Invictus

Tue, 2 Feb 2010 09:37:03 -0800

Invictus

Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the Pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds, and shall find, me unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll.
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul.

William Ernest Henley

Jersey Shore at Venice Beach

Sat, 16 Jan 2010 11:56:39 -0800

I can’t get my car out from its parking space behind my building right now. Otis seems unnerved by all the commotion and starts growling, so I go out to see what’s going on. There’s a dude at the bottom of the stairs, guarding the door, so I can’t get out of the building, so I ask, and I don’t know why, exactly, but I’m whispering...“What’s going on?”

He looks up and whispers back, “Jersey Shore.”

This is all I can see, a yellow school bus and a big light, and a gaffer sitting on the wall in case it needs to be tweaked.

“Cut!”
“Rolling!”
“Back to One!”

That’s all I can hear. I hope the crew doesn’t scratch up my car.

This one’s for Pam!!

Use As Desired

Mon, 11 Jan 2010 07:57:01 -0800

It’s not subtle. That is, if you actually read your food labels it’s not. I’m trying to think about this in terms of people I’ve known.

Hi, My Name is (Blptzpiira)

Ingredients: Water, Non-functioning brain mass, Coagulated blood vessels, racing heartbeat, no vitamins, modified political views, may contain the following: partially hydrogenated heart, dehydrated liver, polysilicon dioxide, monosodium glutamate, maltodextrin.

Directions:
Feed me, take care of me, buy me everything, don’t talk, don’t argue, let me play video games all day, watch porn, get fat, drink beer, and have no responsibility.

Major Catastrophic Earthquake

Wed, 6 Jan 2010 11:05:10 -0800

This little flyer was Scotch-taped to my building in Venice.

Good times.

Homeless Robes and Makeshift Balconies

Fri, 1 Jan 2010 08:17:21 -0800

Otis has a new habit. Well, a few, I guess. We wake up. I nuke some hot water, put it in the press with my macadamia mocha coffee, let that steep. We go for a walk, or go rollerblading, right away. He poops. I've been feeding him twice a day with Alpo and kibble. While snuggling with him, I realized he does feel a bit too skinny, so I'm upping his food intake. Anyway, we come back, and while he eats, I turn the bed into a sofa, wash dishes, then make my cup of coffee. I open the windows to get some fresh ocean air. And put the little cubes by the window. Otis likes to look out of it when he hears noises.

The place looks a mess in these pix because it was right after Tony gave me all that stuff. The trick is just to keep everything in its place, the problem is when it doesn't have a place yet (kind of like the way I felt in Pennsylvania). Like with my robes, I bought the hooks, tried to put them on the back of the bathroom door, but the door is hollow, so the screws kept falling inside of it! So my robes are homeless right now.

Venice was a hopping place last night on New Year’s Eve. I'm not sure when exactly, but sometime around 3am someone yelled out in an accent like Apu (in the Simpsons), "Ok everyone! Venice is now closed! Goodnight!" And I'm not kidding, within three minutes, the place fell silent of party goers! Then the voice echoed again, "And Happy New Year!"

Venice is gorgeous at 7 am the very first morning of The New Year. The sun is just painting the Malibu mountains with gold. No one is on the boardwalk except one or two joggers, and they stick to the bike path. I saw one homeless guy sleeping on a bench in a sitting position with his head on his chest, but he was down a-ways toward the freak show. One woman was walking her dog. And one lonely, empty bottle sat in a brown paper bag just in front of my building. Not sure you could blame that bottle on a homeless person or someone coming or going from a party, scared into setting it down immediately after hearing that Venice was closed!

Would you like some pie with that backyard?

Thu, 24 Dec 2009 07:55:18 -0800

This apartment isn’t for everyone, but anyone can see: It’s perfect for me. First of all, it’s in Venice. Anyone who knows me knows I sound like a broken record when it comes to Venice. Venice this and Venice that. And now, my tiny apartment is in Venice, so can I stop talking about it? No. It’s a tiny little thing called a studio, a single, a bachelor. That just means it doesn’t have a bedroom. It has a kitchenette, which means it doesn’t have an oven. I can’t exactly tell you how many square feet it has because it’s basically a triangle. I’d guess, though, that I have a good fifty triangular feet. And that’s enough for me. I don’t eat a lot of pie anyway, I only need a slice.

But the reason it is perfect for me is this: When I say, “It’s right on the beach.” I mean It’s RIGHT on the beach.

I may not have a bedroom, or an oven, and there may be bigger slices of pie out there, or pies in their entirety. But my slice of pie comes with a backyard that sweeps miles up and down the California coastline; starting right here in Venice, where the artists congregate, and the tourists take pictures, where Jim Morrison squatted, and the drum circle has gone on for fifty years, and the canals mimic Italy.

This is my slice of pie.

Otis Meets the Pacific

Wed, 23 Dec 2009 16:11:58 -0800

Quote from “House of Leaves”

Wed, 23 Dec 2009 16:10:38 -0800

I'm not even sure what to call it anymore except I know it feels roomy and it's drenched in sunlight and it's weightless and I know it's not cheap.

Probably not even real.

(Description of LA)

House of Leaves by Mark Z. Danielewski. Go ahead, read it!

Venice Awakes

Sat, 19 Dec 2009 03:19:58 -0800

Venice awakes to a pale pink sky that deepens into light. Soft transient tires roll on asphalt down Lincoln Boulevard slowly building speed. White noise increases. Waves froth up onto the sand. Store owners fling open gated fronts and hose the urine-stained boardwalk. It sparkles under the risen sun. They gather, the vendors, waiting to set up their wares on a Saturday morning. Arguments break out over the bureaucracy of The Lottery.

Venice isn’t what it was, but it still is.

Abbot Kinney is the new Melrose, the new Montana. Marathon runners jog in packs and 5...4...holding their hands up in the air...3...2...and we’re walking! Swing those arms. Fill in the hole. And 5...4...3...2...we’re running. They trot away, sleek in jogging clothes, water bottles bound to their waists. Artists cease arguing. Homeless stare. And I do too.

Oh LA, How I Miss Thee

Thu, 5 Nov 2009 06:10:40 -0800

If you haven’t lived in the Happy Valley, there’s no way to describe the vampirism of the area. A bit of cocktail trivia for you: State College, PA is the second most overcast city in the US. I’m sure you can guess the #1 city, but that’s all the way over on the West Coast, and on the ocean, so you can hardly blame the weather for that one. But at University Park, the upper jet stream collides on a daily basis with the jet stream pushing up from the South, and the result is this: One cold front bashes into a warm front drenched to its limit with warm Gulf water. Ka-Blam! The result is grey, slate skies, most of the time, rain-if you’re lucky, drizzle, mist, fog. The barometric pressure is all wonky. Within an hour I saw it go from 30.30 and “stable” to 29.97 and “stable” and then back up again. The result is depression and pounding headaches, as though someone inserted a balloon in your head then blew and blew and blew...then continued to blow.

My parents live here. When I mention the weather migraines, they take offense. Most locals do. They seem to think my weather headaches are a direct indication of some kind of negative judgement of their “home”. This is not the case. I’m really, very seriously, in pain. And the reason I know the level of pain I’m in is because I have lived in so many places where I never got headaches or Seasonal Affective Disorder, if you want to call it that. They say, but we get four beautiful seasons. And they are definitely right about that. I had to buy “real” socks my first winter after moving here from California. Hunter’s socks. Those socks mean business, and their business is to keep feet warm.

The leaves changing are gorgeous. But the smell of the decaying, dying forest, and the squirrels scampering up trees, desperate to store nuts, to be honest, makes me anxious. They seem to know something’s coming, something they haven’t told me. And I’m not sure they would, if they could talk. Or if I could speak “squirrel”. My dog knows though. He understands every chirpy squirrel-squawk, and sometimes he looks up at me with his eyes raised in a questioning fashion, motions outside, then hops up onto the sofa and curls up in a ball on a warm blanket as if to indicate, “Wake me up when summer gets here.”

And that’s how I feel, too. Either take me to a warm tropical place, or let me hibernate through the next six months of grey slate skies and wintry mixes and sleet, snow, and freezing drizzle. Let me sleep and dream of beaches and cabanas, mango margaritas, surfing and sun, nature’s sand exfoliating my toes, and the gentle hushing of the lapping waves.