Thursday, April 20, 2017

Dear God: No cable, thus... NPR all night!

Time-Warner/Spectrum fucked up, as usual. (Yes, "as usual." I just moved 2 years ago. They fucked up then by being 4 hours late and then having a non-English speaker who could not figure out how to hook up my cable box and was asking ME for instructions! Today, they fucked up with Angel insisting that I'd only ordered Internet service, not TV. I showed him the receipt from April 10, when I'd placed the order: Cable TV, Internet. Nope, Angel couldn't do anything... but take my modem because he said I wasn't get cable! Just curious: Why can't the service-people call in to "headquarters" to get things straightened out? Angel thought I just ordered Internet. Although I showed him my receipt showing otherwise, he refused to fix the problem. People make mistakes, but refusing to see logic and try to fix them??? My definition of insanity.)

In short: I am for the night without the cable TV that I'm addicted to. Mainly Bravo and Fox (in the evening hours) and C-SPAN, PBS, and/or TCM for going to sleep.

In lieu of my visual nighttime entertainment, I worked on my Joan website while listening to NPR. Which I often listen to while driving to work just because of no commercials, although the outright irrational leftist views are amazing to me... (I was about to bitch about why the federal government is funding such, but... apparently, only 16% of NPR funding comes from govt sources.)

Tonight on NPR, on the "HumaNature" program (I went to their website to learn the correct lower/uppercasing): Debbie was a ballroom dancer whose foot was bitten by a shark. (Not bitten OFF, just bitten.) She was swimming in an area where sharks also swam. Now, normally, someone who'd been bitten by a shark might think, "Oh, fuck! Ow! I knew I shouldn't have been swimming here because of the sharks!" But Debbie is more spiritual than the rest of us: "There must have been a reason why I was bitten." And she gave it: "To prove my commitment to environmental conservation. [Being bitten] proved that I could be an environmental advocate... that I could have that relationship again with nature." She went from "anger to advocacy." And she's even dancing again!

(Dear Debbie: Why the anger and drama and yadda-yadda-yadda over being bitten by a shark? It was a dumb act of nature. Sharks bite stuff. There's no hidden meaning in it.) 

Following Debbie on the same program was Amy. Amy was depressed about Trump being elected and concerned about the diversity of all of us. The past 8 years had been so good. (This segment was accompanied by a dirge-like piano, similar to that in John Lennon's "God.") Despite her depression, Amy went in to work the next day. She studies prairie dogs. When she went out in the field the day after Trump's election, she felt that the prairie dogs had a "special call" for her. While watching them, she saw a chickadee: "I could hear its little toe-nails on my hat." The chickadee then flew from her hat to her co-workers shoes. And then followed them. And then there was a badger! The animals "sensed my sorrow. It had to mean something. It'll be OK. You're doing good things. Don't give up." Amy now plans to start a compost pile.

(Dear Amy: The prairie dogs, chickadees, and badgers don't give a fuck who just won the U.S. presidential election.)

Having been in Austin off and on for the past 30+ years, and in San Francisco for a couple of years in the '90s, I was aware that some random people thought like this. Today, though, seems that this is supposed to be how we're ALL supposed to think (or else we're redneck racists). I PROTEST.

Tuesday, April 18, 2017

Room with No View

More hours of transporting stuff to the new place today. Then, when I got home... Appreciated the sunset from my kitchen window, and from the study that I never got to use. The view really is pretty here from the second floor. My new place has no view whatsoever. NONE.

It's depressing to move. While I've been packing and driving over random boxes to the new place for the past 4 days, I've also been thinking about how hopeful I felt when I first moved in to my current 2-bedroom place. I'd been living in a one-room apartment from 2010 to early 2015, in the only apartment I could afford after coming back from NYC. After I got hired full-time, I could afford this 800-sq-ft place, and afford to buy a bedroom set, a real couch, a patio set, etc.

The patio set never came out of the box. I never felt comfortable enough here to sit outside.

My study, I also never got to use; within a couple of months of living here, the constant yelling of the guy downstairs apparently parked directly under my study made me move my computer to the dining table up front. Which overlooked the parking lot, where I had to constantly hear everyone coming and going, which I didn't want to hear. I hate that asshole.

My new place is 1200 square feet. Completely renovated. I should be excited about moving into a really nice place. I might be soon, but I'm not right now. Right now, I'm just tired. And depressed. Moving was interesting and somewhat "fun" in my 20s and early 30s. ("What new setting will I find myself in?!") At over 50, though, there's nothing new about any part of Austin that's interesting. And it's depressing to finally be making a decent salary but still have to live around weirdos. Without a view. Most of all, it's a huge pain in the ass (and back and ankles) to have to haul all of my shit around yet again.

Monday, April 17, 2017

Dudes et al.

Ironic that one of the main reasons I'm moving out of my current place is because of the constant yelling of the black guy downstairs... and the first thing I hear upon carting a few boxes into my new place earlier this week: a black maintenance-guy yelling on the phone in the work-room next door to my new apartment. I only had a few things to transport on the day that I picked up my key; the whole 20 minutes, though, the guy was yelling and I could hear him all through my apartment.

I've  been moving a few boxes at a time since last Friday. The real movers will come this Thursday to do the heavy furniture; in the meantime, my goal is to transport odds-n-ends from a room a day through Wednesday.

Although my new apartment is huge (you could actually roller-skate in my living room), the down-side is: While I'm paying a lot for my apartment, there are many other lesser-priced apartments surrounding it. The complex ranges from efficiencies to 3-bedrooms. (I've got a 2/2.) I didn't think that much of it when the apartment manager first took me on a tour weeks ago: The place looked well-tended and seemed quiet during our tour. One thing I noticed, though, on the day that I took the tour and signed my lease: In the building overlooking my small backyard-to-be: Three chairs and a grill outside one apartment. Now, TWO chairs might indicate a couple who liked to sit outside and chat quietly amongst themselves. But THREE chairs?

While I was moving in this weekend, I unfortunately proved my instincts right: During both Saturday and Sunday while moving, a trio of raggedy-looking "Dudes" were hanging out and smoking there. Two were raggedy 20-somethings; the third was a raggedy late-40-something. I said "hello" the first time I passed them carrying a box. As I marched on back and forth with my boxes, the Dudes would stop their conversation and stare. I nodded the first few times, then got annoyed. (Mind your business, Dudes!) Caught a bit of their conversation as I passed: One guy had had his driver's license revoked but hoped to have it reinstated soon.

Over 2 days of my hauling boxes with these guys staring: Their apartment building overlooking mine housed smaller 1-bedroom units. What were two 20-somethings and a 40-something doing living together? Their collective haggard look (and collective dog-walking -- all 3 of the same guys -- which I noticed on one of my later delivery trips) indicated not that they were gay, but that they were sharing something of a halfway house, recuperating and smoking-rather-than-drinking together for $945 per month.

Good for them. But bad for me, since their 3-seat stoop directly overlooks what I'd thought was a bonus of my new place: a backyard. It ain't no backyard for me with 3 Dudes hanging out just above it.

In other Moving-In News: The parking lot where I parked while hauling boxes abutted a small backyard of a tenant's apartment. At 9am Sunday when I arrived, a rough-looking white guy and a couple of Hispanic women were out at their backyard table smoking. I said "Good morning" the first time I passed, but not one of them replied. (I always find that odd: Not responding to a direct greeting!) I had several loads to pick up from my car, and so passed their area several times. I always looked over at them to potentially greet, but not once did they acknowledge me, even though I was a mere 3 feet away from them.

I think my take-away is: If you get a raise and have more money to spend on a place... Get a place where your fellow tenants' income is similar to yours. Not some apparent "mixed-income" refuge that you must share with the Shitty Poor. (As opposed to "The Poor Who Are Trying," as I once was.)

I wonder where/when/with whom I'll begin to live my life.

Thursday, April 13, 2017

I saw this ad on Fox tonight...

Agreed with it for the most part. This is EXACTLY what I've been seeing on what I used to call "the news" for the past 6 months or so. Nothing but anti-Trump, pro-leftist violence.

The NRA, though? I'm still a doubter. Those guys need to support the banning of semi-automatic weapons. And they need to support the banning of households with ex-cons and domestic abusers and crazy kids from having guns. Sandy Hook mom, for instance. She thought her little autistic darling was more normal when she took him to the shooting range.

Tuesday, April 11, 2017

Put It Together (Langhorne Slim)

A really good song that's been playing on Coke commercials.

I saw my reflection
I fell to my knees
I threw my possessions onto the street
Now they're asking us questions
To things we don't know
Shouldn't hold on any longer if we're gonna let go
This heart of mine, it hurts sometimes
It was broken, now it's better
Since you left, put it together
I lost my direction
On the day I was born
But I felt disconnected since they cut the cord

If I learn my lesson
And find me some peace
'Cause I need protection from this heart on my sleeve
This heart of mine, it hurts sometimes
It's been broken, now it's better
Since you left, put it together
This heart of mine, it hurts sometimes
It's been broken, now it's better
Since you left, put it together

Monday, April 10, 2017

Like Family

When I first started my current job 3 years ago, one of the first events that I experienced at the workplace was a day-long retreat at a nearby recreational facility where we first heard lectures about how the company was like a family, then got to hit balls on a mini golf range. At the time, I rolled my eyes at the corny, overt "team-building" phoniness of it.

Last week, though, my boss actually made me cry with her innate kindness and true "family" feeling.

I'd worked a lot of overtime in March, saving up for my upcoming move. The Payroll department had been having problems with incompetent employees in the past months, not getting the overtime paychecks out, etc. Knowing this, I was super-careful in March to document every single overtime hour and e-mail the Payroll department upon completion of the hours. I even specifically told them, "I'm moving next month, so it's really important to me that I get this money on time."

Long story short: I should have received over $600 in an April 7 check. I did not. Payroll had fucked up yet again. I actually wept at work when I saw that I hadn't received the money when I should've. My boss went and talked to the Payroll people. When it was determined that the check wouldn't arrive until April 21 (too late to pay for my current moving expenses) because of their fuck-ups, my boss came to my office:

Boss: "What are you doing Monday?"
Me: [sniffling and baffled] "I don't know."
Boss: "On Monday, we're going across the street to my bank. I'm going to take out $600, and then you're going to take me to lunch."

After initially crying because I didn't get the check that I'd expected/needed, I then wept even more because of this incredible act of kindness by a virtual stranger, a business associate.

I contrast this to the time in 2010 when I'd been forced back to Austin, forced to live with my mother, after being unable to find steady work in NYC. I had freelance editing work while living with her, but no full-time job. Apartments that I looked at in Austin required a full-time job, or else a co-signer for the lease. My mother, who had willingly co-signed a couple of years earlier for my brother's HOUSE, refused to co-sign for a $575-per-month one-room apartment for me, instead asking me: "What are you going to do, Steph?"

I ended up wrangling with the cheap-o apartment complex to let me live there if my freelance employer provided a letter saying that their work was relatively steady, which they did.

I will never forget either the ice-cold "What are you going to do, Steph?" in my time of need, or the warm kindness of the boss ready to take out her own money to help me.

The Avett Brothers / Austin City Limits / "Kick Drum Heart"

The footprints over the snow
the fabric of all the lonely
C-Covering only
the fables and hands
the rest is out in the cold
holding the last of the season
F-F-F freezin' Yeah

My my my heart like a kick drum
My my heart like a kick drum
My my heart like a kick drum
My love like a voice.

We're walkin' in to the fields.
We're walkin in to the forest.
The moon is before us.
Up above
We're holdin' hands in the rain
S-sayin' words like I love you
D-d-d'you love me? Yeah

My my heart like a kick drum
My my heart like a kick drum
My my heart like a kick drum
My my love like a voice

Mother Mary heard us approaching her door
Although we didn't make a sound.

There's nothing like finding gold
within the rocks hard and cold
I'm so surprised to find more
Always surprised to find more

I won't look back anymore
I left the people that do
Its not the chase that I love
Its me following you.

Tuesday, April 04, 2017

Solid Gold (1981) Split Enz - "Hard Act To Follow"

In '81, I was 16, and hoping that the entertainment world would turn out more like Split Enz and less like the Solid Gold Dancers. Today: Nothing but Solid Gold Dancers.

Split Enz - Poor Boy (1980)

Saturday, April 01, 2017

The Beatles - A Day In The Life (1967)

Found my way upstairs and had a smoke, and somebody spoke and I went into a dream.

1966: Strawberry Fields Forever

Living is easy with eyes closed
Misunderstanding all you see
It's getting hard to be someone, but it all works out
It doesn't matter much to me...

Wednesday, March 29, 2017

What 50K per year gets you in Austin

I'm about to move out of my 800-sq-ft loud, roof-leaky apartment that I'm paying $1000 per month for; am seeking a duplex or small house around the same size. There's nothing out there! Today I drove by the above, offered for $1100 --- it was a shithole; in a crappy neighborhood on a crappy street.

But... but... I just got a raise! I make 50K per year! And this is all I can afford in Austin! A place where, as the tracks indicate, people feel the need to park on the front lawn.

Back in the '80s and '90s when I brought home $1234 per month, I lived in better places in Austin ($250 for a garage apartment in Hyde Park, $310 for a duplex on Rainey). And from 2000 to 2007, when I made about 36K per year, I lived in a neat house in a neat neighborhood that I paid $825 a month for.

I can't seem to get ahead. I now make 50K per year and I can't find a decent place to live.

Monday, March 27, 2017

SNL with Kristen Stewart: Totinos!

Kinda funny, kinda my real lesbian fantasy -- including the French-speaking part. :)

Torment (1944)

Wow! Thank you, Universe, for the meaningful-to-me film that I caught by accident because I couldn't sleep at 3am on Monday morning.

I came upon this film on TCM about halfway through, not having any clue what I was watching. In the first scene that I happened upon, The Lovers were beautiful and embracing. The Girl was scared. Ominous shadows on the walls. The Girl begged the Boy not to leave. More shadows (as dramatic as "Cabinet of Dr. Caligari") as he left; he had to study for his graduation exams (really!). 

I thought: It's a murder mystery. The Girl is about to be killed. Indeed, once her lover had left, she went about her shadowy apartment turning the light off and on. Once she'd gotten into bed, a shadowy figure appeared and she shrieked...

Now, I thought that the college boy would be blamed for a murder, etc. etc. Nope. She wasn't murdered. The Boy came back a day or so later... And so much more happened!

This film was surprising and, yes, wondrous, in its honesty. While watching to the end, I kept thinking, "I really love this film, but how in the world am I ever going to figure out who made this and who these people are?" Usually TCM films on so late have no summing up at the end, unlike their prime-time movies. This one did, though: Directed by Alf Sjoberg (whom I hadn't heard of), and... the very first screenplay by Ingmar Bergman! There's a tipping point of trust with artists, as there is with people you actually know... I'd seen "Wild Strawberries" and "Fanny and Alexander" and "The Seventh Seal" and I admired the man's work, etc. But with "Torment," I found I could trust him.

What I thought was going to be a simplistic (and lauded) noir-type thing (based, obviously, on all of the shadows and staircases that I was seeing) turned out to be a psychologically nuanced and interesting slice of reality. There was extreme darkness, but not just for darkness' sake. And there was banal darkness, of the type that I recognized. But also, in the midst of all of the pain, was everyday human kindness and decency, and a real, unphony sense of actual hope.

After watching this, I felt I could breathe again. Sanity!

Read more:

Friday, March 24, 2017

This is what I really like about Trump:

About as successful and Alpha as you can get, but still having fun and acting stupid in a truck.

Sick to death of 8 years of Obama's careful enunciations and moral proclamations and posing, and the media eating it up. All the while ignoring Obama's utter lack of qualifications for the job. (Community organizer? Part-time professor? State Senator? Really?) He looked and sounded good, so he must have been qualified for the Presidency AND the Nobel Peace Prize, right?

Tuesday, March 21, 2017

I want surprises

Your sweet nature, darling
Was too hard to swallow
I've got the solution
I'm leaving tomorrow
And now as I stand
And stare into your eyes
I see safety there
I want surprises

What I really need to do
Is find myself a brand new lover
Somebody with eyes for me
Who doesn't notice all the others
What I really need to do
Is find a brand new lover

When you wake up tomorrow
You'll be all alone
All the love that we had
I have quickly outgrown
I wanted to stay, but I just couldn't do it
Couldn't stand there and put you through it

What I really need to do
Is find myself a brand new lover
Somebody with eyes for me
Who doesn't notice all the others
What I really need to do
Is find myself a brand new lover
Somebody with eyes for me
Who doesn't notice all the others

My other loves will tell you that
I'm nothing but a pleasure-seeker
And for once I really must agree
I need to leave you by yourself
And go in search of someone else
To satisfy my curiosity

Your sweet nature, darling
Was too hard to swallow
I've made my decision
I'm leaving tomorrow

What I really need to do
Is find myself a brand new lover
Somebody with eyes for me
Who doesn't notice all the others
What I really need to do
Is find a brand new lover


In this period of nothingness, have expected nothingness. Only, I got a treat last night. Ginny. A very long dream that I remembered almost nothing of when I woke up other than a good feeling.

I've been thinking cynically recently that, now that I'm over 50, it didn't matter that Ginny had died in '88. I'd wanted her to be young with. I'd wanted to explore Austin with her. To see bands, to get a first apartment with. Now that I'm over 50, I don't need her any more. I've done all of that "young" stuff by myself.

What I've been missing for the past decade or more, though, is the feeling of being loved. I've learned to live without it. What Ginny did when appearing in the dream last night was remind me: I was once loved. She left me emotionally years before she actually died, but for a few months in 1983, she loved me. I felt it. It was special, and that feeling has come back to sustain me over the decades, here and there. Not necessarily during my worst of times, but at surprising, unexpected times. Like last night.

During such long stretches of barren times, I've grasped on to anything --- TV shows like "Long Island Medium" or "Dead Files," for instance, which show how the dead attempt to contact the living. The former in a positive way; the latter, negative. I've not been attracted to the negative -- have usually been repulsed by it -- so don't fear that... But I've always wondered if some kind of spirit has been watching over me. My Me-Ma, for instance. Or Ginny. Or Joan. I wasn't loved at all by my family or by lovers, so wonder what has sustained me.

Monday, March 20, 2017

Kind of makes me sick.

89-1/2 B Rainey Street, 2007.
89-1/2 B Rainey Street, 2016.

I lived at the white duplex at the end of this road from 1991 to 1994. Two of my cats were buried in the backyard. (One, Toonces, was run over in front of me as I called her one morning before work; the other, Katie Scarlett, I found dead, run over, in my front yard when I got home from work.)

Rainey Street is now a hipster bar district. My cats' graves have long been bulldozed.

This period of time was very unhappy for me, despite how much I loved the place itself. Bad/very sad breakup. I was desolate nearly the whole time. I would walk down to the river (a short walk to the right) whenever I was upset. Got stopped by the police once at Thanksgiving when I was stalking around grimly ("I'm just in a bad mood, officer.") Also got stopped once by a couple of guys looking for a good time ("No thanks. I'm just in a bad mood.").

It all could have been much worse.

I miss my cats. I miss the hope I felt when I first moved into this place. What the place turned into is worse than my own specific sad memories.

Saturday, March 18, 2017

River Phoenix: Aleka's Attic - Across the Way 1991

Woke up Friday...

... to see the Trump sticker on my car tagged with a big ol' "Fuck."

I bought the sticker months before I bought my car back in July 2016, purely to inspire me to get out of a rut: I couldn't decide whether to keep riding buses or to invest in a car after 9 years of being without one (after moving to NYC in 2007). I told myself: If Trump wins the nomination (which wasn't at all a given), I'll get a car to put this sticker on. He did, and I did.

Friends/family/co-workers then warned me about the dangers of having a Trump sticker on my car: My car would be vandalized, etc. But I had the courage of my convictions. It's been 8 months since I first put the sticker on my new car. 4 months since the election. 2 months since Trump actually took office.

Friends told me they were surprised I hadn't been vandalized sooner. Sad.

In the next month that I'm at this apartment, I'll make sure I park my car where it can be seen from my window. And today, I ordered a pack of 10 Trump stickers online. If I catch anyone touching my car again, I'll recognize the person and then slap a Trump sticker on THEIR car.

Wednesday, March 15, 2017

Nostalgia: 2nd Presidential Debate 2016: Trump: "You'd Be in Jail"

Exclusive Look At President Trump's 2005 Tax Return | Rachel Maddow

Maddow was hoping for a scoop. But at the end of her spiel, turns out that Trump actually paid more in percentage of taxes than liberal darlings Obama and Sanders.

Can't stand this stilted, ignorant school-marm. I have a friend in Houston who loves her. No greater turn-off than Dumb.

Saturday, March 11, 2017

"Dark Blood" trailer (1993)

Phoenix died days after shooting his last scenes. 
He was viewed in coffin and cremated with that horrible latter-day John Travolta skullcap hair (and bad acting to match).
Judy Davis's chopped bangs (and her acting) were equally bad.

Friday, March 10, 2017

River Phoenix Interview 1988 (age 17)

After catching the pseudo-deep (but acclaimed at the time) "Running on Empty" (1988) a few weeks ago on late-night TCM, I hated the movie's smarmy fakeness ("we radicals may have maimed someone and we may uproot our kids every 6 months, but aren't we warm and friendly on birthdays") but was struck by Phoenix's performance. 

Phoenix died, age 23, at Hollywood's Viper Room on Halloween in 1993 an hour after a "friend" (allegedly John Frusciante of the Red Hot Chili Peppers) gave him a bad speedball in the club's bathroom. No moral to that story, right? Phoenix was doing drugs. Accidents happen. (Though I believe in accountability, whether in the mainstream or in the underground: Frusciante and/or his dealer should not have been prosecuted by The Law, but they should have been taken out by their own culture. But... said "culture" was so disgustingly passive and "nonjudgmental.")

The movie I remembered most of River Phoenix's was "Dogfight" (1991) with Lili Taylor, which I paid to see at the theater. "My Own Private Idaho" (1991) seems to have made the biggest impression in the alternative world. (I saw it at the theater when it came out, but it didn't resonate personally at all.) "Stand By Me" (1986), of course, made the biggest impression on mainstream culture; I also saw this at the theater but, again, thought the over-fishing for emotion was smarmy.

After seeing "Running on Empty" and wondering why I was so struck by Phoenix's performance, I bought a used bio online: "In Search of River Phoenix" (2004) by Barry Lawrence. One thing he pointed out, which I'd been aware of via brief Internet searches, was the fact that Phoenix's parents had been involved in "The Family of God" when he was growing up; the group was a cult espousing sexual relations not only between children, but between children and adults. River Phoenix later said that he'd had sex from the ages of 4 through 10, then deliberately decided to refrain from sex until he was 14 (when he sought his parents' permission before having sex with an 18-year-old girl).

In the below 1988 video, Phoenix (at 17) is asked by the interviewer about his relations with his parents. RE their dynamic he says: "We replace the guilt that most give each other when they're upset with real, honest feelings."

I wonder: WAS River Phoenix actually able to talk to his parents about his anger and guilt at the life that they'd brought him up in? WAS he able to express "real, honest feelings" or did he instead do drugs? (An addendum: His able-bodied parents had a hard time finding work in real life. Once River Phoenix got work in movies, he was the primary bread-winner for the whole family. His parents claimed that once he earned enough to free the family from society, that was when they'd all withdraw to live a life among nature, and when River wouldn't have to work any more. Scumbags.)

Tuesday, March 07, 2017

Volvo S90 Luxury Sedan | "Song of the Open Road"

The first clue that something might be amiss: The car ad beginning with "Afoot..."

Song of the Open Road (1856)

Afoot and light-hearted I take to the open road,
Healthy, free, the world before me,
The long brown path before me leading wherever I choose.

Henceforth I ask not good-fortune, I myself am good-fortune,
Henceforth I whimper no more, postpone no more, need nothing,
Done with indoor complaints, libraries, querulous criticisms,
Strong and content I travel the open road.

The earth, that is sufficient,
I do not want the constellations any nearer,
I know they are very well where they are,
I know they suffice for those who belong to them.

(Still here I carry my old delicious burdens,
I carry them, men and women, I carry them with me wherever I go,
I swear it is impossible for me to get rid of them,
I am fill’d with them, and I will fill them in return.)

You road I enter upon and look around, I believe you are not all that is here,
I believe that much unseen is also here.

Here the profound lesson of reception, nor preference nor denial,
The black with his woolly head, the felon, the diseas’d, the illiterate person, are not denied;
The birth, the hasting after the physician, the beggar’s tramp, the drunkard’s stagger, the laughing party of mechanics,
The escaped youth, the rich person’s carriage, the fop, the eloping couple,

The early market-man, the hearse, the moving of furniture into the town, the return back from the town,
They pass, I also pass, any thing passes, none can be interdicted,
None but are accepted, none but shall be dear to me.

You air that serves me with breath to speak!
You objects that call from diffusion my meanings and give them shape!
You light that wraps me and all things in delicate equable showers!
You paths worn in the irregular hollows by the roadsides!
I believe you are latent with unseen existences, you are so dear to me.

You flagg’d walks of the cities! you strong curbs at the edges!
You ferries! you planks and posts of wharves! you timber-lined sides! you distant ships!

You rows of houses! you window-pierc’d façades! you roofs!
You porches and entrances! you copings and iron guards!
You windows whose transparent shells might expose so much!
You doors and ascending steps! you arches!
You gray stones of interminable pavements! you trodden crossings!
From all that has touch’d you I believe you have imparted to yourselves, and now would impart the same secretly to me,
From the living and the dead you have peopled your impassive surfaces, and the spirits thereof would be evident and amicable with me.

The earth expanding right hand and left hand,
The picture alive, every part in its best light,
The music falling in where it is wanted, and stopping where it is not wanted,
The cheerful voice of the public road, the gay fresh sentiment of the road.

O highway I travel, do you say to me Do not leave me?
Do you say Venture not—if you leave me you are lost?
Do you say I am already prepared, I am well-beaten and undenied, adhere to me?

O public road, I say back I am not afraid to leave you, yet I love you,
You express me better than I can express myself,
You shall be more to me than my poem.

I think heroic deeds were all conceiv’d in the open air, and all free poems also,
I think I could stop here myself and do miracles,
I think whatever I shall meet on the road I shall like, and whoever beholds me shall like me,
I think whoever I see must be happy.

From this hour I ordain myself loos’d of limits and imaginary lines,
Going where I list, my own master total and absolute,
Listening to others, considering well what they say,
Pausing, searching, receiving, contemplating,
Gently,but with undeniable will, divesting myself of the holds that would hold me.
I inhale great draughts of space,
The east and the west are mine, and the north and the south are mine.

I am larger, better than I thought,
I did not know I held so much goodness.

All seems beautiful to me,
I can repeat over to men and women You have done such good to me I would do the same to you,
I will recruit for myself and you as I go,
I will scatter myself among men and women as I go,
I will toss a new gladness and roughness among them,
Whoever denies me it shall not trouble me,
Whoever accepts me he or she shall be blessed and shall bless me.

Now if a thousand perfect men were to appear it would not amaze me,
Now if a thousand beautiful forms of women appear’d it would not astonish me.

Now I see the secret of the making of the best persons,
It is to grow in the open air and to eat and sleep with the earth.

Here a great personal deed has room,
(Such a deed seizes upon the hearts of the whole race of men,
Its effusion of strength and will overwhelms law and mocks all authority and all argument against it.)

Here is the test of wisdom,
Wisdom is not finally tested in schools,
Wisdom cannot be pass’d from one having it to another not having it,
Wisdom is of the soul, is not susceptible of proof, is its own proof,
Applies to all stages and objects and qualities and is content,
Is the certainty of the reality and immortality of things, and the excellence of things;
Something there is in the float of the sight of things that provokes it out of the soul.

Now I re-examine philosophies and religions,
They may prove well in lecture-rooms, yet not prove at all under the spacious clouds and along the landscape and flowing currents.

Here is realization,
Here is a man tallied—he realizes here what he has in him,
The past, the future, majesty, love—if they are vacant of you, you are vacant of them.

Only the kernel of every object nourishes;
Where is he who tears off the husks for you and me?
Where is he that undoes stratagems and envelopes for you and me?

Here is adhesiveness, it is not previously fashion’d, it is apropos;
Do you know what it is as you pass to be loved by strangers?
Do you know the talk of those turning eye-balls?

Here is the efflux of the soul,
The efflux of the soul comes from within through embower’d gates, ever provoking questions,
These yearnings why are they? these thoughts in the darkness why are they?
Why are there men and women that while they are nigh me the sunlight expands my blood?
Why when they leave me do my pennants of joy sink flat and lank?
Why are there trees I never walk under but large and melodious thoughts descend upon me?
(I think they hang there winter and summer on those trees and always drop fruit as I pass;)
What is it I interchange so suddenly with strangers?
What with some driver as I ride on the seat by his side?
What with some fisherman drawing his seine by the shore as I walk by and pause?
What gives me to be free to a woman’s and man’s good-will? what gives them to be free to mine?

The efflux of the soul is happiness, here is happiness,
I think it pervades the open air, waiting at all times,
Now it flows unto us, we are rightly charged.

Here rises the fluid and attaching character,
The fluid and attaching character is the freshness and sweetness of man and woman,
(The herbs of the morning sprout no fresher and sweeter every day out of the roots of themselves, than it sprouts fresh and sweet continually out of itself.)

Toward the fluid and attaching character exudes the sweat of the love of young and old,
From it falls distill’d the charm that mocks beauty and attainments,
Toward it heaves the shuddering longing ache of contact.

Allons! whoever you are come travel with me!
Traveling with me you find what never tires.

The earth never tires,
The earth is rude, silent, incomprehensible at first, Nature is rude and incomprehensible at first,
Be not discouraged, keep on, there are divine things well envelop’d,
I swear to you there are divine things more beautiful than words can tell.

Allons! we must not stop here,
However sweet these laid-up stores, however convenient this dwelling we cannot remain here,
However shelter’d this port and however calm these waters we must not anchor here,
However welcome the hospitality that surrounds us we are permitted to receive it but a little while.

Allons! the inducements shall be greater,
We will sail pathless and wild seas,
We will go where winds blow, waves dash, and the Yankee clipper speeds by under full sail.

Allons! with power, liberty, the earth, the elements,
Health, defiance, gayety, self-esteem, curiosity;
Allons! from all formules!
From your formules, O bat-eyed and materialistic priests.

The stale cadaver blocks up the passage—the burial waits no longer.

Allons! yet take warning!
He traveling with me needs the best blood, thews, endurance,
None may come to the trial till he or she bring courage and health,
Come not here if you have already spent the best of yourself,
Only those may come who come in sweet and determin’d bodies,
No diseas’d person, no rum-drinker or venereal taint is permitted here.

(I and mine do not convince by arguments, similes, rhymes,
We convince by our presence.)

Listen! I will be honest with you,
I do not offer the old smooth prizes, but offer rough new prizes,
These are the days that must happen to you:
You shall not heap up what is call’d riches,
You shall scatter with lavish hand all that you earn or achieve,
You but arrive at the city to which you were destin’d, you hardly settle yourself to satisfaction before you are call’d by an irresistible call to depart,
You shall be treated to the ironical smiles and mockings of those who remain behind you,
What beckonings of love you receive you shall only answer with passionate kisses of parting,
You shall not allow the hold of those who spread their reach’d hands toward you.

Allons! after the great Companions, and to belong to them!
They too are on the road—they are the swift and majestic men—they are the greatest women,
Enjoyers of calms of seas and storms of seas,
Sailors of many a ship, walkers of many a mile of land,
Habituès of many distant countries, habituès of far-distant dwellings,
Trusters of men and women, observers of cities, solitary toilers,
Pausers and contemplators of tufts, blossoms, shells of the shore,
Dancers at wedding-dances, kissers of brides, tender helpers of children, bearers of children,
Soldiers of revolts, standers by gaping graves, lowerers-down of coffins,
Journeyers over consecutive seasons, over the years, the curious years each emerging from that which preceded it,
Journeyers as with companions, namely their own diverse phases,
Forth-steppers from the latent unrealized baby-days,
Journeyers gayly with their own youth, journeyers with their bearded and well-grain’d manhood,
Journeyers with their womanhood, ample, unsurpass’d, content,
Journeyers with their own sublime old age of manhood or womanhood,
Old age, calm, expanded, broad with the haughty breadth of the universe,
Old age, flowing free with the delicious near-by freedom of death.

Allons! to that which is endless as it was beginningless,
To undergo much, tramps of days, rests of nights,
To merge all in the travel they tend to, and the days and nights they tend to,
Again to merge them in the start of superior journeys,
To see nothing anywhere but what you may reach it and pass it,
To conceive no time, however distant, but what you may reach it and pass it,
To look up or down no road but it stretches and waits for you, however long but it stretches and waits for you,
To see no being, not God’s or any, but you also go thither,
To see no possession but you may possess it, enjoying all without labor or purchase, abstracting the feast yet not abstracting one particle of it,
To take the best of the farmer’s farm and the rich man’s elegant villa, and the chaste blessings of the well-married couple, and the fruits of orchards and flowers of gardens,
To take to your use out of the compact cities as you pass through,
To carry buildings and streets with you afterward wherever you go,
To gather the minds of men out of their brains as you encounter them, to gather the love out of their hearts,
To take your lovers on the road with you, for all that you leave them behind you,
To know the universe itself as a road, as many roads, as roads for traveling souls.

All parts away for the progress of souls,
All religion, all solid things, arts, governments—all that was or is apparent upon this globe or any globe, falls into niches and corners before the procession of souls along the grand roads of the universe.

Of the progress of the souls of men and women along the grand roads of the universe, all other progress is the needed emblem and sustenance.

Forever alive, forever forward,
Stately, solemn, sad, withdrawn, baffled, mad, turbulent, feeble, dissatisfied,
Desperate, proud, fond, sick, accepted by men, rejected by men,
They go! they go! I know that they go, but I know not where they go,
But I know that they go toward the best—toward something great.

Whoever you are, come forth! or man or woman come forth!
You must not stay sleeping and dallying there in the house, though you built it, or though it has been built for you.

Out of the dark confinement! out from behind the screen!
It is useless to protest, I know all and expose it.

Behold through you as bad as the rest,
Through the laughter, dancing, dining, supping, of people,
Inside of dresses and ornaments, inside of those wash’d and trimm’d faces,
Behold a secret silent loathing and despair.

No husband, no wife, no friend, trusted to hear the confession,
Another self, a duplicate of every one, skulking and hiding it goes,
Formless and wordless through the streets of the cities, polite and bland in the parlors,
In the cars of railroads, in steamboats, in the public assembly,
Home to the houses of men and women, at the table, in the bedroom, everywhere,
Smartly attired, countenance smiling, form upright, death under the breast-bones, hell under the skull-bones,
Under the broadcloth and gloves, under the ribbons and artificial flowers,
Keeping fair with the customs, speaking not a syllable of itself,
Speaking of any thing else but never of itself.

Allons! through struggles and wars!
The goal that was named cannot be countermanded.

Have the past struggles succeeded?
What has succeeded? yourself? your nation? Nature?
Now understand me well—it is provided in the essence of things that from any fruition of success, no matter what, shall come forth something to make a greater struggle necessary.

My call is the call of battle, I nourish active rebellion,
He going with me must go well arm’d,
He going with me goes often with spare diet, poverty, angry enemies, desertions.

Allons! the road is before us!
It is safe—I have tried it—my own feet have tried it well—be not detain’d!

Let the paper remain on the desk unwritten, and the book on the shelf unopen’d!
Let the tools remain in the workshop! let the money remain unearn’d!
Let the school stand! mind not the cry of the teacher!
Let the preacher preach in his pulpit! let the lawyer plead in the court, and the judge expound the law.

Camerado, I give you my hand!
I give you my love more precious than money,
I give you myself before preaching or law;
Will you give me yourself? will you come travel with me?
Shall we stick by each other as long as we live?

Thursday, March 02, 2017

Joan Crawford, 1934

1934 publicity by Hurrell. I first saw this photo in 1986 or so from Walker's "Joan Crawford: The Ultimate Star" at my college library. I confess my transgression today: I sliced this photo out of the library book. I took it home with me. I taped it up to my wall. I looked at it constantly for inspiration in the midst of my 21-year-old angst.

Wednesday, March 01, 2017


I'd subscribed to "The New Yorker" since some time in the '90s. For at least over 20 years. The vast array of subjects. The usually impartial viewpoint of the author. I was always tearing out pages or poems for remembrance.

During the past Trump election cycle, however, the anti-Trump bias of the magazine became ludicrous. And intolerable to me. I'd never seen such a heavy-handedly biased consortia of articles. They tucked an anti-Trump reference into almost every corner. I'd formerly, for decades, trusted the magazine's viewpoint and artistic integrity. Now I wonder: If they could go so wrong about Trump, where were they going wrong earlier that I just didn't catch?

The last week of January was my last issue. I quit solely because of their intellectually dishonest biased treatment of Trump.

There's a bit of withdrawal. I miss the bursts of enlightenment that some of the articles contained. (As I said above, I'd often tear out pages and mark segments of them to remember as something profound to me.)

Today, I got an e-mail from the company, offering a renewed subscription for an extremely low price, less than half of what I'd been paying before ($50 per year as opposed to nearly $100). I was very tempted. But, no.

I like Trump, sure. And criticism of him is fine with me. But not "criticism" that degrades him and calls him "Hitler" and "fascist," and predicts the end of Western Civilization as a result of his presidency. Ridiculous. Especially in light of the fact that his most controversial policy statement has been the desire to strengthen US borders and not allow illegals in (and to kick criminal illegals out). That such a very mild declaration of what was once mainstream policy (and is the policy of almost every other country on earth, aside from EU members) has inspired such antipathy is disturbing to me.

After the reception of the New Yorker renewal offer, I almost accepted. And then I almost replied: "Maybe in 4 or 8 years, after you've perhaps rediscovered your integrity, your intelligence, and/or your soul." 

Tuesday, February 28, 2017

FULL SPEECH: President Donald Trump Speech to Joint Session Of Congress ...

I grew up watching these presidential addresses because I was a freak who enjoyed politics at a very young age. My earliest political memories were of giggling at Carl Albert nodding off behind Nixon and Ford. (Paul Ryan is more alert.)

Sunday, February 26, 2017

Oscar 2017 Fail - Warren Beatty announces wrong Best Picture Winner

A symbol of the sloppy times.

Art versus PC at the Oscars

I was kind of scared to turn on the Oscars tonight, in dread of the expected onslaught of anti-Trump sentiment. So far, it's been tolerable. On Twitter, though, the expected kudos to Mahershala Ali for "Moonlight." One Tweeter wrote: "A black man. A Muslim. In a film about the life & struggles of a young gay man. Hell, yeah." I offhandedly tweeted back: "Yup, checked all the PC boxes."

But, more importantly, were the words of Ali himself in his acceptance speech: "It's not about you. It's about these characters. You're in service to the story and these characters." EXACTLY. THAT is what art and movies should be about. Not the trendy, PC stance of that year. Real art and acting should transcend any particular time period, should reveal the human soul (corny as that sounds).

"Moonlight" sounds like a moving, good movie. Because of its screenplay and sensitive acting and humanity, not because it features a black character or a gay character or stars a Muslim. Those "PC boxes" have nothing to do with art.

And as Viola Davis just said in her speech for Best Supporting Actress for "Fences": "We are the only profession that celebrates what it means to live a life." Thank you to the best actors in the field for being seers and channelers. Not because you're black or gay or Muslim, but because you're--sans any "boxes" or PC identity politics--incredibly sensitive and alert to what it means to be a human, to live a life.

I will never let the PC leftists take the Oscars, or the movies, away from me. I've known since I was a kid what, exactly, movies really mean.

Thursday, February 23, 2017

Running on Empty (1988) - "Fire and Rain" scene

Really, really bad acting. I caught this last night on TCM. Looked it up the next day solely because of River Phoenix, was surprised to learn that it had actually gotten an Academy Award for Best Screenplay. I caught about the last two-thirds of it, and most all (aside from Phoenix himself) was forced and embarrassing.

Tuesday, February 21, 2017

"They're not on my side."

A little inner voice that spoke to me back when I was 12 or so, re my parents. I was in our living room in Azle, Texas. I heard it clearly. (Note that it wasn't "They're not on YOUR side" --- it wasn't an outside voice. It was MY voice.) I felt momentarily relieved because of that moment of clarity: I wasn't crazy for feeling the bad vibes from my parents. I just, in a flash, realized that neither of them gave a shit about me. Knowing such a thing is simultaneously horrifying and liberating.

Two other times that "voice" has visited me:

(1) Staying with my mom at her new house in Austin when I didn't have a place to live after NYC. I'd spent 6 hours that day unpacking her boxes while she was back at her old house in San Antonio, cleaning. When she got home, I was sitting at the kitchen table doing freelance work. The first thing she asked me: "Did you look for bus-stops today?" She's not on my side.

(2) And just the other day: An acquaintance (formerly someone I was in love with) called me at work to bitch about Trump. (She and her daughters know nothing about politics, but they're from River Oaks in Houston, and all of their friends are, therefore, Sanders/Clinton/anti-Trump.) The Trump stuff was irritating but still tolerable. The tipping point came when I interrupted the anti-Trump diatribe to mention that I'd just been given a raise that very day. I was so excited! Now I could get a better place sans roof leaks! The acquaintance wasn't happy for me. I tried to explain, "But now I can move! Now I can get a better place..." Her response: "Yeah, I saw that on your blog. Your roof leaked five times...."

My blood ran cold. She's not on my side.

Monday, February 20, 2017


I hardly ever dream about my father, abusive as he was. I dream about my mother probably once a month: I'm always screaming in anger or terror in the dreams. I'm always drained and horrified when I wake up from these. Always. 9.8 out of 10 dreams with my mother, I wake up emotionally drained and/or horrified because I've been screaming. The most disturbing was the knowledge in the dream that I was a baby and screaming and screaming.

Christmas Eve this year: I arrived at my mother's house with 2 bags of gifts for mom, brother/wife and their kids.

The second I walked in, my mother got agitated: "Where's your car? Where's your car? Where's your car? Where's your car? Where's your car?" (Um... "I parked down the street because other people were parked in front of your house." But despite that common-place explanation, still: "Where's your car? Where's your car? Where's your car?")

I couldn't take another second of it. I dropped off my bags o' gifts, said "This is bullshit," and walked out... and drove off in the allegedly non-existent car.

What was my mother thinking? That I no longer had my car that I'd just purchased for myself back in July? If that were the case, then how did I get to her house? It was clear that it was Christmas Eve and that the streets were filled with other relatives parking their cars up and down the street... Therefore, my "I parked down the street because other people were parked in front of your house" was a perfectly reasonable explanation. What then brought on the weirdness?

Mental illness brought on the "weirdness." And I had my fill of it at that exact moment. Enough.

This past Christmas, I bought 5 people presents. I got no presents, or a "thank-you," from anyone in return. Fuck the 3 adults (sorry, nephews).

A couple of good things that come with a raise.

Well, more than "a couple." I have my car, and a chance at a better place to live, because of my job and my boss's recognition of my work.

Overall: I can buy whatever books and CDs on Amazon I want (usually used---I still have the poor-person's habit: Why buy brand new when used is nearly as good?). I also now feel like I can order exactly what I want from a fast-food restaurant rather than relying on their "value menu" (i.e., spending $8 rather than $6).

In truth, I could probably branch out beyond the above. It still feels kind of scary to, though. My $100 Joan Crawford shower curtain purchased a couple of years ago was already radical enough, after years of temping in NYC and Austin and having only a $5 liner for a curtain.

I'm always aware that I can never relax completely: Things can go bad at any time. BUT... Sometimes there's a break in the waves and you CAN indeed relax a little... You can, really?

Only 70 days left on my lease!

I hate calling my current apartment of 2 years a shit-hole, because I don't hate it. It's not the apartment's fault. It was spacious enough for me (just under 800-sq-ft). It had 2 big closets, plus a small closet each just for coats and storage. It was in a "walkable" neighborhood that I liked. Some of the views were pretty.

The 2nd bedroom was supposed to be my "study" --- I abandoned it after only a couple of months, though, because the loud-voiced asshole downstairs had his headquarters below and liked to yell for hours on end (at his wife? on the phone?). That room became basically a storage space for my desk and bookshelves and reading chair. Completely unusable.

Early on, I moved my laptop to the kitchen table at the front of the apartment, hoping to avoid the yelling-man from the back room. I did avoid his ugly voice 50% of the time, but unfortunately, he was mobile, and yelled across the apartment. What moving my computer to the front of the apartment got me was: An overlook to the parking lot. All the noise of the comings and goings, the late-night hangings-out, the skateboard practice, the motorcycle revving, the kids screeching and riding either trikes or skateboards up and down the walks in front of the doors of the apartments.

The punk next-door neighbor that was jamming out from 5am to 7am back in August/September/October has had his extreme impulses silenced by the apartment management, thank goodness. But he still likes to hang out in front of his apartment after midnight talking with his friends, watching videos on his iPhone (with all of my windows closed, I can still hear whatever he's listening to with his buddies). I've also had a couple of incidents with other non-direct-neighbor young partiers, asking them to please stop yelling, please stop blasting music with open windows, etc.

And then, of course, the numerous ceiling leaks. I got home from work today to yet another puddle on my kitchen floor after the rain-storm last night. Perhaps the 7th or 8th leak since Thanksgiving. (After the massive disaster in October of 2016, last year.) Every time, management has said that their maintenance man is "talking with the roofers." Disgusting, shameful incompetence.

Anyway, after the last leak in January, I got permission to get out of my lease early -- at the end of this April instead of at the end of August, per my original lease. (I didn't demand "immediately" because I didn't have enough deposit/moving money to get out immediately.)

Only 70 more days of this shit-hole.

One thing that I'm wary of when scouting out new places to live: I keep being suckered in by apartments that are reasonably priced and look GREAT in Craig's List photos. But what I've got to get into my head whenever I'm considering being cheap and saving a couple of hundred bucks per month: "YOU'RE PAYING FOR YOUR NEIGHBORS." I.e., "You're paying to keep certain people the hell away from you." My definition of "certain people" is based on behavior rather than on race: For instance, I don't want  to be around young white punk guys coming home and jamming at 5 in the morning; I don't want to be around young white hippies getting in screaming fights on landings and/or jamming their music at ANY hour; I don't want to hear the middle-aged black guy below me yelling at his wife at the top of his lungs; I don't want to hear the multiple kids of Hispanic families stuffed into tiny apartments allowed to run loose; I don't want to hear the white motorcycle dude revving his engine whenever he comes or goes.

It's time for ME to go. Pay the extra couple of hundred dollars per month (which I'm now able to do) AND move farther out, if need be. I now have a car and am not trapped by proximity to a bus-line --- take advantage of that: Buy some peace and quiet. (Oh yeah: And a place with a washer and dryer. I'm over 50; no more battling for a space to clean my clothes. I waited a whopping 4 WEEKS before doing laundry this past Sunday.)

Sunday, February 19, 2017

Corporate Speech to Howard Beale in "Network"

"There is no West, only one multinational dominion....There is no America --- there is only IBM, ITT, ATT... The world is a college of corporations."


Donald Trump IS Howard Beale

Wednesday, February 15, 2017

Nostalgia for the campaign trail...

"Thank you, Babe. Be careful."

Trump is sexy. #1: He praises Kellyanne Conway for kicking ass. #2: He praises her for kicking ass for HIM, and he's grateful. #3: He affectionately calls her "babe" in public.

(Now, if a random asshole or dick calls you "babe" in a put-down, condescending way... that's when you get your feminist ire up. But not with a man you admire and who has just told the world that he admires you.)

As a send-off, Trump tells her to "be careful" on her way down the stairs. Which is incredibly sweet and sexy.

For example: I once had a terrible girlfriend; one of her redeeming qualities in my mind, though, is the fact that when we once drove together to a junkyard to get a part for her car, she told me to stay in the car because "I don't want those guys to look at you."

Or how 'bout: The winter after I came home from grad school in the '90s, I had nowhere to stay but at my brother's/girlfriend's place. Both me and his girlfriend (now wife) had to get to work on a day with semi-icy roads. My brother's girlfriend wanted to drive herself, but he insisted on driving for her --- the roads weren't safe. I had to make exactly the same "trek" on the same roads, but no one cared whether or not I made it safely. Both of us could have safely driven ourselves to work. But I thought it sweet of my brother for making such a big deal about driving his "woman" to work. (While simultaneously being depressed by the fact that I had no one to care about whether or not I made it anywhere safely.)

Trump's telling Kellyanne Conway to "be careful" while walking down a few stairs is gentlemanly and sweet.

Friday, February 10, 2017

Yes, I would, and yes, I am,!

February 11, 2017

If you were able, you would transform all of your relationships with a wave of your magic wand. You have realized lately that you are bored! bored! bored! with some of the people close to you. Who wants to remain in relationships that no longer hold any surprises? The solution to this problem is in your hands. The time has come to go out and meet some new people...

Regina Spektor - The Light (Live 1/9/2017)

The light was shining in my eyes before I closed them
And all the dreams I had the night before came back
The faces that I'd seen looked so familiar
But they're just strangers, I haven't met them yet

I know the morning is wiser than the evening
I know that wrong and right can sometimes look the same
So many things I know, but they don't help me
Each day I open up my eyes and start again

The light comes shining in my eyes
The light comes shining in my eyes
The light comes shining in my eyes
The light comes shining in my eyes

So many stories I want to tell you
I wish that I could show you the many things I've seen
You and your daddy, you both look like poets
Your eyes are open wide while you are in a dream

I know the morning is wiser than the nighttime
I know there's nothing wrong, I shouldn't feel so down
So many things I know, but they don't help me
Each day I open up my eyes to look around

The sun comes shining in my eyes
The sun comes shining in my eyes
The sun comes shining in my eyes
The sun comes shining in my eyes

Are closed now
Count the stars inside your mind
Count the breaths, count heartbeats
Count the sounds of life

The light was shining in my eyes before I closed them
And all the dreams I had the night before were gone
The faces that I'd seen looked so familiar
But I forgot them all when I saw the sun

Thursday, February 09, 2017

What exactly is illegal?

U.S. Federal Code:
(f) Suspension of entry or imposition of restrictions by President
Whenever the President finds that the entry of any aliens or of any class of aliens into the United States would be detrimental to the interests of the United States, he may by proclamation, and for such period as he shall deem necessary, suspend the entry of all aliens or any class of aliens as immigrants or nonimmigrants, or impose on the entry of aliens any restrictions he may deem to be appropriate. ...

I'm not sure what exactly about Trump's halting of travel to US from terrorist countries the 9th Circuit Court of the United States found illegal. Are you allowed to just make judicial decisions because you "feel" like it? Because all of your friends in Seattle wouldn't welcome you to their dinner parties any more should you actually make an intellectually-based, hard-core Constitutional decision?

Tuesday, February 07, 2017

Rep Maxine Waters (D -California) on Impeaching Trump

Maxine Waters has not "yet" called for the impeachment of Trump, although, according to her, he's responsible for (1) supplying bombs in Aleppo, and (2) supporting Putin in Korea.

(I will never again support a party with such idiots as spokespeople.)

Sunday, February 05, 2017

Regina Spektor - Older and Taller [Official Audio]

"Judging" vs "Fact-checking"

Holy crap! I just spent over 6 hours on Facebook (primarily on the New Yorker site) arguing about whether or not Donald Trump was a fascist! (Me: He's not. You don't know what fascism is. Hitler was a globalist, not a nationalist, ETC.) During this whole exchange, I was called all sorts of names, like "Republicunt" and "fascist" and "bigot" and "racist" and "troll" and "uneducated." Ideas were mostly forbidden.

Re "uneducated," I tried logic, saying that I had a Master's in English --- I was then told that I must have bought that degree. 

Re "troll" --- I tried pointing out that since I'd been a New Yorker subscriber for over 20 years, I could hardly be called a "troll" for commenting on their Facebook page. Nah, I was still a troll because I disagreed with the majority.

p.s. As I was writing the above, got a blip that someone was responding to something I'd written on the New Yorker site dismissing a Trump rumor because the New Yorker had gotten the info from BuzzFeed. The responder then said, "Who is the New Yorker to judge their news sources?"

Call me old school, but... in the olden days, "judging" was known as "fact-checking."

Another p.s.: A couple of weeks ago, I got a call from an acquaintance who wanted to talk about Trump: Anyone who liked Trump was a redneck, etc. That literally made my blood run cold. I'm that serious about intellectual honesty.

Tucker Carlson Interviews Milo Yiannopoulos After UC Berkeley Riots - 2/...

The Most Beautiful Woman in the World