Ma’s Eulogy

{Ed's note: I had one day's notice during which to come up with this, or anything like it... Neither my father, nor any cousin; not even the funeral director himself called me to tell me I was responsible for this element of the funeral Mass... The only crack within the sequence of events -- wake, wake, ceremony, procession, Mass, further procession, and finally burial -- during which to write it came at midnight, after the wake, and after having had held myself up over pizza and Martinis with certain loving friends and family.}

Good morning, everyone. I stand here before you having to undertake one of the most difficult writing assignments I’ve ever had to complete. I must deliver to you a eulogy. A eulogy not for a business associate, nor a dear friend, nor a cousin, nor or sibling, nor even a spouse – but for a mother. My mother. I stand here before you, this morning, having undertaken this, the most difficult writing assignment I have ever had to complete: writing a eulogy for my very own mother.

I won’t make it long. I won’t provide you with chronology. I believe the obituary did an excellent job at that. If you’re interested in learning more about the course of events that comprised my mother’s life, then I refer you to that. The obituary. This is not an obituary.

This, as a eulogy, must not summarize the course of events that comprised my mother’s life. Rather, it must capture the essence of that life. As soon as I recognized this differentiation – this difference between an obituary and a eulogy – I felt as sense of liberation. For upon first hearing the news of my mother’s wish that I write her eulogy, like most people, I panicked. Truth be known, I didn’t stop panicking until I looked up the definition of eulogy, and then compared it to the definition of obituary. Once I’d learned what distinguished the former from the latter, I overcame my panic, and I was ready to proceed.

So if the purpose of a eulogy is to capture essence, I asked myself, then what is essence? That answer came to me without the help of any dictionary. For essence is word that, as precise as any definition might attempt to make it, relies upon intuition in order to completely understand. Essence is less than logical. Essence comes not from the mind, but from the earth itself, and before that – from the spirit.

In having known and interacted with many of you here today, and indeed with many who might not be able to be here today, I have listened to and observed many words, thoughts, notions and feelings that would compete to encapsulate my mother’s essence. She was intelligent, beautiful, kind and generous to others, a spitfire, a gadfly, and the life of the party. She had wit, she had charm, but she was nobody’s fool. She could whip up the best Irish stew you’d ever tasted. She could organize a fantastic event, and dance with you until dawn, but still be there to hold your hand if you were having a bad day.

What, I’ve asked myself, encapsulates all theses terms? These thoughts? These notions? These notions that so many of you have had and expressed about my mother. Well, I’ll tell you what encapsulated my mother’s spirit. I’ll tell you what summarizes her essence: will. If there is one word, one notion, one concept that I had to use in order to summarize my mother’s essence – if I only had one word with which to do it – it would be that. Will.

My mother had a will of iron. A will of steel. A will of the strongest alloy that NASA has yet to develop. She had a will and determination that would have put the likes of such Hollywood divas as Bette Davis and Joan Crawford, or even today’s diva, Madonna, to shame. Indeed, she could have held her own at a tea party consisting of only those women. Maggy Thatcher and Hilary Clinton wouldn’t even have been invited.

So if you’re ever in a situation, be it social or merely within your own thoughts… When you have to find one word to encapsulate the sprit that was Patricia Ann Theresa Hurley O’Neill, let me suggest that word: will. It was her will that helped her become a Supervising RN. It was her will that aided her, alongside her loving husband of 50 years, Martin, in transforming the house at 124 Riverview Ave from a quaint structure with “good bones” into a home that was consistently referred to as “lovely” by all of its visitors. And, in more recent years, it was her sheer will that enabled her to not only endure, but temporarily remit, the cancer that would eventually claim her body.

I guess the Lord and the spirits in the great beyond now need that will more than we do. I suppose it’s now our time to let go of the great spirit that was Pat O’Neill. But rest assured, her will lives on. Not only in me, her only child, her only son – but by its very own volition. A force like that never dies. As the physicists tell us, energy can neither be created nor destroyed – it simply changes form.

If you loved her, then I love you. Thank you.

10.05.07

12:12am

G. ONeill

Fade to Black

So now it's happened. And this time around, I can't promise poetry.
I can't promise poetry because now, we have a few facts to establish.

Let me start by saying, I love and appreciate each and every one of you.
Each and every one of you who is either on my email list or not;
Who has received my emails or not;
And who has expressed any sort of response to said emails -- or not.

I am a very, very lucky human being.
Because I have many, many human beings who care enough about me to either
Reply to my emails or call whenever I make an announcement
The likes of which I have just announced.

This isn't cliche.
This isn't trivial.
This is how I acknowledge my status in life
And how I feel about (all of) you.

It is a lucky man indeed,
In this day and age,
Who can elicit any response
From his fellow human beings.

Being that response
Via email, via postal,
Phone call,
Or physical presence.

You have all provided me
With all the aforementioned,
And for that, let me mention,
That I love you, and appreciate you.

So hear ye,
Hear ye,
Hear ye --
Because if you do, then you'll actually hear me.

All that having been said, let me now say this:

UNDERSTANDING is one thing. AGREEING is quite another.
Just because I understand, it doesn't mean I agree.

FORGIVENESS is one thing. FORGETTING is yet another.
I shall do my best to accomplish the former,
but I will not even embark upon attempting the latter.
(I have my Jewish friends to thank for this creed.)

RESPECT for what one has given is one thing.
I ACKNOWLEDGE said respect in this instance.
But RESPECT is a two-way street.
Eventually, if not reciprocated, it vanishes and dies.

That's it.
That's all I have to say.

In regards to my mother,
Whom we are finally laying to rest,

It's all I have to say.

Please don't ask me to understand her,
For I already have.

Please don't ask me to forgive her,
For I already have.

Please don't ask me to respect her,
for I always have.

Most of all, don't ask me to like her,
Because understanding, forgiveness, and respect have nothing to do with affinity.

There.
I've said it.

And I don't care if my metre's off.

It's the truth, plain and simple.
I loved her, understood her, forgave her and respected her.

But I never really much liked her.

Ma's Dyin'

Ma's Dyin'.

If words be believed,
Then the words say, "Ma's dyin'."
"Ma's Dyin'," th' words say,
An' I think this time -- words're true.

An' frankly, this time (if time be believed),
I believe my Ma's dyin'.
"Y'er Ma's dyin'," time tells me,
An' we all know time's true.

She's dyin', pure an' simple. She's been givin' way.
She's slippin', she's been slippin', an' she's been givin' way.
She's dyin', pure an' simple, an' she's been givin' way.
Givin' way, plain an' simple -- least as long's'fer't'day.

What more's meant'be said 'bout somethin' so blue?
So basic, so simple, an' yet -- in th' end -- so, so true?
What more's t'be said 'bout a woman done fightin'?
Fightin' forces -- 'tween herself -- 'tween m'self -- an' e'en you?

She's goin',
Crossin' over --
An' I hope t'Hell she makes it.
Dear Lord, I hope she makes it,

That she makes it back t'you.

So What Now?

What now? Whattya do next? Once the carrot's been got? Once the goal's been a'-goaled?

Well I'll tell ya one thing. You stop putting forth any and all affectations. You stop trying to be something you're probably not. Much as you'd like to see yourself as it, if you're to be truly honest with yourself, you have to admit -- it's not you. Oh, sure, it's cute and it's clever. Perhaps it's rhythmic and a little bit lyric. Maybe you thought it was something that was worth somebody's time -- indeed, at one time it was worth your time. But if you're to be truly honest with yourself... In the way you set forth to be when you set forth to pursue it... Then you have to admit, it's a sham. It's veneer. It's surface, through and through, and beneath it lies a more genuine you.

That wasn't supposed to sound clever. That wasn't meant to rhyme. But I had to do it. So there. I did it. I did it again. I did something trite, so we could get it out of the way. Masks take on so many layers. So many forms. I want to transcend triviality. I want to connect.

I don't want to hide behind format, behind tense, style, or meter, or anything that comes across as brogue. I just wanna tell you what I'm feeling. I just wanna show you I'm real. Really here, really feeling, really wanting to reach out -- really wondering if my language is capable of doing anything more than tying itself up in knots. Verbal knots. Linguistic knots. Worded, spoken, come-across-as-text-ed knots. Text so textual it's self conscious beyond belief. Self conscious like a college student's musings. Self-absorbed like the prosaic prose of a deadbeat.

It would be easy to be a deadbeat. I should know. I've been one before. In many ways, I still am one, and my sleeve still flutters from the tugs I still tug on it, begging for attention. The attention of a life with no intention, save recklessness. Save escape.

But I think I'm growing up.

There. I said it. I'm growing up. I'm growing up, and I'm growing out of the phase where I've stuck myself. I've stuck myself in one phase far too long. And I'm glad to have been there but I'm wondering what lies next and I'm still enjoying but I'm wishing it away. I'm wishing it away but I'm wishing it could stay. I'm wishing it could stay in the way that a kid wishes he doesn't have to start using deodorant. His mother is telling him he needs to start using deodorant and he screams, "Nooo!!!" It's a boyish response. It's perhaps one of the last boyish responses he'll be allowed to legitimately have. Sure, he can have more, more boyish responses, but from that point on -- from the point where his mom tells him he needs to start using deodorant -- whatever boyish responses he has will be perceived as boyish in the eyes of the world. In the eyes of the world, he'll be a man. A man having boyish responses.

That's how I feel. I feel like that boy. That boy who's been told by his mom that he stinks, and that he now needs deodorant. Like that stinky boy, I now need something. I need something that shows me and the world that I've moved onto the next step. I need the equivalent to starting to use deodorant when you're pubescent, and your mom tells you you have to.

I stink. I stink and my approach to life stinks and it needs deodorant. I need deodorant and nobody's had the nerve to tell me. Nobody's told me because it's probably nobody's job, except maybe my mother's, and she already did it. She did it when I was 12. She did it, and I fought it. I fought it, I fought her, and I made a stink. I made a stink that stank more than I did to start with. And eventually I realized it. Eventually I realized I stank. Eventually the stink overcame me, and then suddenly I didn't need mom to tell me I stank. I just stank. I needed deodorant. I needed deodorant because I stank. So I picked up some deodorant. I picked up some deodorant, and I put it on.

I'd love to tell you I stank no more, but that would be fallacy. Indeed, I still stank. I still stink to this day. That's what I've been trying to tell you. I stank then, and I stink now, as does my approach to life.

I worry there's something stinky about my style. I worry I'm trapping myself in the very trap I began telling you I wanted to escape. But I also worry that, in not using my style, I might be forgoing myself. So the style emerges. It re-emerges. It emerges, and re-emerges, and surfaces to serve. Can I be honest with you and still use a style? Does my style stink? Should I abandon it forever and replace it with a sturdy stick of Old Spice?

Well, all fragrance aside, there's one thing I know: I've been fighting adulthood for a long time now. Let's face it. This whole blog has been about my contention with maturity. But I knew maturity had to set in, sooner or later. I knew, the second I proclaimed myself "an irresponsible homo hipster," that the journey depicted within these posts would be that of a young man -- an aging young man -- reveling in his resistance to grow up.

Eventually all resistance ends. All force, be it action or reaction, has to end. And so I'm here to tell you -- the resistance has ended. This resistance to the force that is aging has ended. I'm growing up. I'm getting old. Despite myself, I'm getting old. So I'm deciding now what matters. Should I keep on fighting? Resist as long as I can? Or should I just accept that I have the same needs as my cohorts? Should I accept that I'm just another guy who needs cash flow, health benefits, and a 5-year plan?

And is there, perhaps, room for everything? Is there room for a Bohemian's hope while he whittles away his hours in the work force? Is there still a remote chance? A remote chance he'll find time to scribble down a poem, and then read it at his local bookstore or cafe?

I suppose I'm still clinging to that hope. To the hope that I can somehow still do it all. Do all the bourgeois bullshit, and the bohemian bullshit, too. Christ knows I "have the time," relatively speaking. When speaking in relation to my cohorts with kids. My cohorts with kids, or with high-profile jobs, or with parents who've turned terminal (if they get along enough to justify the effort).

But I thought you should know. I thought you should know, I'll be irresponsible no more. No longer shall I play the insipid Peter Pan (with a gay twist). I won't play the part of the fool anymore. I need to grow up. I need to go gray. I need to experience love, responsibility and life's inescapable decay.

(And I need to do so with the occasional rhyme. That's just the way it is. Hey -- a brogue's a gift, plain and simple. Far be it for me to squelch it completely.)

Now that I'm here, where I've worked so hard to be, it's time to move on. I'm finally sick of irresponsible endeavors. I've grown tired of escape. Oh, sure, I'll still party for release -- but I won't continue to make partying a lifestyle. There has to be more to life, and it's my turn to find it.

Caught Myself a Carrot

Heya:

It's been a while, I know. A while full a' whiles full a' whiling the whiles away, whilst I chased and chased a carrot on a stick. A stick that I'd made damned well sure I'd well carrot-ed, and then well stick-ed, and then very, very well stuck-ed out before me.

But I caught said carrot. I caught said carrot, on said stick, that I said I'd stuck out before me. I caught the carrot that I'd stuck on a stick and then chased and chased 'til my chasin' skillls damned well near wore out. Near, that is. 'Til they near wore out.

But wore out, they didn't -- said skills. Said skills might'a near worn out, but they didn't. They didn't wear out. Instead, they got me said carrot, which hung on said stick, which -- as I've already said -- I stuck out before me.

I caught it, motherfuckers. I caught the carrot on the end o'the stick that I so well hung before me.

See, heretofore, I've had problems. Previously, I had problems the likes of which precede pre-production. Because production, I've recently come to see, requires pre-production. It requires pre-production, production, and post-production. There's more -- I've recently come to see -- to bein' productive than merely pursuing the pursuit of production.

No, if y'er gonna be truly productive in this world, then y'have t' learn the complete cycle of production. And said cycle always involves somethin' much like my heretofore mentioned carrot, and it also involves my previously -- alongside with it -- mentioned stick.

It's as simple as this: If you want something (an' I mean truly want it), then it's worth planning for. Therein lies y'er pre-production. If y'really want it, then y'er gonna figure out how t'get it. Make sense? There's very little in this world worth having that's available for the immediate grab. Grabs only work when y'er a toddler, a teenager, or a dirty old man. An' even then, whatever y'er grabbin' for is fleeting. Indeed, it's often accompanied by a slap in the face! So then let's just agree right there an' right now: Everything that's worth having takes planning.

Now... The thing about planning is, it requires you to accept y'er present position. It mandates a complete recognition of where you presently stand (or sit, or lay... however pathetic y'er present circumstances have led you to become). This is without a question the most difficult part of the production process. Most folks can't face it. Most folks can't face their lots in life. They'll run circles and jump through hoops and even dig holes -- holes that'll soon serve as their graves -- before they ever admit their lots in life. 'Cuz to admit one's lot in life means to admit one's station. And t'admit one's station means t'admit one's true social standing. An' t'admit one's true social standing means that one needs to most likely accept that s/he's not standing at all... Because let's face it: 99% of us are downright without means, plain and simple.

Only the upper classes have anything resembling a leg t'stand on, loves. The rest of us are either keepin' up with the Joneses, as the Americans say, or tryin' t'get t'that point. Subtract two paychecks from "the lucky ones," as the lower classes say, an' you've got more members of the lower class.

What's that y'say? OUCH? There y'go. NOW y'er learnin'!

So. If y'er still with me, then I'm hopin' you'll see the reason why the stick's so important. Because y'see, the stick's y'er pre-production. The stick's what you go out and find y'erself (out in the back yard, or while y'er on a 3-day weekend away from home, or perhaps after a strong rainstorm -- it doesn't matter) once you've realized there's no way past y'er present status without it. The stick is the rock of Sisyphus. And as any Post-Freudian/Jungian therapist worth his or her salt will tell ya, Sisyphus was no victim. He chose his fate pure an' simple. (What, y'think a plain lad like m'self isn't familiar with 20th century analysis?)

Like I said, the pre-production's the hardest part. The hardest part's realizing y'er not one of the privileged few. The hard part's recognizing your familiarity with the familiar classes, regardless of how you were raised to perceive y'erself. Once you've done that -- once you've walked out into the yard after a strong rainstorm an' picked up y'er stick -- the rest is quite easy.

Easy, that is, if you've got gumption. 'Cuz it's gumption, y'see, that translates to orange. Orange, the color of alert. The color of the hunt, of the chase, of pursuit. There's nothin' subtle about orange. Orange results from the combination of the two loudest primaries -- yellow and red. When yellow and red get together, they can't do much less than shout.

And so you shout, when you find y'er orange. When you pick up y'er carrot, and you attach it t'y'er stick, you shout. Of course you shout. You can't do anything but shout. There's nothing any human being, in the history of humanity, has ever done when she or he touches the color orange but shout. 'Cuz when you get to th' point where y'er touching orange, y'er touching y'er very goal itself. Y'er touching it, an' y'er hangin' it on y'er newfound stick, an' y'er shouting at the top o' y'er lungs, 'cuz y'er handling the very thing that y'er vowing t'chase. It's a fleeting moment, this moment I'm describing right now, but you know what I'm talking about. You know what I'm talking about like every other human being who's ever lived knows what I'm talking about. I'm talking about the fact that we already have what we choose to chase, but we damned well choose to let it go so that we can chase it anyway. That's why it's orange. That's why it's loud. It has t'be loud to drown out the sound of our shouts. The shouts that we shout when we pick it up. When we hang it on the end of our sticks. When we gaze at it from not quite so far, just after we've hung it, far at the end of our sticks.

THIS is production. Everything else, my friends, is Post-. It's Post-Production.

The chase, the chasing, and th' rest of the chase. The running, the mis-steps, the tripping o'er our own feet, the unexpected twists, the turns, the plot changes, the stopping to catch our breath, the whining, the complaining -- they're all mere technicalities. Technicalities along the road. Along the road of the chase.

But in order t'have all these blessed curses, my friends, we must've already chosen what to chase. And it's in the choosing, not the chasing, when the magic occurs. It's when we choose what to chase that we're the most like God. That, my friends, is when we create. Everything else? Polishing. Everything else? Varnish and gloss.

Nevertheless, my friends, I'm writing to tell you that I've just had myself a chase. I've had myself a pre-production, a production, and I've polished off the post-. I won't get into the details, 'cuz the details in this case are too broad. But I've had myself a job, that I'll tell ya. I'll tell ya that I've had a job, and that I've done a job, and that now that the job's done, I'm gearin' up t'do another one.

But fer the meantime, I'm floatin'. I'm floatin' in between jobs, lookin' down at myself. I'm lookin' down at myself, thinkin', "Dear God, lad, I'm so glad you've still got it in ya."

I'm Not Sure What I'm Doing

I'm Not Sure What I'm Doing, but I haven't given up on whatever that might be.

Setting goals is one thing.

Achieving them is another.

Well, I don't care how simple a goal it was. I set it, and I achieved it.

I achieved a new bathroom.

Laugh if you will (don't you always, anyway?), but I'm proud of myself.

The reason you haven't heard from me since winter is, I set a winter goal for myself and I accomplished it.

It took longer than I thought, it cost more than I expected, and it totally took over my life. My life, since late winter, has been my job and my "project." And not much else.

All of which was a test, you see, to see if I'm capable of holding down a "job" and pursuing a "project."

Well, I am.

I am, but it takes a lot. It takes damn well near everything I've got.

So that's why you haven't heard from me lately.

'Cuz I've been busy.

I've been busy getting around to unfinished business.

Now that said unfinished business is finished, I'm gonna start to look around for the next bit a' unfinished business.

You should see my bathroom. If you could, you'd understand that I'm not just another wanna-be. No, I'm not just another wanna-be.

I'm another wanna-be who can lay tile...


Ar!
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River 124 Monologue: I’ve Got a New Hobby

[Ed's Note: This is all preliminary, remember? We know these scenes need to be condensed and that this is all really rough. That's the reason we're posting it now, instead of after it's been edited. Enjoy the rawness. We're told it's one of the author's strong points...]

GREG: (on phone) I’ve got a new hobby. Uh-huh. Yeah. A brand new hobby. No, it doesn’t involve sex. Silly. Why would you think that? No, it doesn’t involve sex, it involves getting lit. (Pause) Getting LIT. Yeah, Getting LIT, and calling Ma. That’s right, calling MA. Dear Ol’ Ma.

See, as it turns out, I’ve been putting up with Dear Ol’ Ma calling ME throughout the ages, when SHE was lit. Strange how it took me so long to figure out the right counter-attack: Call HER when I’M lit.

See, when y’er lit, you tend to focus only on y’erself. That is, yourself; the things happening to you, and how you react to them. That’s all SHE’s ever been doin’. Givin’ me th’ REPORT, y’see. When she was LIT. AS she was lit. Like I said, I can’t believe it took me this long t’figure out… And how ironic is this? I figured it out when I was LIT.

So whatoo I do now, now that I’ve discovered my favorite new hobby, and now that I know I should only talk to her LIT, as often as she talks to me LIT? Well, what I do NOW, to answer y’er question, is: I call Ma LIT. I save the items on my “return phone calls” list that just happen to deal with HER to those TIMES when I just happen to be LIT. It works out well. It works out quite well.

Because when I’m LIT, y’see, I’m incapable of holding my voice back. I’m incapable of holding back my voice, my conclusions – and my opinions. That’s right. I’m utterly incapable of holding back my opinions. And my opinions, mind you, aren’t exactly the same as hers, or as any average American bourgeois opinion. Which, mind you, are one and the same. That is, HER opinions and those of the average bourgeois American are the same. They're one and the same. Look up "Average American Bourgeois Opinion" on Wikipedia, and you'll find my mother's definitions. Well, those aren't MY opinions. MY opinions, mind you, are the products of careful examination and THOUGHT.

So when I’m LIT, y’see, I’m incapable of holding back my products of THOUGHT. Fancy that. Products of THOUGHT. Streaming forth, from someone who’s THOUGHT about them, but who can no longer hold them back. Who can no longer hold back his thoughts. That’s why I can’t believe it took me this long to get around to this. To get around to only calling Ma after I’d gotten LIT. ‘Cuz God knows SHE's always been. So why shouldn’t’ve I???

Two wrongs? Look again.

I like my new hobby.

I know I’ll never win. I’ve been told I shouldn’t even fight back. But that just goes against my nature, y’know? I wasn’t put on this earth t’let power-mongering motherfuckers – even if they are my parents – coast through life unquestioned. It’s one thing to fight back. It’s another thing to expect to win. I don't expect to win, but I just can't lay down and act like there's no battle.

Sometimes the battle is its own reward.

River124, Initial Draft

Act I
Scene 1:

(Enter Gene and Pat, the former escorting the latter as she hops along in misery.)

GENE: C’mon, c’mon, Pat. We haven’t got all day.

PAT: (Clearing her throat) Well, it isn’t as easy as it used to be, my love.

GENE: It used to be pretty easy.

PAT: It used to be. But it isn’t anymore.

GENE: Pretty easy.

PAT: It used to be.

GENE: But it isn’t anymore. Isn't it anymore?

PAT: No, it isn’t anymore.

GENE: It used to be pretty easy.

PAT: But it isn’t anymore.

GENE: Will you let me be the judge of that, fer Chrissake?!? C’mon!



Scene 2:

GREG: (At home, on the phone) Her condition? Who the fuck are you, the Department of Health? (Laughs.) Well, her condition is “serious,” if you go by her reports. According to her, she’s on death’s doorstep. Which reminds me – I painted my doorstep. Did I tell you?



Scene 3:

PAT: (Lifting the phone and clearing her throat, addressing offstage) It’s alright. He’s busy. He has a good job now. We shouldn’t interfere. (She dials.)



Scene 3:

GREG: (Still on the phone) She’s probably trying to get through right now. If you hear a “beep,” then you lose me, that’s why. It’s because she’s finally gotten through. (Pause.) Mmm-hmm. Can’t wait to hear what the problem is this time.


Scene 4:

GENE: Couldn’t reach him?

PAT: I got his machine.

GENE: What’d I tell ya?

PAT: Oh, be quiet.



Scene 5:

GREG: (Still on the phone) I mean, 15 years. It’s been 15 years that’s she’s been battling cancer. So we’re supposed to be surprised when she gets another bout?



Scene 6:

PAT: (Leaving a message) Greg… It’s Ma. I don’t mean to burden you, but it’s not looking good. It’s not looking good at all. They’ve postponed my surgery and scheduled another biopsy. It’s higher. Much higher. It’s higher up on my lung, near the thorax and all the lymph nodes that surround it. It doesn’t look good. Even if they can get at it, they’re pretty sure it’ll have spread. Call me. Call me when you can. I understand that you’re busy, but I need you to call me. We’re pretty sure it’s spread…



Scene 7:

GREG: (Still on the phone) If we had any sort of relationship other than fighting, I’d do something. But what can I do? What can I do when all we do is fight? She’ll find a reason to fight, if I call, and then all of a sudden we’ll be in a fight. Even though all I did was call. (Pause.) Well, thanks. Thank you for understanding. You’re right. Ultimately, I don’t owe them anything. Does that sound cruel?

Scene 8:

PAT: (On phone, and "A-hem," and "a-hem"-ing…) Well, yes, I suppose he’s a little bit cruel. But between you and me, that’s what I hear about them.

GREG: (Still on the phone, on another part of the stage) Are you sure? It’s not cruel?

PAT: That they’re cruel.

GREG: Like a bitchy queen? Cruel?

PAT: Them. Gays. They’re like women. They’re cruel.

GREG: Do I sound like that? Like a woman? (Pause.) Like a woman acting cruel? Of course I know the difference between how a man and how a woman act cruel…

PAT: Not that women have the corner on cruelty, of course…

GREG: I’m just asking, do I come across as cruel?

PAT: But you know what I mean… There’s a difference. There’s a difference between the way a man and a woman act cruel.

GREG: There’s a difference, of course, but I’m just asking.

PAT: And sometimes he comes across…

GREG: I’m just asking if I come across…

PAT: As cruel.

GREG: As cruel. Because if I do, then I got it from her.

PAT: Because he does. And I think he got it from me. He’s just cruel.

GREG: I don’t know. There’s something about her. Something absolutely cruel.

PAT: He’s cruel.

GREG and PAT: (Together) Absolutely cruel.






Scene 9:

GENE: Are you ready?

PAT: Well, what do you think?

GENE: What do I think about what, Pat. What?

PAT: About what you just asked?

GENE: About what I just asked?

PAT: About what you just asked.

GENE: What’d I just ask?

PAT: You tell me.

GENE: You want me to tell you?

PAT: Yeah.

GENE: You want me to tell you what I just asked you?

PAT: Yeah.

GENE: Yeah?

PAT: Yeah.

GENE: You want me to tell you what I just asked you?

PAT: Yeah. Uh-huh. Tell me.

GENE: Tell you?

PAT: Uh-huh.

GENE: Tell you what I just asked you?

PAT: Yeah. Tell me what you just asked me.

GENE: I can’t tell you something I already asked you.

PAT: Why not?

GENE: Because. It’s not the same.

PAT: Oh, so you’re Mr. Rhetorical all of a sudden.

GENE: All of a sudden?

PAT: Well, at least now.

GENE: At least now?

PAT: Now.

GENE: Now?

PAT: Now, and often.

GENE: Often?

PAT: Are you really interested in whether I’m ready yet?

GENE: Ready?

PAT: Ready.

GENE: Yeah. Are you ready yet?

PAT: I’ll be ready in a second.

GENE: A second?

PAT: Close to a second. Now scoot…



Scene 10

(Greg, still on the phone) It’s like… I’m ready. I know it sounds cruel, but I’m ready for them to be dead. Yeah, there’ll be technicalities, but let’s face it: either they’re gonna die or I’m gonna die. I don’t think they know how much experience I’ve had with death. When I was in San Francisco, it was a different ceremony every Sunday. It became part of our schedule. Monday through Friday was work, but we had to calendar the funeral or ash-spreading ceremony that was happening during any given weekend. Oh, sure, we would gym-gym-gym and then party-party-party until said ash ceremony occurred. That was our life. That was our life in SF between the late 80s and the early 90s. Back then, that was our life. Our lives consisted of working, going to the gym, and then going to brunch and funeral ceremonies. That and – of course – the obligatory vertical sex in clubs and the requisite “I can’t believe how drunk I was” fucking that inevitably followed Happy Hour and Saturday night. Yeah, we still had a Saturday night. We had Saturday night, but the fever had long since died… And in its place grew a fear that we would, too. None of us expected to make it this far. Do you know what I’m saying? I’m not kidding. I never expected to make it this far. I can’t believe I did. And my folks think California is easy living. If they only knew…


Scene 11:

PAT: (Also on the phone, and clearing her throat) Oh, Cindy, it’s so nice to have you on my side. Thank you for cleaning the kitchen, and for the manicure, and for everything else you’ve done. Lord knows my son isn’t capable of such acts of kindness. He’s too wrapped up in his California lifestyle. You know California. “The land of the fruits and the nuts,” as they say…


Scene 12:

GENE: (Picking up the phone) Hello? Who? Greg? Oh, Greg hasn’t lived here for years. Where’s he live now? Oh, in California. Cal-i-for-nia. You know, the land of the fruits and the nuts? What? What’d I just say? When? What’d I just say WHEN? Oh, Greg? He doesn’t live here anymore. He lives in Cal-i-for-nia. That's what I just said. And I meant it. Bye-bye, idiot...

River124 (1)

Listen.
Today, my mother almost died.
My mother, who’s presently entering a living room somewhere in New England, and who’s presently “an armful,” almost died.

There.
I’ve done it.

I’ve repeated the words that so many postmodernists wish to repeat. Repeat, that is, within the context of their own subsequent “masterpieces.” Well, I can’t worry about whether this is gonna be completely postmodern, nor whether it’s gonna be a masterpiece. I can only worry about when I’m gonna get it out, which is now.

Now. Now is the time when this story should be told. This story should be told now. But I warn you:

This is not a time-deleniated story about a war hero.
This is not an Existential exercise.
Nor is it an attempt to adapt the family drama of the playwright whose name my father just happens to bear into a contemporary format.

Well, if truth be told, then I guess it would most closely be linked to the last item listed in the list above. But that’s the end of the precocious postmodernism. I promise. (For now.)

Frankie’s Back

Frankie’s back. Yeah, Frankie. Frankie, the guy who comes and goes. Mostly, he goes, but when he comes – boy, does he come. Or rather, he tries to. When Frankie comes, it’s usually after he’s spent 4-6 months on Riker's Island. See, Frankie’s got this cycle. First he’s here, smoking crack in the hall and asking for a shot of tequila. But then, a couple of weeks later, he’s asking if he can come in, (“t’chill – y’know?”). Then, all of a sudden, he's gone. He's gone right after he asked you for that hit you didn't have time to deal with. Where'd he go? Back to Riker's, of course. Back to the place where guys like him don't take as much risk asking the things they always ask...

Frankie’s short. He’s short, he most often stinks, and he doesn’t have a lot of teeth. More specifically, his teeth are scattered throughtout his mouth, in a manner that makes me obsess over whether it would be possible to replace only what’s missing or if it’s just plain necessary to remove everything altogether – to make a clean slate. I know this obsession is a distraction. I can see Frankie watching me obsess over his teeth. I can see that he knows I'm distracted by their crookedness. And I can see how he works it.

He works it by asking if he can come in. This only happens when he’s just gotten back from Reichers. When he’s just come back from Reichers, he comes to me. He comes to me – hard – and he asks for everything a Puerto Rican crack-head who’s just gotten back from Reichers can ask for. First he asks for a shot, then he asks for a hit – and then he asks me if I’ll buy him a hit of what he really wants.

What he doesn’t know is that I know what he wants is more complicated than he thinks. I know he wants more than he says he’s wanting. I know it because he can’t step out of my personal zone and he can’t stop sniffing me like I’m some sort of bitch in heat. He’s in my face. He’s in my zone. He’s standing in front of me, posing his just-out-of-Reichers bod as if there’s no way any homo on earth could resist him, trying to stare me down. Down onto the couch…

I stare back at him. I stare right back at him – right back in the eye, my eyes whispering, “I know what you’re up to, and a Reichers-buffed bod isn’t enough.” I don’t care what he’s up to. I don’t care what he wants. Yeah, it’s cute that he’s playing me. But not cute enough to get myself played.

So I give him his shot, and maybe I let him take a hit or two. Why not? I’m doing my bumps. So why not give the motherfucker his hits? And maybe I take a hit. Or two. But that’s all. ‘Cuz I don’t like his hits. He knows it. He wishes I would, but he knows it. He knows I don’t like his hits. He doesn’t like my bumps, and I don’t like his hits.

And we both know this. From the moment this dance starts, we both know it, but I let him lead anyway. ‘Cuz he’s been at Reichers for the past 4-6 months. And he’s gotten used to mansex, whether he admits it or not. So whether he admits it or not, he’s the one coming onto me. And I’m the one saying no.

Christ, but that pisses him off.

So You Wanna Know What Goes On Here, in Bushwick, do Ya?

Then I’ll tell you. I’ll tell you even though you already know. Or, you already have a good idea – which is to say, a very, very bad idea. Because what goes on here in Bushwick is very bad. Very, very bad. It’s so very, very bad, it’s downright good.

But you expected that. That’s why you’re reading. You’re reading because you’re expecting the very, very bad. And even though the very, very bad has been told many, many times before – you’re still waiting to see how the very, very bad lives and thrives in today’s society. In today’s society outside Manhattan. In today’s society outside Manhattan, in Bushwick. Because in order to outlive life in today’s New York, one must venture beyond today’s Manhattan. One must venture all the way to Northeast Brooklyn – to Bushwick. One must venture to where everything that’s been done before dares to be done again. (And again, and again…)

“Is there anything special about Buswick?,” you might ask. No, there’s nothing particularly special about this neighborhood where all of America’s beer once flowed, and all of America’s beer-es-tocracy once dwelled. Yeah, that’s a made-up term. We’re gonna encounter a lot of made-up terms along this path. If you can’t handle made-up terms, then switch to another blog – one that has nothing to do with reality-based fantasy… Then we’ll all be all set.

All of which is to say, “Of course, idiot – there’s plenty that’s special about Bushwick.” Do your own fucking Wikipedia. You’ll see. (If, that is, Wikipedia has the balls to call it like it was.) Bushwick is not only the place that kept America drunk throughout the ‘30s, ‘40s and ‘50s – it’s the place that held onto keeping the country as drunk as it could while White Flight affected it, and its ability to do so.

Imagine. The fleeing of a neighborhood that affected its ability to maintain a virtually narcotic hold upon those who wished to flee it. And upon those who’d grown accustomed to fleeing the day-to-day hum-drum of their lives through the consumption of what that neighborhood had, up until then, produced – regularly.

In other words, “What happens when the source of the drug stops producing the drug – all in the name of no longer being worthy of producing that drug?”

That’s what happened in Bushwick. That’s what happened in Bushwick, about forty years ago. And 40 years ago is long ago enough as not to warrant further description as to exactly what happened then. At this point, and at this time, all that matters is that – long ago – Bushwick was transformed. It was transformed because it stopped producing its drug. It stopped producing its drug of alcohol. It stopped producing the drug that was so common at the time that it pretty near devastated most of our grandparents. Most, that is, of our readers’ grandparents. That’s right. You. Our readers. It – alcohol – probably almost wound up destroying your grandparents. If it didn’t, then consider yourselves lucky. If it didn’t, then your grandparents were probably Jewish or Morman of Seventh-Day Adventist. If that was the case, then good for you. (And, simultaneously, I’m sorry for you…)

But we were talking about Bushwick. We were talking about Bushwick, in Brooklyn. Bushwick – that peculiar neighborhood where blue-collar immigrants and Blue-Bloods co-existed, for the sake of producing that which would intoxicate them all. You see, Bushwick was – at the turn of the 20th Century – the hub of America’s beer production. That’s why we still have Knickerbocker Avenue. That’s why the area is sprinkled with factories (which have recently been turned into lofts), interspersed with ornate Victorian homes. That, and the blackout of 1977, are the reasons why Bushwick has an aesthetic unlike so much of the rest of Brooklyn. Bushwick isn’t picturesque like Park Slope. It isn’t anywhere near as adorable as the cobble-stoned Brooklyn Heights. And it has nowhere near the self-imposed kitschy charm of the far-away Coney Island. No, Bushwick’s aesthtic – of it can even be called that – is much more like that of Los Angeles. It’s scattered, and full of flotsam and jetsom. To understand Bushwick is to drive or ride through it – if only by imagination. In order to appreciate Bushwick, one must look not at it, but along it. For it is only through glancing at Bushwick’s appearance – as it appears as we coast alongside it – that we are able to understand it.

Why, do you ask, do I go into so much extraneous description about the place where I ask you that you ask about? My apologies if you think my premise is too verbose. But I need you to understand: What goes on here – even though it might seem identical to what goes on in so many other places – is special. It’s unique. It’s unique in the sense that it’s happening here and now, in one of the only parts of New York that will allow it to happen. One of the only parts of today’s New York that will allow this kind of scenario to go on in – to use poor grammar, as eventually I must – is here, in the scattered neighborhood known as Bushwick.

Ready to hear?

I’ll bet you are.

A Letter to My Fellow New Yorkers: Greetings from Bushwick!

[The following is presented as though I was writing for a local publicaton, as an exercise, per a dear friend's advice... Even tho' it's directed towawd New Yorkers, everyone can get a feel for it...]

Hello, readers.

I’m assuming most of you are New Yorkers, so I won’t go into detail about exactly where I am. You know where I am, even if you’ve never been here.

Even if you’ve never been here, you’ve heard about it. You’ve heard about Bushwick. All of you New Yorkers have heard about Bushwick. If you haven’t, you pretend you have.

Don’t lie. You know you do. You know you pretend you’ve heard about Bushwick, even though you haven’t.

Except that you have. You have heard about it. You have heard about Bushwick. You’ve heard enough about Bushwick to know that you want to hear more. You want to hear more about Bushwick.

So what do you want to know first? How seedy it is out here on the outskirts of gentrification, or how dangerous? How grimy, or how insidious? What’s that, you say? Neither? Both? None of the above? All? Well, then, let me tell you…

But just for the record, let neither of us forget: You are the reader, and I am the storyteller. Yeah, that’s right. I’m the storyteller. That means I tell stories (as if you needed to know). But for some reason -- some strange silly reason – I felt the need to remind you of our dynamic. Because that’s all it is. A dynamic. And if you’re still reading, well then, you’re more of a voyeur than I expected you to be. ("Nice dynamic. Gooood dynamic…")

So welcome, my dynamic voyeur, to my dynamic world. To Bushwick. To Buswick at the turn of the New Millenium. The Late Turn of the New Millenium…

Don’t forget – you’re watching. You’re reading. I never asked you to. See, so much of the here and now in Bushwick has to do with our exhibitionistic tendencies (and, simultaneously, so much of that same here, and that same now, is dependent upon your tendency toward voyeurism), that it suddenly becomes difficult to decipher exactly who’s getting off and who’s getting them off, if y’know what I mean.

So don’t forget. That’s a big part of it. That’s a big part of Buswhick: Not forgetting that somebody is watching; that they know they’re watching, and that those they’re watching know they’re being watched. That’s a big part of it. A big part. Probably the biggest part of all of Bushwick. The biggest part of Bushwick is that it knows its Renaissance – if it can ever come near being called that – must occur under the microscope of the microcultural gaze. Shit, too much has happened already not to make it so. Too much. Too much history. Too much history, claiming its place in history, leaving only those cracks in history that know full well they’re nothing but cracks fruitlessly attempting to justify their existence. To live out their lives. Their lives amidst the other cracks. Their attempts at cracking into the cracks of history.

Come. Witness it. Witness life admist the cracks. It isn’t as bleak or banal as it sounds. As a matter of fact, it’s rich. It’s rich with richness… The almost earthen richness of a territory paved over for glory but then left to succumb to the whims of urban decay… Left, crying in near vain, for its original earthen richness to return.

What does one do with such territory? How does one revive the earth beneath an industrial park? It’s simple, really. One must merely show up, and then one must merely proclaim said territory to be his or her own. His own, her home.

So let’s talk about Bushwick, dear voyeur -- since you seem so interested. And I’ll be that one…

I'm Still Here

Hello, whoever's left...

I don't mean to be maudlin. I just mean it. I know I've been neglecting my blog.

Oh, well.

I just wanted you to know that I'm still here. I'm still here, and I'm still a blogger. Just because I don't post every day and just because I don't go into detail about how every drop of semen that ejaculates from my penis lands -- whether upon a partner or just myself -- doesn't mean I'm not still a member of this electronic "community."

Yes, I've been too busy with corporate life to post. But why do I get more comments when I don't post than when I do? You guys aren't all that much better about this whole arrangement than you say I am...

No, I don't mean to be nasty either. Just honest. Which is the basis of my writing. So I suppose that when you don't see much of my writing, you can assume I'm not "in a place" to be fully honest with myself.

Any horny teenager can write about his cum drops. I thought I was seeking more than that.

A lot's been brewing on the back burner of my mind, which means something creative is going to emerge soon. That's how I work. I'm not an "every-day-at-5:00am" kind of writer. I'm a sprinter. And that's just gonna hafta do.

Lots of artists are sprinters. I've been doing my homework. I know. No, I'm not going to tell you who else. All that matters is that I know my creative process isn't unique to me, and that it's valid.

No need to validate this corporate queen's ticket. Between the company and myself, we've got it covered.

Write to ya soon.

Mean it.

Bye for now.

Why

Why You Haven't Heard from Me Lately, In a Nutshell:

• in May, the Mortgage job fell through, and I was out of cash and out of rent credits (I earn a month's rent for every one of my landlord's other units that I rent out to other over-paying, "pink-cheeked ((his term))" tenants)
• in June, a day after my birthday, the LoveofMyLife emailed me saying, "I don't even like you anymore. Good-bye."
• all through June I temped for a bunch of Corporate-Level Indians in the Park Ave office of Dell Financial, logging in the minimum payment checks that desperate middle- and lower-class Americans sent in via certified mail in order to prevent having their accounts go into collections
• in July, I finally landed a job I can live with, so I started it -- and I'm only just now hitting my 60th day. 30 days to go and I'm hard to fire...
• on July 31st, a slimy law firm from Long Island siezed my checking account, demanding $1,600 for a credit card I defaulted on three years ago in order to make my move to NY a reality

In other words, I've been in crisis mode. Level Red on a bad day, Level Orange on a good one.

Hey, if a guy can't use a 9/11 metaphor -- no matter how lame -- on 9/11, then just when can he?

Don't lose faith. Lose patience, maybe, but I beg of you, please don't lose faith.

Cheers,

Hang in There, 'Cuz Lord Knows We're Hanngin'...

To those y'all who been waitin' 'round so diligently for an update, "Hat's Off!" For yours are the "those" whose expectations will soon 'nough be fulfilled...

And to everyone else, rest assured: STORM'S a' BREWIN'!!!

G

I Got Clocked!

MotheraGod, I can’t believe it. I jus’ can’t believe it. It happened. It finally happened. I can’t believe it, but it finally happened. It finally fuckin’ happened. It just happened t’ happen. It just had t’ fuckin’ happen. To me, finally. It finally fuckin’ happened. I can’t believe it, but it finally fuckin’ happened. It happened. To me. Finally. Fuck.

I was walkin’ the dog. Of all things, an’ a’ all times. I was walkin’ the dog. It happened when I was walkin’ the dog. I was jus’ walkin’ the’ dog when it happened. I was fuckin’ walkin’ the dog. That’s when it happened. When I was walkin’ the fuckin’ dog. That’s when it finally had t’ happen. Of all things, an’ a’ all times, that’s when it finally had t’ happen. When I was walkin’ the fuckin’ dog. That’s when it happenend.

I was right outside McDonald’s. On Broadway. Broadway & Cook. I was right outside McDonald’s. On Broadway. And Cook. I was right outside McDonald’s on Broadway & Cook. Tonight. On Broadway and Cook, right outside McDonald’s. That’s where it happened. Tonight. It happened tonight, of all nights, right outside McDonald’s on Broadway & Cook.

What happened? I’ll tell ya what happened. I’ll tell ya what happened, right then and there, when I was walkin’ the dog. When I was walkin’ the dog, tonight, across from McDonald’s, on Broadway & Cook. I’ll tell ya what happened. Y’might not be as int’rested as I’d like y’t’be, but I’ll tell y’ jus’ th’ same. I’ll tell ya, ‘cuz y’must be wonderin’. Y’must be wonderin’ by now. If, by now, y’er not doin’ anythin’ other’n readin’ or lookin’ at somethin’ else, then y’er wonderin’. If y’er not readin’ or lookin’ at somethin’ else by now, then y’er wonderin’. Y’er wonderin’ what happened. So I’ll tell ya. I’ll tell ya what happened. I’ll tell ya what happened tonight. What happened tonight when I was walkin’ the dog across from McDonald’s. McDonald’s on Broadway & Cook. What happened then, and what happened there was... I got clocked. I got clocked tonight when I was walkin’ the dog across from McDonald’s on Broadway & Cook. Yup. That’s it. That’s what happened. I got clocked. I got clocked but good. Here in my own neighborhood, where I’ve lived for two years. Where I’ve lived for two years, an’ where I’ve never had a run-in with any of “my own kind,” so to speak, it happened. It finally happened. It finally happened tonight. Tonight, of all times, it finally happened. Tonight, I got clocked. I got clocked but good. An’ the weirdest part is, I didn’t even know it ‘til long after it happened.

A few hours after it happened, a beautiful young boy said “Hi” to me in a bar. He said “Hi” to me. Long after it’d happened, he said “Hi.” Like he knew me. He said “Hi” like he knew me. So I gathered that maybe he did. I gathered maybe he did know me. So I was game. I said “Hi” back. I said “Hi.” And then I asked, “Do I know you?” He said, “I saw you walking your dog tonight. Right outside McDonald’s. I saw you walking your dog. And when I saw you, I said to myself, 'Oh, there’s gay people here. Cool.'”

Clocked. Fuck.

After all this time here, alone with my dog, I’d gotten used to not being visibly gay. Sure, I was white, I was male; I was even middle class and artsy. But I hadn’t been “tagged” yet as being gay. The racial and socio-economic circles around here don’t have much time for sexual politics. They presume everyone around them is heterosexual. They don’t have time for anything else. They’re too busy surviving to even ponder it. Anything else, that is. Sexually speaking. They don’t have time to ponder anything else sexually. Even if there are a hundred men fucking each other on the “Down Low.” Even if there are a hundred women living together because “their men have all left them…”

But if one gay boy in one gay bar in Brooklyn was able to clock me as being a homo, in my own neighborhood – well, that means the end of my anonymity in that neighborhood. I suppose I should feel good about being recognized. I suppose I should feel “proud.” But I don’t. I don’t feel proud. I don’t feel good, or warm, or fuzzy, or proud to have been clocked by another gay in my neighborhood. Instead I feel sad. I feel sad that my escape is no longer an escape. I feel bummed that other queers have started moving in. I can’t stand that I might be starting the next queer hip neighborhood in Brooklyn. All I wanted was to get away from the gay ghetto. But it seems I’ve just started its next charter.

There’s nothing to repeat here. There’s nothing to wax poetic. Apparently I’m the proverbial self-loathing homo. Apparently I can’t stand my own kind. Why else would I try to move away from them? Why else would I pride myself on living in seclusion? Why else would I hate the appearance of others like me in the area where I’d established myself as separate and un-needing of them and their like?

Getting clocked isn’t good. It’s not a desirable thing. It’s not like getting recognized, or acknowledged, or rewarded. Getting clocked is a bad thing. Gettin' clocked sucks. You don’t wanna get clocked. Trust me. You don’t. I wish I hadn’t been clocked. I wish that boy’d never seen me, no matter how beautiful he is. What’s his problem, anyway? Doesn’t he have anything better to look at?

(Me an’) Bobby McGee

(I meant to tell y’all ‘bout this before, but I never got around’a it. Well, here’s t’ gittin’ ‘round…)

FLASHBACK, 1998: “The Lot” in LA. I’ve just begun to feel settled-in amidst the other artists, the ‘70s leftovers, and the boho wanna-be’s who constitute my new SoCal alterna-digs’ total residence. The apartment’s been spackled, it’s been painted, and it just been carpeted. The garden’s been sown, and the life force that is Spooge has manifested himself – presently in the form of an uncut adolescent pup.

It’s dusk. I think it’s wintertime. (It's not as easy to tell in La-La Land... You have to look for what's in bloom and ask yourself if you need a sweater.) I’m hosing down the parking lot. (Martini in left hand, nozzle in right. Yeah, I switch hands from time to time, in the name of trying to avoid Carpal Tunnel, but for the most part, this is the stance.) I’m stoned. (What else is new? These are the CA years.) Spooge is doing his thang. So are all the cats. So are all the other dogs. The other dogs all bunk down with Jerry, the “Potato Sack guy,” we call him – a 40+ queen who values the gym about as much as I value monogamy. All these animals are sniffin’, scratchin’, and piddlin’, each according to his or her immediate needs. All of which is to say, it’s just another typical night on the Lot. The sun’s gone down, as it always does, past the edge of the parking lot and past the tops of the Magnolia, Pine and Palm trees aligning the streets that fall between us and the beach. (There’s about 20 minutes worth of ‘em, in Angelino miles. We Angelinos like to describe distance in terms of how long it’ll take you to drive there… We're a "Rate x Time" kind of folk.)

The artists who are lucky enough not to need a day job are busy working in their studios. Those who are in “job phase” are sipping Merlot and listening to Pat Sajak drop cryptic crossword clues. Vanna White patiently awaits illumination. (She will NOT act until she receives her Pavlovian cue. THAT's what got her the job, way back when -- did I ever tell you that? But I digress...) As for Myself? Categorically, I dwell somewhere within the strata of my subculture. I’m a slacker who’s just re-realized he needs to get back to work. So, I work harder than I have to, on The Lot itself, y’see, to make up for my inadequacies.

“Heck,” I tell myself (each and every day I do it), “it’s not like it doesn’t need doin’.”

Anyway, it was on just this kind of day, at exactly this time of night, while I was doing this exact sort of thing – when I first met Bobby McGee. He was a large dog, by the Lot’s standards. By our Lot’s standards, Spooge was a big dog. Spooge was the first big dog who had succeeded in earning permanent residence on the Lot since Catherine, the crazy dyke who'd made and subsequently lost a small fortune via a T-shirt and novelty enterprise called "Flying Fish," had lived there with her ever-rotating population of Pit Bulls. Catherine now lived three doors down, doing God knows what, while her T-shirts and novelties rotted away on gray metal shelves. ANYway, before Spooge, all we on the Lot had, in terms of canine compansionship, were little, “yappy” dogs. And they all shacked up with Jerry.

But picture if you will: Myself, almost 10 years ago… Martini and garden hose in hand(s); proud father of the first full-sized dog to have recently landed residence on the Lot. And then picture, if you will: Myself, meeting – for the first time – a Border Collie/Sheep Dog mix (who’s only recognizable to me as such because I grew up with a father who bred dogs and who familiarized me with the appearances and inclinations of many hunting and show breeds). And THEN picture, if you can: The simultaneous combination of delight and despair I experienced when I: a) recognized that another large-sized dog had made his way onto the Lot, and b) realized that the reason he’d done so was because he was crippled to the core – the obvious victim of a car accident.

Whether on human or canine, cat or canary, I had never before seen such injuries. I had never before witnessed such raw, open, dripping wounds. They were puss-ridden; fur-mixed-with-skin-mixed-with-flesh-mixed-with-sutures, CATASTROPHIC symptoms. Never before had I viewed in real life such obvious consequences of nature and industrialization colliding, VIOLENTLY. But I was witnessing them then. Martini in one hand, garden hose in the other, there I stood, under the LA sunset, witnessing it. And it was disgusting. "Such, "I tried to assure myself, "is the nature of life in LA." "Such is the rare yet predictable outcome of a certain unlucky percentile who have to live a flesh-and-blood existence under the utterly unforgiving reign of mechanism." More precisely, I thought, mechanism met with speed. For it is the marriage of mechanicality and motion that makes up the make-up of Los Angeles. Ride with it and everything’s fine. Floating and jetting, the flotsam and jetsom move along quite smoothly, providing an aesthetic that predates and predicts the visual effects of the internet. Southern California long ago raised surfing to another level; it just needed Microsoft Windows to teach the rest of us how to recognize it.

But for this borderline Border Collie whom I came to deem Bobby McGee, surfing hadn't helped. Surfing hadn't proven to be a conduit. Unlike the rest of us who surfed LA traffic daily --negotiating stop signs, traffic lights, hair-pin turns and multiple intersections -- Bobby, apparently, hadn't made it home safe one night. His was an unlucky number. His was a number representing collision. Running the numbers hadn't helped Bobby; it had hurt him. That's what the numbers dictate. That's what the numbers require. The numbers require that in order for 95% of us to make it home safe, 5% of us -- be we human, canine, or of any other life form -- must suffer. We must suffer eventuality.

So I suppose it was my own particular form of eventuality that eventually led to my having to witness the likes of Bobby McGee. But nothing could've prepared me for the moment. Nothing could’ve helped me witness what I witnessed that night while I was watering down the Lot in LA – that night when I first met him. That night when I first laid eyes upon Bobby McGee. No Martini, no bong, no drug could’ve prepared me. Nothing, except perhaps a glimpse of death itself, could’ve prepared me to glimpse what I glimpsed that evening, right around twilight. I don’t even know how he walked. I don’t know how he walked up to me. And I'm not really sure why. The rest of Jerry’s dogs always scattered whenever I sprayed the hose. But not Bobby.

Bobby, that night, hobbled right on up t’ me, even tho' I was sprayin’ full throttle. He hobbled right up t’ me. He hobbled right on up, introducin’ himself, 'spite th’ fact that no other dog who’d’ just been through what he’d just been through would’a ever cared t’inroduce himself t’anybody… An' I couldn’t believe what I saw. I’d never seen anythin' like it. It was like lookin’ at half a dog. Half a dog sliced right down the middle – and not from belly t' belly, but from head t’ toe! Right down the middle! A perfect half a’ dog! He was a perfect half a' dog. Cut right down the middle. Like the Invisible Dog from the ‘70s. Like the friggin’ Invisible Dog. Cut right down the middle. From schnout t’ tail, Ol’ Bobby was a perfect half a' dog.

One side of him looked like the dog he was – or at least, the dog he’d once been. But the other side of him looked like a science experiment. It was flat, it was transluscent, and it had no fur. I don’t think it even had bones. (Looking back, I realize it must’ve, but at the time, I couldn’t even see them.) The one side that was him was pretty. It was full. It was black, it was white, it was long-haired, and it was full. It was full of life. But the other side of him – the one that was damaged – was so damaged I couldn’t imagine how any dog would've been able to get along without all the stuff he was missing.

Aside from Jerry, I guess, I was the only other human who took to Bobby. Everyone else ignored him. I can’t say as I blame them, because during our time on the Lot, we all witnessed many a damaged animal. It was just part of being there. I mean, c’mon – there we were, living where the city had forgotten itself, and in so doing, allowed the desert to reclaim itself. There were plenty of wild creatures to contend with, mostly in the form of feral cats and pack dogs. But because Ol’ Bobby’d made the effort to introduce himself to me that night, I couldn’t help but wanna get to know him. So I got to know him. And in getting to know him, I came to name him. Yeah, I’m the one who named him. I’m the one who named him “Bobby McGee.” At first, no one asked me why. But as time passed – as he healed and grew back into the cute sheep-herding collie dog he’d been before his accident – people grew curious as to why I called him what I did. And when they asked, I told ‘em, “I call him Bobby McGee. ‘Cuz when he first showed up here – he had nothin’ left t’lose.”

Maybe that’s why he'd hobbled up to me that evening. Maybe he recognized that we had something in common. And y'know somethin'? He was right. Because on that particular evening, on that particular Lot, in that particular corner of the world, Me ‘n’ Bobby McGee – as the illustrious Miss Joplin herself would’ve attested, had she been there to witness us – were just about the free-est souls in the Southland.

CGU* III (Episode 1): Just What Have I Done Now?

(*Career Girl Update, Series III)

If I never accomplish anything else during this whacky incarnation I’m having, at least I’ll be able to return to the Great Void knowing I’ve amused just a few of you along the way. I know I’m silly. Really, I do.

So what am I up to this time? Just what sort of career has this Career Girl who’s notorious for not being able to hold down a career landed now? As many of you have read, and as bizarre as it sounds (even to myself, still), I’m now a Mortgage Broker.

“Mortgage Broker.” What sort of image does that title conjure up in your heads? Go ahead, be honest. I won’t be offended if it’s offensive. Lord knows I’ve come too far in the world of offensiveness to fear the offense people might take in my occupation. Does it strike you as “smarmy?” Does it come across as the Used Car Sales echelon of the real estate industry? Yes, I believe it does. I think, whenever I tell people I’m a Mortgage Broker, that I sound like the guys you see on late-night TV. You know, the ones peddling last year’s Ford Explorers and Toyota Corollas at bargain prices – “Not to be beaten anywhere, or [they’ll] pay the difference!!!”

All I know is this: Three years ago, I was financially stable but emotionally and artistically stagnant in Los Angeles. Two years ago, I had just acquired my present apartment in East Williamsburg, Brooklyn, and I was busy slapping up my first coats of paint and searching for a microwave and Toast-r-Oven. And last year I was living the High Life, collecting Unemployment and young Brooklyn boy-toys alike. I brought both home to said East Williamsburg apartment, spending the former on all the drugs I was doing with the latter.

All of which is to say, I’ve looked at NYC from both sides now.

I’ve been the newcomer with the demanding day job and I’ve been the Brooklyn slacker who proves that it is, indeed, possible to survive in NY on less than $100,000/year. Way less. Way, way less. I’ve been the guppie and the boho. I’ve made it here (which means, if you’ll remember, that I can make it anywhere) “with” and “without.” From surfing couches to earning an Executive Assistant’s salary and back to surfing a couch again (my own, mind you), I have acquired close to three years’ life experience here in the Big Apple. And some said it couldn’t be done!

I’m no stranger to taking big risks in moving to new cities. At 23, soon after taking my sweet time to graduate from college (spent a semester in France just for the hell of it), I packed everything I could fit into my 1981 VW Jetta and left Portland, Maine, forever. Folks said I’d be back, but I never have been, except for one quick visit sometime during ’89. (I’ve been meaning to get back there, especially now that I’m back on the East Coast, and I will always love my dear friends there, but I haven’t made it back yet.) After living in SF for close to 10 years (and after experiencing a major shift in sensibilites – from uptight New English preppie to hedonistic SF clone), I decided – mostly for the sake of love, mind you – to relocate to Los Angeles. I remained there, with the quasi-communal, eternally familial group of artists with whom I’d recalimed a filthy parcel of South Central turf, for almost seven years. But I was unhappy. Despite having surrounded myself with other artists in the hopes of living the Creative Life, my creativity dried up. I was too worried about maintaining the homestead to take time to write. I wound up smoking too much pot while I continually clipped ever-growing garden blossoms and stems. That’s what led to my taking the next, most recent risk – moving to NYC on a shoestring.

Throughout the processes of taking all of these risks, I’ve learned to listen to my intuition. I’ve learned to go ahead and take big leaps as long as my heart tells me it’s OK. That’s what’s happening with this new job. It’s a crazy job. Given that I now possess far less than the infamous $3,000 I had when I first arrived in NY, it’s an insane proposition. It’s commission only. It’s a high-pressure, low-benefit sales job. In other words, I’ve signed up to sweat in a boiler room.

But y’know what? I love it. I don’t just “like” it. I’m not “settling” until something better comes along. I think this job is an opportunity – the opportunity I knew I’d need once I’d gotten established in this city and was ready to move to the next level. I’m sorry I portrayed the company as appearing to have “mob” connections in my previous post. (Well, I’m sorry, but not to the point where I’m willing to take back those initial impressions. They will have to forever remain what they were. Many people, if they were to meet my new boss, would get the same feeling from him and his associates. They are loud, aggressive Long Island natives. They are Italian beyond belief. They could give Brando a run for his cotton-stuffed, mealy-mouthed money. And I love them.)

I have a feeling about this new job. It’s much like the feeling I had when I moved to SF; when I launched my one-man show there; when I packed up and left the Bay Area when it would’ve made more career sense to stay; and when I decided to make the move from LA to NYC. It’s a feeling of surety, despite all apparent reasons to cast doubt. I can’t explain it any further than that. I’m having a gut feeling about this new job. A good gut feeling. And that's all I can say about it.

But I will tell you this: Through this job, I have consciously challenged myself. I have chosen to face some serious demons. You see, early on in my childoood, somewhere around first grade, I was diagnosed as being “bad at math.” My teacher told my parents that I was linguistically talented but mathematically deficient and we all accepted the diagnosis. I proceeded to go through the rest of my education, all the way through grad school, believing I just didn’t have the aptitide to comprehend numbers, arithmetic, percentages, and all else that comprises the vocabulary of business. Consequently I was raised to believe I “didn’t have a head for money.” Heck, I was an artist. I was creative. I could write a hell of a Christmas letter, but God forbid I shoud be expected to do my own taxes.

Well, recently, after having taken as much time as I apparently needed to slack in Brooklyn – after having finally saturated myself with the bohemian/party lifestlye – I have decided that a guy who can maintain a 3.7 GPA in a graduate program (even if it is just at a state school and in an arts program) can certainly wrap his brain around the principles that enable people with far fewer intellectual faculties than he has to accumulate wealth in a capitalist system.

So THAT’s what I’ve “done now.” THAT’s what I’m up to. As usual, Greg has motives far beyond the petty and the apparent. Greg is up to something big. Greg is battling his demons, and he’s determined to come out of the battle armed with the knowledge that will help him land the best fucking mortgage possible on that Goddamed Anna Madrigal-esque brownstone he’s always dreamed of owning. This is New York, for Chrissake. If a New Yorker isn’t at least a little bit curious about how the local real esate market works, s/he’s not a real New Yorker. S/he’s a tourist.

I have a lifetime of sales under my belt. As complex as the mortgage industry is, it’s still sales, plain and simple. The man who’s just launched the Manhattan office of a firm he’s worked with since 1997 on Long Island took one look at me and decided I was capable of learning the ropes. That’s my new boss. I don’t intend to let him – but more importantly, myself – down. It takes time but the money one can earn in this field is hefty. Living on commission only brings me back to my Patrick Murphy days. I have never been happier with my work than when I was living from job to job. It always came together then, and I’m sure it’ll come together now. Meanwhile I’ll be learning all about the mysterious phenomenon known as New York City real estate. Not bad party chat, eh?

I made the move and I painted the apartment. I celebrated my 40th birthday with all my best friends. Then I took a year off to rest, play, and inquire as to exactly who I wanted to be now that I am here. Now I’m greasing the money wheels so that when the muse visits and helps me put together the next creative urge, I’ll be ready and able to produce it.

There’s a connection between productivity and creativity, and I’m gonna work it.

Ta-Daaaa!!!

It’s time to shift gears again. It’s time to make another run for it.

No, I’m not running away. I’m not even leaving town. But I am about to commence another life stage. I’m about to re-enter the White Collar Army. I’ve just accepted another job. I’m about to go back to “work.”

It happens. It happens frequently. Despite my having a fantasy of a lifestyle independent of corporate cash flow, I regularly pick up the opportunity to acquire one. What is it this time? Which stratum of American economics will I soon be entering in efforts to make a buck and set aside the funds necessary for the next bohemian phase?

I have conflicting feelings about telling you. But it suffices to say that it’s yet another realm of sales. It’s sales, through and through. It’s sales, pure and simple. It’s sales, as sales-y as sales gets. But I will NOT be serving as somebody’s “Assistant.” I will NO LONGER be anyone's "EA." Never again will I have to endure the pleas and cries of spoiled executives who feel they aren’t getting enough of my attention.

No, this time around (and once again), I will be the salesperson. I am a Salesman. And after everything I’ve been through while servicing salespeople in the farcical world of magazine advertising over the past three years, I’m damned glad to be a salesman once again.

So what will I be selling? Are you sure you want to know? Well, in a nutshell, mortgages. Yes, I am about to enter the realm of real estate that is often compared to used car sales. I’m going to be a Mortgage Broker. That means I’ll be spending most of my time in a Manhattan boiler room, yackin’ it up on the phone, competing with everyone around me to lock you into the best Re-Fi rate you can find – as long as it allows me enough wiggle-room to make a commission.

Commission. That’s the magic word. Let’s just hope it falls reasonably within the realm of white magic, and not black. (And if you put me in the postiton of having to defend that terminology in regards to racial politics then you are immediately off my contact list for the duration of this endeavor!) I’ve worked for commission before, and I’m sure to work for it again. I’m not one of those people who’s afraid of the word. Yeah, it brings up certain concerns, but it doesn’t prevent me from considering an opportunity. Truth is, commission jobs often pay way more than any salaried position can offer, but you have to be willing to take a risk, and you have to be patient.

I’ve been on the lookout for a commission job (that’s right, I’ve actually been seeking one) for six months now. I’ve interviewed with modeling agencies, real estate brokers, and more marketing firms than I can count on both hands. (“What do they do?,” you might ask. Well, just about anything that might make them a buck, from key chains to baseball hats to aprons and napsacks. If you can fit a company’s name on it, then they find a way to make it.) And I’ve been offered more jobs than I can count (well, on one hand, at least). I’ve been invited to run around Midtown showing overpriced apartments to New York’s ever-rotating white collar work force. I’ve been asked to schlep bags of pens, purses, T-shirts and sweatshirts all over the city's intricate subway system in order to get “face time” with influencial clients. And last but not least, I’ve been invited to participate in a less-than-reputable practice of Shipping and Receiving, assuring that one company’s international clients “receive all the goods they’ve ordered via the internet.” Now, if whatever this “company” is shipping falls under the umbrella of “things that are legal to ship,” then just why would they need to farm out their Shipping and Receiving? (Much less pay $1,000 per item sucessfully delivered???) Hence my reason for not jumping at that "opportunity."

So why have I been seeking a commission job? It’s quite simple, really. I’m used to taking risks, and I’ve seen that doing so will always eventually pay off. My entire life for the past 15 years has been about taking risks. And while most of those risks might not have paid off in the sense that I have lots of money and a solid investment portfolio, they have paid off in terms of life experience. I have no regrets about anything I’ve done. I only regret, as the saying goes, those things that I’ve not yet gotten around to.

I don’t want to regret not having particpated in the vast economic substratum that is New York real estate. As my recent (and, might I add, profitable) endeavors in Brooklyn apartment brokering have proven, it’s a lucrative arena. Over the past year, I’ve earned six months’ rent. Apartment brokering has done two things for me. It has left me in a state of awe and it has pushed me into a state of wonder (awe at the fact that I don’t have to write a rent check until April and wonder over the possibility of never having to write one again). If there’s one field in which one will always be able to make a living in New York, it’s New York real estate. No matter what the market does or how competitive it gets (barring an insurmountable terrorist attack or nuclear devastation itself), New York will always have a market for housing.

And so, as the fates would have it (as demonstrated by my having to perouse the Post as part of my responsibilities during that Thanksgiving temp gig I had at the Hearst Corporation), I came across an ad seeking what they now call “Loan Officers.” And I called it. But the voice mailbox for the number was full. That didn’t surprise me. So I put it on my calendar to call back after the holidays and find out what it was all about.

I called on January 4th. This time, the company’s manager picked right up. “You sound good on the phone,” he said, after I’d done little more than introduce myself. “Can you get here today?” I recognized a hard sell when I heard it, so I gave the most suitable (and in effect the most honest) answer.

“No,” I said, “I have apartment showings throughout this afternoon. But I can meet with you anytime tomorrow.”

“Oh,” the manager said, “That’s good for you. OK. Tomorrow it is.”

When I made it to their office the next day, in my typical skin-of-my-teeth “on time” fashion, the 20-something Latina receptionist with a Staten Island accent immediately announced my arrival. But Mr. Manager soon forgot about me. I sat in their reception area, taking calls from temp agencies and other potential employers all the while. At one point I remember saying, “No, I haven’t found a job yet, but I’m at an interview. They’re taking their time getting around to me” – daring phone chat for one in the position of seeking employment, but it worked in my favor. It presented me as someone with a busy phone, and with other things to do.

Eventually the receptionist got around to reminding the manager of my presence. The other end of the speakerphone then announced, “Oh, Christ, send him in. I forgot all about him.”

When I entered Jimmy G’s office (yes, that’s what they call him), I was immediately taken aback and began scanning for the camera that was shooting stock footage for the next Sopranos episode. He was swarthy beyond compare. He had a deep, gravel-y bass voice. He wore a navy blue pinstriped suit complete with a Rolex watch. He was accessorized by more than just one ring. There was no doubt about it. He was the image of mob success. There was no other way to perceive it.

His phones were ringing. People were constantly knocking on his door. But he managed to shrug it all off in efforts to give me a decent interview. He was surprised that I had a pen and paper; that I was inclined to take notes. He looked me up and down once – and only once – and seemed satisfied with what he saw. He proceeded to give me the basics about himself (did time on the Wall Street trading floor circa 1985-92), his company (based in Long Island and branching out to Manhattan), and its origins (“After seven years on the floor," [he] figured, “why should [he] keep on doing all the grunt work?”). He then informed me of his business plan (“10 desks, 5-10 deals each per month, each generating an average of 3-8 million gross in loans”). Then he told me what the commission would be from such gross funds, and he actually took out some checks made out to his Loan Officers which backed up the numbers he’d just given me.

There they were. The checks his brokers received. Right before they received them. I knew this was one of the oldest tricks in the book – showing a candidate the money before s/he could ever earn it – but I was enticed by it nonetheless. One of them had even been “whited out” and corrected. Would someone actually do that with a phony check? I preferred to think of it as an action taken by an accounting department that wanted to conserve paper. Lord knows I’d seen that many times before.

But like I said, I recognized one of the oldest tricks in the book. Despite my having been enticed by the show of checks, I was nowhere near convinced that the operation was legitimate as a result of it. However, there was more to my interview. Mr. Jimmy G allowed me to wander the floor after we’d finished talking. But before we’d finished talking, Mr. Jimmy had made it perfectly clear that I was invited to participate in his fiscal party. “You’re just what we’re looking for,” he said. “You’re well put together and articulate. You could do very well in this field.”

On the floor, I observed approximately 10 people, of all races and apparent socio-economic backgrounds, making calls, working computers, and filling out paperwork. I lingered a while, scanning the paperwork that was stacked by the fax. Mentally I took in the blank fields. They were applications. They had distinct spots that required filling: Name, Address, Date of Original Loan, Interest Rate, Amount Paid to Date, etc… It was obvious any idiot could fill them out.

One of the brokers spotted me, observed me observing the process, and then followed me out into the hall once I’d figured the entire interview process was over. He tapped me on the shoulder and pulled me aside. He was a well-dressed white man with brown hair. His skin was almost as pale as my own, and he had the same sort of dark circles underneath his blue eyes. In other words, he was a fellow white guy.

“So what’d ya think?” he asked me, Mephistophelian smirk all put into place.

“I’m not sure,” I answered. “He pulled the old trick of flashing the checks.”

“Was one of them made out to a Dan somebody?”

“Yeah, yeah. I think so.”

“That’s me.”

“Oh,” was all I could manage to say.

“Look,” the guy proceeded to tell me, “I won’t tell you this field is easy. It’s pretty grueling. But it’s not impossible. If you do the work, the money is ridiculous.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“And you want me to know that because…?” I asked.

“Because I get a feeling you could do it. You’ll need to learn a lot, and you should take some courses if you don’t know anything about the field. But I didn’t know anything about the field, and I’m –“

“You’re Dan somebody,” I said for him.

“Yeah. Yeah, I am.”

“Nice to meet you. Thanks.”

Truth be told? I probably wouldn’t have given the operation a second glance based upon the interaction I’d had with Mr. Jimmy G. But the interaction I had with Dan Somebody put it all into a different perspective.

I went home and mulled over the day's events whilst drinkng a Martini and taking in a few bong hits. And I found that I’d become excited. It wasn’t a rational sort of excitement. It was much more the type of excitement I experience when I’m doing something “wrong” that’s ultimatley better for me in the long run than anything “right.” And I realized that I’d found the boiler room I’d been looking for. I’d been looking for a sales opportunity that dealt in some solid field and that had maximum payoff. I hadn't been looking to chase a few hundred bucks at a time. I hadn't even been looking to chase a few thousand. But several thousand plus? THAT I’d been chasing, and I could justify setting aside a few months to chase it full-time.

It doesn’t matter that the operation where I'll begin working next Monday might be less than legitimate or even connected to the mob. Even if it is, I believe it’s part of a huge industry with plenty of spaces to fill. I’ve been researching the field and I’ve learned that Mortgage Brokers are among the highest-paid sales professionals in the U.S., and that over 60% of them earn over $80,000 annually. It’s the business of making loans happen. It’s been around since the dawn of Capitalism and it’s not going away anytime soon. I’d like to learn more about it.

That’s all I’ll say about it at this point. I’d like to learn more about it. But I have a feeling what I’ll learn will prove invaluable – somewhere down the line. It’s gonna be a major lifestyle change. I’m gonna have to work from 10-8:00 every weekday. But I’ll be generating my own account list; entering data on my own spreadsheets, and making my own reservations for client dinners. I’ll be on the phone most of the day and chasing real estate agents the rest of the time. It’s a huge commitment, but I’m curiously ready to make it. I'm ready to (re-)enter the White Collar Army.

Say “Hello” to your friend, the Mortgage Broker. You haven't, by any chance, been considering a ReFi lately, have you?

Re-Velveteened

Oh, My Friggin’ Christ.

I think I’m losing touch with reality. Or, more specifically, bourgeois reality. But then, even having to clarify something as basic as reality reassures me I’m only further experiencing my own reality – which, contrary to popular belief – isn’t bourgeois. So I guess all I meant to say when I introduced this entry via, “I think I’m losing touch with reality” was, “I’m obviously having another wrestling match with bourgeois reality.” There. That’s more like it. Hope you get what I mean.

‘Cuz I mean it anyway – I’m losing touch with reality! Again! See, that’s the thing about life in the Velveteen Rabbit zone. It’s not like the moral would have you think. It’s not enough to get real just once. In order to keep being real, you have to keep getting real… Again, again, and again… ad infinitum…

Tell me, please: Am I real?

I’d like to believe so. I’d like to believe I did my homework, way back in San Francisco in 1992. But that was over a decade ago, and, well, here in New York – on the verge of 2006 – I’m getting a liitle impatient. I’m impatient for some Return On Investment. I’m lookin’ for that ROI. I’m waitin’ for the payoff for bein’ real.

But so far, the only payoff for bein’ real I’ve experienced is more reality. Of my sort, that is… Which ISN’T the sort I started this passage off talkin’ about. Argh!

One friend told me to re-visit Death in Venice. I’m sure that’s worthy advice, but I’ve just finished revisiting SlaughterHouse 5, Siddartha, and Steppenwolf, so I think I’m covered as far as the eternal artist’s struggle against the bourgeois sensibilty goes… At this point, I’m just wondering how I’m ever going to contribute my own slice to that pie?

Anyway, I’ll pick up a copy of Death... Just to be sure.

But this business of being “informed so that one might create deeper literature” – I’ve gotta tell you, it’s what’s got me in a stand-still. It started with Grad School in Theatre way back in ’94… Learnin’ ‘bout my craft just sucked the wind right outta my sails. THAT, if truth be told, is the real reason I don’t pursue Theatre again. Or writing, or performing, or anything literary.

We got us a bit of a problem. We got us a writer who doesn’t wanna write – much less read or perform. UGH.

And I don’t know where to begin, when it comes to analyzing that problem. When it comes to breaking it down and recognizing the reasons why I’ve chosen to remain stagnant within the realm of “just getting by” and failed to continue to follow my artistic path. No, I might not know where to begin. But I do know which clues to drop…

Take, for instance, the observations I’ve accumulated from my functioning-alcoholic parents and their approach to life. I’ve come to emulate them almost down to the wire. Sometime during my 30s, a voice went off inside my head. It said, “Hey: You’re not getting any younger! Isn’t about time you started that drinking habit?” And so I did. As my Irish Catholic cheeks began to lose their blush of youth, I made damned sure it was replaced by the blush of blossoming (functioning) alcoholism.

Martini, anyone?

And then there’s the eternal obsession with “the steady paycheck.” Just how many of you have I bored to tears in recent years with my litanies of chasing profit? I’m sorry.

Real estate. Long distance telephone services. Gym memberships. Advertising. And then real estate again. And soon, perhaps, more advertising! When will these distractions cease to be distractions? I’ll tell you when they’ll stop: WHEN I HAVE SOME SUITABLE MEANS OF INCOME TO REPLACE THEM.

It’s the eternal artist’s paradox. You work because you have to pay your rent and bills. The time and energy you spend working takes away from your ability to produce your next work, which could hypothetically (finally!) land you in a position of being able to support yourself by your “work.” The awareness of this sick situatation renders you less than fully capable of performing your “work,” which triggers an ugly cycle vacillating between your potential self-satisfaction (in that you’re able to support yourself through working) dissipating into your self-loathing (in that you’re unable to support your “work”).

And I’m stuck thick in the middle of that paradox, here, in NYC – one of America’s most expensive cities.

But I’m gonna battle the paradox, through and through. I always have. I don’t care if it looks as though I’ve bounced from one fiscal failure to another. Those fiscal failures all supported me for a while, and got me to this point, which is here – now.

If I’m still alive and questioning then there’s still hope.

How’s this for a dose of reality: Maybe, just maybe, I’ve been too preoccupied with JUST GETTING BY to allow myself the luxury of pursuing higher goals? Perhaps, just perhaps, I’ve been trapping myself in a cycle of perpetual (REQUISITE) bohemianism by not allowing myself to assume some of my upper middle class white privilege. In other words, maybe a professional job and salary might pave the way for me to consider taking future artisitc risks. Lord knows not having any money certainly has prevented me from taking any. Even though I’ve had the time to pursue an artisitc lifestyle, I haven’t had the money. After all, even a bohemian career requires some start-up capital.

So don’t hate me if I tell you in my next post that I’ve just become a Mortgage Broker. I hear the money’s killer in that field.