They Make 'Em Good In Gujirat

Today at the laundromat, I cut my thumb while loading the washer. Too fast, too clumsy, too much, too soon.

And not a damn band-aid in sight. I managed to finish without any bloodstains on my clothes and headed to the corner grocery store. There, the friendly neighborhood Indian store-owner not only sold me a reasonably-priced box of Chinese bandages, he even wrapped the band-aid on my thumb, itself. How cool is that ? Don't know what his name is, but I call him Gujirat - for the region of India that is his birthplace. And I wanted to say "Thank You" in Hindu/Urdu/WhatDo/Whatever.

FACTOID : Compassion is the number one export from the Indian state of Gujirat.

Tonight...

there was a too-beautiful view of the Wrigley building from the State Street bridge

there were too many Brads roaming River North hotspots

there were too many blank faces waiting for the bus

there were too many expensive cars cruising around Cabrini

there was too much hugging before slinking into limousines

there were too many shadows along the north branch

there was too much time between faces

there was music too good for the neighborhood

there were more vampires than nurses

there was a sky with no moon

there was not enough reason to kill myself.

Hey...

I just composed and posted a poem in about 15 minutes.

Don't I qualify for a grant or something ?


ST. CHINASKI

find the narrow ladder
and climb up

just
climb
on
up

reach that platform
and breathe

breathe in
the ghosts

of calliopes
lions and
red balloons

one quick glance down
is all you're allowed
when
nothing
is there

so step off

the left foot is there
isn't it?
and
going
nowhere

now swing that right foot
thats it

now left

now right

left right left

the wire appears
and
the wire always provides

but you have
to find
that
ladder
first.

A Definition (for now)

SugarSkullParade

I started this thing with a vague idea in mind.

To connect.

As time has gone by - approaching a year now - I have shifted and squirmed about politics, culture, and the general state of the world. But I haven't connected with anyone, really. It turns out I don't have as much passion for screaming "FIRE" in the blessed theatre we call earth as I thought. So screw it.

I have a passion for art - music, poetry, and the elegant syntax with which artists string together life's verses and choruses. That's it. And that is enough.

The world is going to hell in a Wal-Mart shopping cart soon enough.

In the meantime, let's keep scribbling and typing, jotting down and scratching out, editing and perfecting the last days of our age. Art is all that matters.

And another drink wouldn't hurt, either. Join me, won't you ?

The Mssing Diary - Toward Aboard and Off The Bus

walking toward the bus stop/the Altgeld one with trees shading over brick and concrete pavement/bordered by black wrought iron/and on my way there i saw a man positively strolling/just enjoying the sunlight and October warmth/he held a glass of cola in his left hand/not a bottle/not a plastic bottle/not a platic cup/not a styrofoam cup/but a glass with ice cubes and everything/and why the hell not?


i see the bus/sitting at the stop sign/going nowhere/i step around to the door/and see a drunk/comfortable on the top step/bottle in bag/smile on his face/the driver just looks at me/so i say - there's another bus coming, right? - /before she can answer/the drunk yells - what the fuck do you want? - /without thinking i scream back - i aint talking to you! - /the driver says nothing and the drunk yells again - get out of here - /and i scream back - shut the fuck up! - /and you know what?/he shuts up/he shuts the fuck up


on the ride north to suburbia/a pair of mittens/left behind by a girl/in full I-pod armor/unaware of drunks and curses and stranded buses/are rescued by/an Eastern European man/he pantomimes to the driver/in bruised English/and the driver motions out his window/and the girl gets tapped on the shoulder/she smiles and comes back for the mittens/the Eastern European man smiles/to his fellow passenger/the driver winks in the rear-view mirror/and i concur

if not for poetry ?

The Mssing Diary

Couldn't fall asleep until 7 or 7:30 this morning/woke up at 11:00/thought it over and went back to sleep until 1:50 P.M./popped my meds/did i forget them yesterday?/i need to refill/showered/took the train downtown without my backpack/feeling naked/looking normal/picked up check/heard about power failures at work(2)/was relieved to know i'm on vacation until 11/1 and it doesn't concern me/cashed check/had lunch at Earwax (BBQ seitan burrito with chips and salsa and sour cream)/needed a Bukowski fix/went to Myopic books/picked up "What Matters Most Is How Well You Walk Through The Fire" because that title suited me today/now going to the Gallery open mic/hoping for two slots/one-music, one-poetry/if only one available i will choose poetry because the songbird in me has migrated for now/

AT THE BALLPARK

from the top row
of section 517

row 9
to be exact

you can see
past the bleachers
over the rooftops
east about half a mile
to the lake

a strip of deep blue
astonishing
and silent
as a bathtub full of paint

there are sailboats
and jet-skis
speedboats and water-skiers
gulls
swimmers
and divers

but not
a single sound
that reaches section 517

row 9
to be exact

NIGHT PASSAGE

riding the highway
at night
on a bus

half-a-dozen
of us travellers
scattered
in the forty-two seats

dozing
or chatting
maybe reading
or just staring
at the inside
of our own skulls

i like the distance
between the towns
stretches of field
and pasture
without light

only
the distant treeline
against
the faint sky

and once in a while
a tiny dot
or two
of warm yellow

from
the farmhouse windows

who have night passengers
of their own
to comfort

GIN

spanish music
on the radio

a ceiling fan spins

one glass
one bottle
and a stainless-steel .38

the last ace in the deck

HIDEOUT

my apartment has strangled the sunlight

faint sirens and whistles
dance through the brick, copper, and glass
of the cityscape outside my window

the cat rests under the desk
with one eye open,
and watches

for dogs

for pigeon blood

for a train
to the country

and I keep pinning
ribbons of text
to my swollen heart

while August crashes
and dies on the roof

Advertising Hits New Low

SugarSkullParade
Here in Chicago, there is a new development in advertising that scared the shit out of me the first time I saw it. It is in a place you would never have suspected. (I'm sure the geniuses who dream up this type of stuff have a cool handle for it like, "gotcha" whatever, or "guerilla" whatever). It is in the subway system of our fair city, but not on the usual platform billboards, or in-train placards.

No, this motherfucker is projected on the darkened tunnel wall itself as the train is moving. Between the Clark/Lake stop and the Washington stop on the Blue Line.
Like a silent movie.
Ghost-like.
Flickering images.
Creepy.

The first time I noticed it, I thought there was a fire under the tracks. The damn thing begins with flashes of light (to get your attention of course). Then a series of images flashes along the wall outside of your train window and tells the dramatic story of how Hummers can drive across mountains and desert plateaus. How impressive. Thank God that 45-second ride from Clark/Lake to Washington has something to liven it up. I was so bored.

Upon a Midnight ! - Clear ?

SugarSkullParade
Well - here we are. An I'll be darned if I know.....

Another Dream

i am walking through a weird house/i am supposed to be inspecting it for a dinner party that night/strange hybrid of design/long dining tables,chandeliers,and silverware/away from the tables/along the walls/junky 1970's TV sets/patio furniture/out-of-order vending machines/after two rooms worth of this i slip out without anyone noticing/realize i have to cash a check/it is late at night/must visit currency exchange a mile away/walk through unknown but harmless neighborhood/senior citizens and children everywhere but no adults/reach within 1/2 mile of currency exchange and begin running/effortless and smooth/athletic as i never was/people admire from passing cars/i reach store,go in,cash check/on the way out an employee mumbles something/i turn to ask what it was/another employee tells me "he said boy, that hottie can run"!/i leave saying nothing/arrive at swimming pool and meet my two nephews/we swim and play checkers at the edge of the pool/

The Pointless Adventures Of Mr. Head-In-A-Bong

I have decided to start a new series of occasional posts that will highlight the brain-damaged mis-adventures of people who make "bad choices" (often known as "fun choices"). The prime mover in these situations is usually an intoxicant of some variety, and the results are usually harmless. Sometimes embarassing. Often instructional.

I will begin with a tale as told by my friend Todd, many years ago. He had just turned legal drinking age and was eager to impress a member of the opposite sex at a downtown nightclub. After some witty conversation and a few turns on the dance floor, it was time to do the manly thing and buy a round for himself and his lady companion. It sounds so simple and oh-so-quaint, doesn't it? Like a folk song. Or a black-and-white movie. Or a shrieking epileptic on a meth binge. Yeah, maybe that last part.

So, I will break it down into 7 easy steps - the way to impress the hot ladies downtown....

1) Spill a girl's drink
2) Promise her another one
3) Forget the name of the drink when you reach the bar
4) Make your best guess
5) Discover you don't have enough money to pay for it
6) Borrow money from a semi-stranger
7) Return with drink and be informed that it is NOT what she ordered

Oh yes. If it was good enough in 1982, it's good enough today. Go get 'em tiger......

A Head Full Of Sick

Tonight I came to the end - to at least the end of the worst part of what should end soon. Is that clear enough for you? Me neither.

For the last 5 to 6 days I have been skimming pools of phlegm in a magic cough syrup-powered rocket boat. My first mate has been Lady Honeytea, but her charms are not enough. Additional help from the ibuprofen armada and kleenex patrol have been required. Our journey has been a rough one, but is now nearing its end.

May those who pass this way after us be strong. Strong as a Russian female weight-lifter. Strong as a week-long unwashed armpit. Or - even, God forbid - strong as the effort required to refrain from puking at the stench of a week-long unwashed armpit from a Russian female weightlifter.

(Special thanks to my friend clang for the malodorous metaphors.)
www.clangster.com

6 Weeks of Bullshit

Haven't posted in about 6 weeks. Been working my ass off and barely keeping up with the bills....yeah, what's new?

What's new you ask? Paul Westerberg is a drunken asshole. One of my favorite songwriters ever has relapsed and decided to drag down his band/audience,etc...along with him. Fuck him. I want my $36.00 ticket refunded. And I want Paul admitted to re-hab with Ticketmaster footing the bill. Fuck them too.

Love and sunshine everybody......

Another Dream

i am walking outside a large grocery store/i am discussing St. Patrick's Day plans with a friend/we part ways/he continues walking and i go into the store/inside i see that it has been temporarily converted to a TV studio where a live broadcast is happening/it is Lennon and McCartney circa 1965-66 and they are singing "I've Just Seen A Face" on acoustics/Lennon is singing lead for some reason and he is fucking up badly/McCartney just rolls with it and they manage to finish the tune together/immediately a teenage boy and girl run up to them/the girl hands Paul a large sponge the size of a loaf of bread/they are grinning and expecting some comedy improv/Paul obliges them by waving it over their foreheads like the pope giving a blessing/they laugh and so does the audience/Lennon takes the sponge-pretends it's a ringing telephone-answers it and says"Yes, your Holiness-Right away!"/then he clobbers McCartney with the sponge/audience roars and applauds/the show is over-audience files out-i stay to watch the crew break down the set/an overweight man approaches and hands me a stick of gum/there is no brand name visible because the outside paper wrapper is gone but i know it is Wrigley's Doublemint gum/the last thing the crew does is turn off giant light switches on the wall by swinging toward them on huge swings suspended from the ceiling like the ones in the circus/right before the last one is turned off, the overweight man returns/he says to me and the crew and the empty audience, "One more thing - You all can suck my fucking dick!"/he then unzips and exposes himself/the manager behind bulletproof glass calls out over the intercom, "That's it ! Now, everybody start over now!"/all of the employees return and begin setting up a buffet-style meal featuring whole wheat tortillas/i grab a couple tortillas,begin eating them, and walk away/

Good News and Bad News For The Neo-Cons

GOOD NEWS They got a belligerent, hard-core Europhobe as the next nominee for U.S. ambassador to the United Nations. He will probably be approved by Congress and will be embarassing us for years to come. Congratulations.

BAD NEWS Halliburton gets busted for conducting business inside Iran. According to NBC, Halliburton side-stepped our sanctions against those "evil mullahs" by setting up a subsidiary in The Cayman Islands. It is actually the subsidiary doing business in Iran - not the company itself. Here's the kicker : When NBC asked to speak with compnay spokespersons, they were referred to company HQ in Texas. Nice try, assholes.

You Too Can Be A Dream Interpreter !

Here's an idea: Once in a while I will post a summary of an actual dream I have had. You will then post your analysis in the comments section. Deal?
Here's the first one....

i am watching TV/somewhere unknown/small B&W set/recessed into the wall of a room with the lights out/an elevator to my right opens/my Dad sticks his head out to see what I'm watching/we say nothing/it is a documentary narrated by a father who's son has died/the off-screen narrator(Hispanic) laments all he failed to do & say with son/narrator then comes onscreen and recites poetry while a movie projector shows slow-motion footage of car accidents over him/i am near tears/Dad steps off elevator/goes into kitchen/puts on coat and gathers things including six-pack of beer/He is wasted,sporting a full beard,and looks depressed as hell/there is a homeless and dangerous-looking black woman standing nearby who says nothing and tries to go unnoticed but i notice her/and i know she will rob him once he steps outside/i have to step out the back door a moment/then i realize Dad has left out the front door/i rush back inside/no one there/Dad and woman gone/i rush out the front door/porch light not working/no one in sight/see a mallard duck walking alone under street lamp/it is late fall/hear a wolf-dog approaching from my left/wolf-dog meets a mate/they sniff and play/the mallard avoids them/i notice a fleeing deer to my right who escapes entirely/hooves clacking around side of house and away into the darkness/i turn my attention back to center and realize duck is now a swan that is quaking in fear/he flutters and sqwaks/i worry that the wolf-dogs will notice/

So Much For That...

It was a good concept, poorly executed. Since I don't have a laptop, I have to make notes, then take them home and post them RIGHT AWAY !!! My attention span started drifting around 3:00 A.M. and downhill it went....so...I live to blog another day....

Overnight Blog

Okay - here's the concept : For the next 6 hours or so, I am going to chronicle my Saturday night. Exterior and interior. I have no real plan for myself except to eat,drink, and be merry without falling on my face(too hard). In a partial tribute to Sam Cooke, I will call it "Another Saturday Night And I Aint Got Nobody To Blame But Myself."
Or A.S.N.A.I.A.G.N.T.B.B.M. for not-so-short.

Rain Shadows This Summer?

SugarSkullParade
Last week I read about a British artist named Andy Goldsworthy. He is currently constructing a massive stonework at The National Gallery of Art in Washington D.C., to be called "Roof". But what caught my eye was his concept of "rain shadows", wherein people lie down on the grass during a rainstorm. If you hold your position until the rain stops, you leave behind an impression in the grass. This sounds like a productive afternoon to me - anyone else interested? If you're in the Chicago area and would like to give it a whirl this summer, contact me.

Here is the article.

Uncle Duke Is Gone

I won't waste a lot of space here on adjectives like "brazen", "incendiary","ruthless", or "gonzo".

I will disregard the flamboyance,the obsession with firearms, and the river of alcohol and drugs that coursed through practically everything he ever wrote. It doesn't matter.

What matters is he had balls. Remember that. And the next time you have a chance to raise a glass, hoist one in his memory.

Then, invite the "Jeff Gannons" of the world to kiss your iconoclastic ass.

Say Goodnight, Johnny

Well, I never thought my first post after a month's absence, would concern a 79 year-old retired TV host nobody had seen in public for years. A man who didn't flaunt his celebrity, court the papparazi, or flatter himself with "coming-out-of-retirement" appearances in Las Vegas. His name was Johnny Carson and television comedy is much, much better for his having been involved in it.

Do you like stand-up comedy? Enjoy audience-participation gags? How about "Saturday Night Live" ? The man was there. He continued and actually improved upon the inroads made by Steve Allen, and others in the TV talk show genre. And as far as SNL goes, it was his clout that got the show off the ground in the first place.

In the 1970's, when television networks avoided controversial comics like Richard Pryor, and George Carlin, Carson didn't flinch.

He also invited Frank Zappa on the show, to discuss his views on the censorship of rock music lyrics. (They agreed it was political bullshit on the part of Al Gore. Sorry Al ! Wish you got elected in 2000, but in 1985 you were a jackass.)

He was a witty and polite man - the ultimate host and consummate professional. He will be missed dearly.

In fact, I would say that the TV talk show circuit has been missing him for years now.