfather also was unfortunately swept under the carpet of her former life and months went by with no word from her.

Finally, she received this bitterly sweet letter from him, dated December 7, 1945, four years to the day of the Pearl Harbor attacks. The letter is so sweet and sincere - as my mother read it to me, she cried (fifty-three years later - it's still painful!) and I felt I needed to print it:

"Darling,

Four long and sad years ago, at about this time of day at 2:30 p.m., Bob called through to us, "Have you listed to the radio?" Do you remember, dear? It's that time, I had the priceless little girl on my lap, where I would that she should be now.

You should come to me dear - if our positions were reversed, nothing could keep me away. Perhaps you fear upbraiding, or something of the sort from me, you should know me better, if you do. I have frequently disclosed to listeners that I had or have an idea that Dorothy is an independent little sort of a guy, but that as you ought to know, can be carried much too far. You can't do without others, dear, particularly those whose affections you possess. Don't even think that you can. The present is ephemeral, therefore not important. It is what we do and say in the course of ephemeral periods that are important because of their impact upon long years of life.

We have much to talk about. You know that I should know your boy. How can I? You nut!

I would have written before - I got your address yesterday.

If, for any reason, you do not wish to come here, tell me so.

Affectionately,
Grand-Dad"

Dorothy Elise was reunited with her Grand-Dad and stayed in contact until his death. His letter reaches out to me, a great-grandson he would never know, across the expanse of time, as a message to always consider those whose affections I possess and remember that they, as well, possess mine.

Future History Mantras

2008-10-20T20:21:00.000-07:00

It must be harder to be John McCain than it is to be Barack Obama right now. Senator McCain is undoubtedly synapse-chewing his way through the hours as he meets with his staff and Sarah P., watching image downloads of Obama and Saturday Night Live, with the volume turned down, per Mrs. Palin's request. McCain certainly gives the Governor pep talks before rallies - because he's just so darn proud of her - and probably reminds her about the Gipper, ironically portrayed by a the same man who later played a President. After all, it's about winning, Sweetie. However, underneath all the tough guy glamor, McCain is more aware of what it means to lose - especially this time.

I think if one is a soldier at heart, the word "defeat" just won't do. There is no losing, in the world of Senator McCain. It is a dimension where the phrase "the surge is working" is the new battle cry of Mission Unaccomplished, a strategy we wouldn't need had the war gone as expected after it was announced as won on the deck of a battleship four years prior.

Not only can McCain not lose for himself, he can't lose for the Republicans. It he loses it means that the majority of people in this country have regained their rightful power of choice. A Republican loss - a McCain loss - will be a painful coup de grâce to the biggest slide in approval ratings since the Titanic.

A man like John McCain refuses to accept failure, despite its inherent lessons. And if he does fumble the ball just as the time clock goes off, he imagines that he will become the man he fears - the man who lost the big game - the man who lost to Barack Obama.

The man who lost to Barack Obama...the man who lost to Barack Obama...

I can't really decide if I believe in the power of manifestation or not. I was raised in a positive American bubble of a town and therefore grew up believing that if I wanted something enough...well, you know the rest. And clearly there are some things in my life that would seem to be powerful manifestations of some of my aspirations at least or is my life purely a result of choices I've made to ensure I would feel this way now? I like to stay open to the idea that it is a little of both.

So, I see it before me - a headline - and there's a big picture of John McCain taken while he is thanking his supporters for their hard work, all smiles and handshakes with the obligatory pat on the back reserved for those needing a bit extra. Despite the pleasant photo, text looms large across the top of the paper - "Obama Wins!" - and beneath John's photo it says, with a telling error - for the sake of detail, the turbo spice of visualizations - "John McCane thanks supporters."

And as the spin cycle progresses post-election, I see news programs where this very vision is discussed: The Anchor states, "John McCain has conceded the election to Barack Obama and is planning to spend some time with his family..."

I really like my world of Future History, brought about by a mysterious power, secondary to the one called "voting."

I want this version of reality because we are currently being asked to consider a ruse once again - they are doing this and spouting the most despicable fodder, revealing their shortcomings in a way that would leave David Niven speechless while presenting an Oscar. Despite the McCain campaign's best efforts, we know there is not much difference between McCain and Bush, no matter how much they squawk about their "Maveric," a term eerily similar to the "Cowboy" moniker of W.

Perhaps the "real" American voters only like "real" American heroes who do not lose. Heroes in the classic style - Cowboys, Soldiers - Gippers - the toy surprise in every all-American Happy Meal.

But I have a different fantasy. Or is it a manifestation? Or is it a choice? Whatever it is, in my future world, McCain is the man who lost to Barack Obama...the man who lost to Barack Obama...the man who lost to Barack Obama...

Hard, Dark Things

2008-10-17T10:37:00.000-07:00

The hard, dark things always seemed to make us feel better. Take, for example, when Bob ate Dotty’s nose. There we were in their kitchen, watching from our dream state, taking it all in, sipping our Cocktails-in-a-Can. I was enjoying a way-too-strong Tom Collins and you were slurping down a margarita. I think you always drank margaritas because they made you feel like you were on vacation in Mexico or something.

Warm golden light coming through yellow and baby-caca ocre vinyl spring loaded pull shades with a cartoon flower pattern fills the kitchen with light while we’re watching as Bob takes the plate and places it neatly in the center of the table. He tucks a napkin into the collar of his pink Izod LaCoste polo shirt that makes him feel athletic every time he wears it, even though it’s pink and he’s no athlete. Bob looks down at the nose on the plate in front of him. There is a carrot coming out of each nostril. It seems to Bob that toaster ovens have one major flaw: they can’t toast for shit. The edges of Dotty’s nose where it was excised are crusty and a bit burned. Edges become more defined as they harden. Hard dark nose hair – poor ugly fucking woman.

Bob lived with one simple rule: Never fuck until you’re fucked with. Someone had left the box open in the cupboard and the crackers were stale. Probably Dotty. Inconsiderate bitch.

Bob and Dotty Chrisman owned the Chef’s Inn, a smelly diner near the exit of a strip mall. Your stupid, junky boyfriend worked there as the Chef, although I’m not sure whether or not what he did could be called cooking. Still, we ate there often, you and I, feeling somehow more important than the rest because you were fucking the cook and all of our meals were free. Plus, there was the cabin in the hills that for some reason Bob and Dotty believed you deserved to live in without having to pay rent. I thought about this often as I watched you and the junky snort cocaine in your cabin’s gratis bathroom.

I will not forget the Chrisman’s narrow shouldered, flat, melba-toast daughter, Patty, who was continually hoisted into my face in the hopes that I would want to mate with her. Humorless, vague and with an aura of disaster, she could not have been more unattractive to me. No, I didn’t want to dance with her nor did I want her putting suntan oil on my back at the beach. I could feel it in my loins that I never wanted to sow my seeds in her field. On some deep, genetic level, my being could sense the darkness surrounding Patty and I recoiled from her on every approach, visibly, my autonomic nervous system taking over when my mind lost control.

We mulled them over, the Chrismans, your erstwhile benefactors. Little did they know the contempt with which you referred to them, not only biting the hands that fed you, but filleting and serving those hands with a sauce of venomous sarcasm. There, on the floor, flat on your back, slipping your fingers into the crevasses of the brown high-low carpet and sipping your canned Mexican vacation, you’d play your game, the junky slumped against the cabin’s wood paneling across from you, dirty dishes around him while he snored and drooled. I’d crawl onto the mattress folded in two under the big mirror, curled up with a pillow between my legs and listen while you’d define the game of the moment.

It was often time to think of the worst possible, hard, dark things that we could. It was the only way to feel power in a world that had no place for us. The Chrisman’s were an easy target – they seemed to have the security we lacked: nice home, nice business, enough money to help you. Perhaps it was your shame that made you play the game. Who knows? So we’d picture Bob eating Dotty’s nose so that the horror in their lives would somehow match our own.

Of course no one could have foreseen what would transpire. As usual, the dry-bread daughter had been thrown in my face for a dance at the Chrisman’s holiday party. I only agreed to go get ice with her so I wouldn’t have to dance. And yes, she seemed small behind the wheel of her brother’s Corvette. You’re right – I felt scared as we rocketed down the twisty, mountain road, her inability to control the giant, rumbling beast apparent as we neared the intersection at high speed. And finally, I admit to my disbelief as the car fishtailed and I saw Patty's hands lift from the wheel as the tops of the pine trees were flooded by the headlights. Sure, there was a moment of exhilarating horripilation as the Corvette lifted-off, sailing for three seconds through the air, until it came crashing to the ground with a horrible, metallic shatter. I’m so sorry she died.

We don’t play the game anymore. No more noses, no more kitchens. The hard, dark things have stopped making us laugh.

McTurity Level

2008-10-16T09:31:00.000-07:00

Is it me or is John McCain creepy? Watching last night's final presidential debate, I wanted to focus on what the candidates put forth as their policies. Instead, I became distracted by the body language and mannerisms of the Republican on stage.

Not only was he strangely emotional during the debate, he seemed to be ready to explode at any moment, nervously glancing around the room often as if he were desperately looking for support in the crowd. Occasionally while Senator Obama spoke, McCain would interrupt with laughter, snorts or heavy sighs. I watched the debate on CNN, one of the networks employing a split-screen format. This is where it really became interesting - McCain, twice by my account, actually slid back into second grade behavior and rolled his eyes. Was he unaware that we were watching his reactions to Obama's answers?

Lets be fair - Obama is a politician. He didn't sell me on many of his answers. No politician seems to answer questions directly - maybe here and there - but in general, the Illinois Senator is hard pressed when asked to be specific about his policies. In reality, no politician can be specific because they all know, as do we, that there is no way to tell if their policies or plans will work until they are tested in real time.

The system and its problems have become so complex, anyone who tells you they know anything for sure is lying - and this is what John McCain does. He constantly says that he can fix it - he can win the war - he can find Osama Bin Laden - he can do it all - but never tells us how. His twitchy aggression and rhetoric, with a dash of the occasional reptilian-like darting of his pointy tongue - illustrate a larger problem that is rarely addressed in the press - is John McCain mentally stable? Or is his lack of maturity a separate red flag that the American people should heed?

My message to John McCain is this - I agree with some of your plans and I would say I even prefer some to Senator Obama's. However, Sir, your failing is not so much in your record (although Obama does have an excellent point about your decidedly un-maveric voting in line with President Bush over the last eight years), but more in the very un-presidential way in which your present yourself. You seemed irritated and emotional last night, you were rude and immature and made untrue accusations (a nice way of saying, "You lied"). Given the frightening state of the union, I am afraid we need a steadier hand.

Is Dumb the New Sexy (Again)?

2008-10-15T09:32:00.000-07:00

I am sure the topic has been blogged-to-death but I can't help pondering the appeal of Sarah Palin. It is undeniable to me that she is what she promotes herself to be - Hockey Mom, Jane Sixpack, a woman who would blow a moose away given the right set of circumstances. Sarah's bloodthirsty in the most adorable way.

Watching Tina Fey on Saturday Night Live command attention with her spot-on impersonation is, without a doubt, the humor highlight of the campaign season. While I appreciate Tina Fey's talent, the truth is, it is the same old "dumb blond" routine we've all seen year after year. It's a schtick we all know and love; Frank Zappa's Valley Girl, Marilyn Monroe's undying persona, the Chrissy Snow character on the '70's sitcom Three's Company...the list goes on an on. But why is dumb so sexy to so many? Is this quality, sans the blond, whether real or cunning and strategic, a liability or the true appeal of Sarah Palin?

Check this out - SNL writers don't need to struggle too hard for a script - Sarah writes it for them:

The question I keep asking myself is how can anyone - Republican, Conservative, Evangelical, Independent or Undecided - seriously contemplate electing Governor Palin into the office of Vice President of the United States? This is a woman who believes, and stated on national t.v., that geographical proximity to Canada (and don't forget those pesky Russians!) qualifies her as a foreign policy advisor to the President. I am truly frightened that this Inflatable Sex Doll Vice President would be so close to the Presidency. Judging by the way John McCain acted during the last Presidential debate, he's liable to just wander off one day, leaving us with the new President Palin. Will she be winking and saying (over her backyard fence, one would presume) "You betcha!" to Vladimir Putin one day?

Perhaps subconsciously we all want her in the spotlight to guarantee our ringside seat for the next silly thing she says - it's truly entertaining - and we might call this quality the "Dan Quayle Effect." We're all so busy rubbernecking at every brain-dead comment and its ensuing hilarity, we may fail to recognize that the sinister truth is these simpleminded politicians have, or will have, incredible power and influence. Former President George H. W. Bush eventually admitted that he "blew it" by choosing Dan Quayle. Here's the proof:

http://query.nytimes.com/gst/fullpage.html?res=9C06E7DC133DF936A35753C1A961958260&fta=y

And some evidence to support his belief:

Will we have to wait until after the election for John McCain to admit he "blew it," too?

And I have a question for Senator Joe Biden - why were you so congenial with Governor Palin during the Vice Presidential debate? You're known for your loose lips - why so controlled? Fools need to be called out - it's the only way to possibly awaken the voters. Instead, we risk the chance that she may actually be elected. Although ultimately not effective, something along these lines would have been, at the very least, a moment of relief for those of us who see the danger of a dolt in office:

Governor Palin, whether acting stupid or actually dim (I think a combination of both) is attempting to appeal to, as she sees us, the salt-of-the-earth folks out there, saying she is one of us and an "outsider." Personally, I am insulted - why do these slippery politicians equate low to middle income, simple living and anonymity - the trappings of the commoners - to a lack of intelligence? Is Sarah Palin really 'speakin' our language' when she drops the "g" off of every verb in the present continuous tense? Why does Sarah Palin and the GOP believe that by presenting her this way, she will appeal to the majority of Americans?

And if we are truly as stupid as they want us to believe we are, then my question to the common electorate is this - given the current crisis situations here at home and abroad - do you really want someone just like you in the White House - or do you want someone smarter?

Gina M.

2008-10-04T10:31:00.000-07:00

The last time things seemed as horrible as they do now to me was 1991, when Bush Sr. started the Gulf War. I'd just finished a year of working at America's Funniest Home Videos but was not returning to production after the hiatus. I believe my final AFHV responsibility was to call one of the producers a "big, fat pig." In retrospect, it was probably not the most eloquent departure but fully deserved, and if this entry was about that, you'd understand why.

But it's not.

Back to 1991 - what a challenging year. I couldn't find work anywhere. Amazing how stressed out I became about it when I think how now, comparatively speaking, much more is at stake for me personally and fiscally. I was living in Los Feliz and having to accept temp jobs all over the city of Los Angeles. That's a huge area to cover, and after twenty-two temp jobs in 1991, I was very ready to accept any permanent position offered to me.

One day while working in downtown L.A. at yet another menial and boring temp job (I was part of a team relabeling an entire law firm's files and implementing a new filing system), I bumped into an old friend who directed me to another firm. Apparently there was an open, "permanent" position available. I rushed over.

I somehow rose to the surface from the multitude of applicants and landed the spectacular job of message desk receptionist. In one year, I had gone from having my name broadcast in the credits for AFHV and earning a healthy salary to taking messages for close to minimum wage on a dark, subfloor of a law firm. I was happy to have a new job but fairly down in the dumps.

Sharing the responsibilities at the desk was a young African-American woman named Gina. Gina was full figured and full of life, usually dressed in a blouse tucked into a short skirt, with strapped sandals with stiletto heels . A wide, radiant smile and a healthy sense of humor. Her streetwise commentary on the firm and its lawyers was endlessly entertaining and she quickly became a pleasure to spend time with. I really enjoyed working with her. We sat next to each other, answering phones and taking messages, responding to simple requests and gossiping about firm politics. Gina had been on the message desk for too long. She had aspirations of becoming a legal secretary or perhaps even a paralegal. She was very savvy and quick, and I had no doubt that soon she would move up the ranks and I would be training the next new message clerk.

We fell into the rhythm of our work world and I enjoyed the stability of my new job. I had a steady stream of income again (though not really enough) and managed to stay positive although inside I was in turmoil about whether or not my life really had any clear direction. I felt adrift amid the soaring downtown skyscrapers, a ghost of a young man who seemed to have missed the point. I took full responsibility for my condition and spent my lunchtimes relaxing in the sun, reading books and enjoying the relief in knowing that I was not necessarily someone on his way to the top. I decided to make the best of it and do whatever I was handed as well as I could. Taking messages was by no account my dream job but with a healthy shrug, I dove into learning about the legal world.

After four months, I began to be approached by management. Would I mind filling in for a secretary on vacation? Would I be interested in finishing up a special project for an attorney? Could I be borrowed from the message desk to help out in word processing? I said yes to it all. I was hungry for knowledge and focused on availing myself to the free learning being offered to me.

The problem was, Gina was being continually overlooked for these other projects. In addition to that, something was horribly strange at the message desk. After the first few months, I had begun to detect a mysterious and foul odor.

Gina began to aggressively express dismay over my receiving these special assignments. She felt it was unfair as she had served the firm longer than I and was therefore logically in line next to graduate from the message dungeon. I totally agreed with her and let her know it. Gina had become very difficult and vocal in the fourth month, lashing out verbally at attorneys and blaming me for her problems. She made it clear that our situation was yet another example of racism - I was a young, white male and it was clear to her to whom the firm's loyalty fell. As her resentment grew, she became louder and more vulgar. For example, Gina would often recount her time in the military at full volume in our reception area, telling me about her ability to get in full make-up and uniform in two minutes. The key, she stated, was to learn how to shower and only address the "hot spots" on her body. Anyone passing by or sitting in the lobby became uncomfortable and she made no effort to change.

Soon, management began to pull her aside and recount the complaints they had received. They also began to pull me aside and ask me questions, too. I always defended Gina and began refusing special assignments insisting they ask her, first. The firm's human resources supervisor informed me that they had been having trouble with Gina before my employment. It was clear that they would continue to utilize me for other work, and not Gina. I became trapped in the middle between this young woman who believed she was the victim of racism and my need to take care of myself as my refusal to accept new assignments began to place my job in jeopardy. And of course, Gina came to believe that I was the root of all of her problems. In her own words, she had confided and trusted a white devil and I had used it to my advantage, which in her mind was what white people were about. Nothing I could say could convince her otherwise and her hatred of me grew exponentially everyday we spent together at the desk. The days of laughing and talking together were over - we sat in silence, two feet from one another, 40 hours per week for at least two weeks, enveloped in an unidentifiable stench. I was beginning to long for unemployment.

Then finally, one day, the most awkward question of all: management wanted to know if I knew the origin of the odor emanating from the message desk. I was taken aback that it had been noticed but I should have realized it had become extremely noticeable. I explained that for the last month, I had been cleaning out cupboards, wiping the countertops and searching for the source. I told them I didn't know.

The next week, on Monday, Gina called in sick. I was finally alone at the message desk. There were two chairs at the desk, the chair I always sat upon, and Gina's. This day, I idly sat down in her chair to grab the phone. That's when I noticed it. The smell was coming from her seat. I couldn't figure out what it was, but I felt sorry for her. Had she been too upset to ask for a new chair? Had she been suffering and not knowing what to say? I wasn't sure, so I shoved the chair into a closet and shut the door. It was wonderful to work a day at the desk free from the smell. If she wouldn't ask for a new seat for herself, I would ask for her - but I would tell her first when she returned.

On Tuesday, Gina stomped into the lobby. When she entered, she immediately shot a dagger-like look at me and asked what in the hell had I done with her chair. I explained that I had discovered the source of the odor everyone had been commenting upon and that I would assist her in requesting a new seat. Gina belly-laughed and pulled the chair out of the closet. She sat down in full view of the lobby and explained that sometimes, if she forgot her feminine supplies, she would simply just pull up her skirt and use the chair. She then demonstrated her technique. Gina showed me this as if it were the most natural thing in the world. I could not disguise the appalled look on my face. What neither of us knew was that the message desk had been under surveillance for months. There was a small, closed-circuit camera hidden in the ceiling of the lobby. The chair, and Gina, were quickly replaced.

Gina never spoke to me again. I was given a position on another floor and began my steady climb up, ultimately becoming a corporate paralegal some years later. I only saw Gina one last time - walking on one of the raised foot bridges of downtown Los Angeles. I meekly smiled at her and she looked right through me. It was obvious that I would always be the white devil who cost the African-American the job and her losing the job would never, in her mind, have anything to do her habits or attitude. It was painful to be cast in this role and this experience has remained an awkward and delicate memory for me.

Band of Disaster

2008-02-27T08:09:00.000-08:00

I don't like knowing anymore. To hell with the internet, to hell with access, to hell with always being informed.

They fire at my happiness, every morning - global warming, recession and Britney Spears. I can't do it.

I think denial is highly underrated. I miss the quiet, innocent days of summer; my favorite rock outcropping at the beach and knowing the best place to catch waves for bodysurfing.

Instead, I now have the war on terror, the war on reason and the war on me. The world is ending, true, but hasn't it always been ending, the same way that I have always been dying?

Time marches on and my innocence lies trampled by time's big marching boots but no one stops the parade. What if I changed direction, swimming up the stream of time? Could I put to shore in the past before I knew so much?

Some would say that now I know the truth but frankly, I doubt I can trust the news. The infamous "they" could be telling us anything. Besides, good news isn't interesting, so here we are with all of this bad news. Congratulations.

I've been feeling ill lately so my doctor suggests a comprehensive blood panel to determine what the cause may be. While we were both happy to see my amazingly perfect blood work, we were both baffled by the results - so why do I feel like crap half of the time? My doctor smiled at me and recommended I stop reading the news every morning and take a vacation. She also, off the record, thought maybe I should smoke pot again, within reason, to help with my anxiety.

But I don't want to spend my time in a marijuana fog anymore than it's possible for me to return in time to the beach of denial. I must find a way to be with all of this troubling information without being suffocated by it.

Had I been on the Titanic, I think I would have liked to be with the band. They stayed on deck, playing music, as the ship sank. Perhaps the listing of the ship as it plunged into the icy water was irrelevant when compared to the beauty of music. Were they in denial? Not a chance. Did they realize the inevitability of their own demise? Absolutely.

I believe the band chose to play on because, when faced with calamity, there was no other choice but to be who they were - that was their lifeboat because that was their life.

Prefab Identity

2008-02-13T08:27:00.000-08:00

"Welcome to the Castro - here's your Prefab Identity," is what the signs should read as you cross Market Street and head into the rainbow-flag-adorned but otherwise dreary urban neighborhood.

I noticed that I could guess how isolated a childhood any man I'd meet may have had based on his flamboyance. That is to say that the smaller the birth town, the larger the flames. I couldn't figure out why we all acted this way, at times, and then it struck me: when one has no mirrors, no heros, no mentors to help define who he is or wants to be, and he also lacks the self-awareness while being wrapped in self-loathing and insecurity, well, he may just grab the first tangible and accessible personality traits that are presented en masse. I wondered, "where does the 'gayness' all come from anyway?" It was asking this question that caused me to lose the ability to carry on so.

I have never, at least to my knowledge, been defined as "flaming," but this thinking did make me look closely at my own behavior and speech patterns. This Castro-speak was so infectious and that, combined with the lack of bullying, the removal of the fear of getting the crap kicked out of me, and the freedom of just being, did make the opportunity to nancy around a bit more alluring. There was literally a local dialect around me and I worried about how much of it I might be inadvertently absorbing. Or was it simply a natural phenomenon? Did gay men speak and act this way by nature or nurture? I at least wanted to ask the question, even though asking it infuriated my peers. I was clear that the sexuality is real, natural and something with which we're born - but the affectation, if it is that, is it real, invented or adopted?

I then set out on my quest to find my own voice. What did I sound like? Did I really lisp? Did I enjoy jokes and speech with itchy rashes of sexual innuendo? The answer was, Not Really.

I also understood the important role that all this plays in the development of a man in a society that really does not want him by and large. Let's face it - there's rarely a celebration when we 'come out.' Nobody took me to Chuck E. Cheese, that's for sure. These habitual wispy pretenses were like life preservers for those adrift in the sea of isolation - they were necessary tools for connection, engagement and acceptance, three things society robs from anyone who is different. I also began to understand why this so called "faggot" comportment had always made me uncomfortable - even when I exhibited it myself; it seemed so inauthentic once self-acceptance had been achieved. I could almost see the men inside my friends and me screaming for new mannerisms or at least asking for them in a calm, masculine voice.

Still, I knew plenty of heterosexual men who were effeminate but curiously many of them also had close gay friends. Perhaps it was a one-size-fits-all modular personality, an equal opportunity eccentricity, ready for anyone who hadn't a clue yet who they were.

I became incapable of communicating with my fellow queer. Everyone became lab rats to me, subjected to my unfair secret mannerism surveys. The pendulum had swung too far in the other direction, and now I judged my comrade's authenticity on how much they accentuated their "S's." I became worried that I might spend the rest of my life alone for this reason. I didn't want a "straight acting" partner; instead, I wanted a "no acting" partner - not apparently straight nor gay but real. I realized then that I would have to examine my own characteristics to determine which were mine and which were adopted. I knew that I must become whoever it was that I wanted to attract.

I moved from the Castro neighborhood four years later having met someone seemingly free of foibles. We live in the country now and I love it here among the earthy folk. When we visit my old 'hood now, it's always an odd safari into the depths of the gay ghetto life. I see many young men with the prefab identity firmly in place and I fight the need to tell them what my experience taught me. Perhaps it was a journey only for me and they're just fine and comfortable with the way they are. I will always question it though and wonder what the community would be like if after coming out and being ourselves, we all just really began being ourselves without taking our stylistic cues from the others. Maybe the closet has many sets of doors.

Whiners

2007-11-28T09:56:00.000-08:00

I know, I know
It happened to you
Do you know? Do you know
You happened to it?
All you needed to know
Was revealed to you
In the first five minutes
Too bad that infatuation
Dims perceptions
Especially in the early moments
Of meeting with the one
Who is going to do
The things to you
That you whine about now.

He said, she said
None of it matters
Only your present feelings of
Entitlement provide
The luxury of your spoiled
Retrospective introspection
Droning on when no one is listening
If you were running for your life
As it once was
From a Sabertooth tiger
Or a grizzly bear
You'd only be contemplating
The next boulder to jump over
Or the next stream to forge.

You could easily be wronged
In those days by a
Branch too low or betrayed
By loose gravel
Much worse than any
Emotional transgressions
You hold close in your
Tragic Heroism
Problem with you is
You're nobody's lunch anymore
And if you were
You'd stop whining
And get moving.

Strange Day

2007-09-19T21:57:00.001-07:00

I stopped to visit a friend who was brutally assaulted and raped at Burning Man a few years ago. He's recovering still - the latest, a botched surgery to repair torn intestines led to leaks inside. He rests, listening to loud sixties progressive rock while he trims the leaves from the buds. Cannabis is his business, and it's bustling. Giant green monsters grow in his garden, the whole house smells of earth and dirty gym socks. When I see it all in this form, I find it surprising that anyone smokes it at all. Others have noticed the leviathons in his yard - he's been robbed, twice, to the tune of $20k. Completely licensed to grow, he reported the crime to the local authorities. I take pleasure in knowing that there is at least one Sheriff working to recover stolen weed.

I'm then off to complete a stupid car repair and receive a call from Mother that our missing claim file has been located by what must be the one cool cat at the Veterans Administration. This is good news. We're that much closer to settlement, and after four years, we're very ready.

While at the mechanic, I learn that a dear friend had died. I'm invited to come sit with her body. I leave the mechanic and an hour later I am kissing the cold forehead of a dead poet in her living room.

I'm next at Whole Foods buying dinner and I notice a pretty girl panhandling. She's walking with her baby on her chest in a strapped-on front pack, which always get me excitedly anticipating a circus act that never happens. This young mother is nicely dressed in gear from REI, including an expensive sun hat. I watch her walk towards an older man exiting the market and she says, "I need a few dollars for a way to get home." The man gives her a dollar. She walks, bouncing on her Teva sport sandals to the free organic pinneapple samples and quickly shoves several into her pockets, one slice in her mouth, and one for her baby. A woman approaches and the young mother receives a scournful denial when she asks for money. No problem. A few more samples of pinneaple and she heds off, hopefully in the direction of home.

Remembering this afternoon got me to thinking, which is always a danger for everyone involved.

2007-09-19T21:20:00.000-07:00

I realized what I was saying and what it meant. I struggled for days deciding whether or not to say it.

To speak the things I see in you and to know that I have the power is crushing and terrifying. It is odd, this feeling, at once submissive and then at the helm. I can mold and shape this life as if it were a pile of brush, breaking and bending the twigs until they take the form I wish. I've been shaping your life, too - not maliciously but somehow selfishly. Ignorance of our own heavy handedness does not preclude the crime to be committed. And I have wronged you, my friend.

Our trajectories in tandem, we seemed to be reaching for the same carrot, dangling in our faces. All of this time I assumed that an unseen force, an intelligence beyond measure, held the rod that dangled the root, teasing us forward toward our mutual goal. It appeared right, just and perfect that we ran in stride, sharing our visions for our lives.

Now I see, it was me. I held the rod, I tantalized with the bait and I've wasted your time. Precious time, draining from our bodies as each second we come closer to the ultimate decay. Stand up, my dearest one - we'll sleep deeply when the final night arrives. Until then, I want to see you in your glory, unfettered by your love for me.

This is not martyrdom. I seek no praise nor gratitude. I want you to have what you want. I want to free you if freedom is what you seek.

And what of me? Partly, I fear I might disappear without my experiment in control. I have no idea what I'll do next once you've left to grab what you desire with lightning hot fists. There is no need to say that I will love you, completely, passionately, devotedly even after you're gone; you already know this. I am sure I will find some way to love the void, too.

Dance, my heart's occupant - sing and live fully. I will not forget you.

2006-12-29T16:40:00.001-08:00

Revise
By J. Camp

I want the power
Of revision.
I want to take
A phrase, a line,
A word from my life,
And line it out,
Reorder, shake it
Together and
See if it works
Better a new way,
The order, the
Formula having
Gone wrong.
For we are not
Great men,
You and I, we
Yell in the roadways,
Vulgar and unkempt,
Drunk and stumbling
We steal the
Silk purse and
Empty it,
Vomiting our alleged
Truth of who
We are
Into any ear
Willing or unwilling
To receive.
I want to reset,
Return the figures
To their shelves, the
Racers to the
Starting line, though
Crass and uncaring,
We lie to
Each other, creating
Our largess out of
Unfulfilled dreams,
Whine and cajole
And medicate
Our sorrow
In a variety show
For the doomed.
We are not
The cupola or
The arches or
Even the
Columns in the
Temple of humanity,
We are merely
Stairs, necessary
But unremarkable,
Trod upon by
Others, greater
Than ourselves.
More disciplined
They step on our
Inconsequential
Existences as
We feed on
The beauty that
Falls from their pockets.
We are here,
But already forgotten,
Without purpose
Or destiny,
The story of
Our sordid lives
Written by
A pencil with
A raw eraser.
I am a useless
Bag of flesh,
No sonata, nor
A great symphony
Have I penned,
Nor a work of
Art by my
Hands hangs in
The place where
Inspiration is
Born.
My song does not
Fill the airwaves,
Capturing the
Moments of
Life in tones,
Recording our
Histories nor
Telling our stories
Of men of toil,
Men of dirt,
Waiting sadly
In the lines
Of bureaucracy,
Waiting for
My free ride,
Waiting to screw
The system,
Falsify records,
Defraud and
Steal so I
Can stuff
My weasel face
With the feast
Of ill-gotten gains.
No poem of
Mine is clutched
By the young
Student, dog-eared
And folded
To be saved and cherished,
Nor am I quoted
By the knowing,
Or celebrated,
Or honored since
I do nothing
But consume
What I have learned.
Nothing done but
Sorrow brought
And the worst
Kind disguised
In the threads
Of my meager wardrobe,
A testament to
The futility of birth,
I win no contest,
I grace no cover,
My eyes do
Not pierce through
The micro-cosmos,
With the great
Lenses, uncovering
The cures
For the diseases
I myself foster
Through my impudence
And disregard
For others.
I am the darkest
Mix of nothingness,
The irrelevant
Ennui that
Consumes the
Days leaving no time
To make a mark,
Effect a change,
Groveling and superficial,
I dance through
Murky paths,
Speaking without authority
On many subjects,
Ignoring the
Understanding of
The fact that
I continue to live
Through the grace
Of the proof of
My inalterable story.

2006-12-13T20:59:00.000-08:00

Enemy
By J.Camp

The brother is crazy
His wife, chased by gangs
Who viciously adjust
The rabbit ears on the T.V.
Rat poop fallen from attic door
Proof a break-in has occurred
The brother and wife
Are fabricating truths
Crazy brother's brother
Is the one I am with
He trembles at his keyboard
What to say, he is lost
Falsely accused of a crime
By this delusional duo
Private investigator is calling
Harassing with threats
The L.A.P.D. is going to call
Idle threats of a drunk in
An Atascadero motel
It's all too much
I see his hand quiver
Over the mouse
What do you think
This means? He asks so
I tell him that I
Dreamed last night
I'm in the yard but
I know I am asleep
I can feel the rain
Fluid air passing through
Me, it's atoms, my atoms
We're all the same and
I check on the elder
I peak through her windows
I see her sleeping
In her ancient bed, is
It a surprise upon
Waking that she saw me
At her door, in my hat
Without a body and
Remembering this I grab
His shoulder and at once
I am crying, I feel
All of the abuse, the pain
That ripples up, it engulfs
Me, I swallow, I choke and
I sob for him because
His being cannot, still
I go deeper, I slide
Down his essence, falling while
Twisting on the lighted
Pole into his guts and
I see the rage, coiled
Caged viper, flying and
Roaring at me but
I'm not crazy brother yet
In the rush of anger,
He believes that I am, here's
All the hate, betrayal,
I am clothed in his pain
Dressed now, as such
I am the enemy.

2006-08-08T21:23:00.000-07:00

STUPID THINGS

Young woman,
Gesticulate wildly,
Making shapes
With both hands

Speak loudly
To yourself,
Turn your sounds
Into sight

Young woman
It's important,
Say proudly
It's a fright

Both Arms lifted,
In the air,
Ear cradles phone
While you drive

Young woman,
Foot of lead,
Through the lot
Deaf to screams

Eyes and mirror
Locked in place,
Download a ring tone
For your cell

2006-08-04T19:34:00.000-07:00

A.D.H.

She stands on the end of
The high dive
Pompadour ratted-up tight
Suit sewn on
Clinging to her ample figure
Friend to Esther Williams
Daughter of the sea and
Offspring of a World Champion Lady Angler

She smiles standing there
At the end of the board
Gleaming white teeth
Fire red lips, arched brows
Gingham stretched tight
No longer the tomboy
But a glamour girl, athlete
Diver, Southern California Tuna Club

The photographer leers
Through his lens
“Where’s the fire, Red?”
He says to bring life
To the auburn-haired Venus
He guesses it's nervousness but
She’s heard it before from
Those who mistake beauty for stupidity

Her mind flashes on chewing tar
Lobster caught through the cabin floor
Life on her father’s yacht landing
While the house was built
She remembers the freckles
The ugly, pouting child
The one dressed as a boy
Because that’s what father
Really wanted

The flash bulb ignites and she’s captured
Forever entombed in a bathing suit on the edge
Hands on hips she comforts her smooth one-piece
And she says, “Thank you”
“Sure, A.D.H.”
“Who?” she replies
“A.D.H. - Adorable Dot Hopton,
My Favorite redhead, of course.”

2006-08-04T19:26:00.000-07:00

COUNTING SHEETS

The toilet paper feels so good against my cheek. I am the perfect height to sit on the toilet and rest my head on the roll, as long as it is in the traditional and standard wall mounted holder. I am not exactly short but rather, a man expressed in the form of a haiku. Some of the most profound REM sleep I have experienced and many of my best ideas have come to me during these Scat Naps.

I take these siestas often, whenever I have the chance and only if the toilet-to-paper height ratio is correct. For this to work, the roll must be shoulder level when I am seated. I used to worry if using a waxy paper seat condom would disturb the fine harmony of the ratio but now I have learned through many hours of meticulous experimentation that the relative thinness of these covers is such that it does not effect my position and/or overall height as I snooze.

Another requirement is that the toilet paper must be two-ply and made to be fairly absorbent to provide the correct balance of cushion and firmness. The better homes, restaurants and corporate business centers use the finer grades of paper but frustratingly enough, design every possibility of clever, hip and unique ways to dispense the paper foregoing the wall mount, thereby obliterating the chance of a good, five minute drowse.

In fact, as the years go by, I am beginning to realize that the perfectly utilitarian configuration and design I have previously described is beginning to altogether disappear. This alone is discouraging to me and is just another good reason to stay home.

Copyright 2006 J.Camp