Paranoia in der Strassenbahn

I considered writing this in German. It'd probably be a good exercise.

This is correct. This situation is correct. I'm going to submerge myself in life, an alternate reality. I saw something on the History Channel yesterday while I was cooking my eggs. Dumbed down quantum physics and the multiverse. There is another universe just like this one, in spite of some minor differences, and it exists in the same space as ours. That was one of the ideas. I feel that way in my everyday life. Through wormholes I travel between dimensions, not just between worlds, but between planes, realities.

And then I find that, in essence, people are pretty much the same wherever you go. Maybe that's just what "humanity" means. They come in different flavors, though, different mish-moshes of neuroses, desires, memories, talents, obsessions, experiences, thoughts, and...is that a hint of basil?

The nation of Me is similar to many but identical to none.

I've entangled myself in metaphor. It ends here.

Taking time off

It's been over a month since I decided to take this semester off. My weather widget says 56 degrees. I hear the birds singing, a distant siren and car horns.

Los Angeles, Los Angeles, I am so in love with you.

Yesterday, we made love. I woke up early and ate breakfast with the rents. A mushroom omelet. A friend showed up and we walked to Nick's (Pico/La Cienega-- my favorite neighborhood coffee shop) for grapefruit juice and coffee. I watched the fruit man set up his stand outside of Bank of America. A middle-aged woman of unknown foreign origin asked me for a Marlboro. When my friend offered her a Davidoff, she continued on her way. Only American cigarettes? I took the 728 bus downtown, got off at Figueroa and Olympic, walked up to Figueroa and 9th, and waited for the 66 while watching an elderly man approach ever so slowly with his walker.

Men in suits, women in slacks and blouses chattering and walking to grab lunch. The 66 went down 9th into the Fashion District, a sudden explosion of colorful bolts of fabric, every different kind of person imaginable carrying garbage bags of textiles.

I interviewed for a strange and endearing job in a huge loft. Colors everywhere, walls draped in velvet. The sun shone through matte glass windows.

Walked back to Figueroa and Olympic through the Fashion District, this time past t-shirt peddlers, tiny party dresses, Spiderman costumes, big white wedding dresses that looked like big white wedding cakes. Hispanic families with crying children who'd rather be on the playground than trying on communion dresses, young Korean women with big sunglasses and tight jeans, husky Persian men smoking cigarettes and arguing for a bargain. My eyes wide, my ears and nostrils open. I took it all in as I walked and walked, a serene smile on my face.

Waiting for the bus, a group of Hispanic boys (I'd say they were 13?) trying to do skateboard tricks. The city sounds of traffic, the hum of ubiquitous motion, punctuated by the hard clatter of the boards crashing to the ground. "You can't skate with those shoes, man! They'll tear! Kingflip!"

Onto the 28 heading West, I squeeze my way past the crowd near the exit to a seat in the back. By the time we reach Koreatown, the front of the bus is completely packed. The driver turns off the ignition. "MOVE BACK" An elderly Korean woman sits across from me and smiles. She is extremely beautiful, perfectly coiffed with round lips painted purple. Her eyes still sparkle with youthful friendliness.

"MOVE BACK"

The congestion is not improved.

"THIS BUS AINT GOIN ANYWHERE UNTIL YOU MOVE BACK"

I hear groans and mutters.

"OK, GET OFF OF MY BUS."

"I'M SERIOUS, YOU HEARD ME, IF YOU CAN'T FOLLOW DIRECTIONS, GET OFF OF MY BUS!"

"GET OFF!"

And half of us do. A large group hurries to the rapid that has stopped behind us. I circle back to the entrance.

"Can I get back on your bus?"

He smiles, "Sure." His voice has softened. I step inside.

"Do I have to pay again?"

A chorus of chuckles from the remaining passengers. He smiles again.

"Nope."

I start to giggle as I move back to where I had been sitting. My giggle turns into a loud, belly laugh. They look at me like I'm a lunatic. It takes me a moment to realize that I am the only white person on the bus.

Later, I accompany a friend to pick up his suit from a Rodeo Drive boutique...

(to be continued)

In transit

3.5 hours down, 2.5 hours to go...

The Atlanta airport is great for 1-2 hour layovers. They have a good Popeye's, a bunch of smoking lounges, and a dependable system of inter-concourse trains. Six and a half hours, however, is just too much time to spend here with nothing to do. Internet costs money. One can only eat so much chicken. The smoking lounges get disgusting after a while.

I foolishly packed all of my books into my now checked bag. The airport bookstore is a disgrace. Candace Bushnell's entire oeuvre, but no William S. Burroughs. The "classics" section? Austen, Dickens and Shakespeare. Not a notebook in sight. Why didn't I prepare for this!?

You know what I'd really love? A shower.

RIP Number 6

Patrick McGoohan (1928-2009)
A man who became famous for being repeatedly captured by a weather balloon.

I feel really sad about this. The Prisoner was indubitably one of the coolest shows ever to be on television. Surreal, hip, campy and gorgeous to look at, it was the beginning of my love affair with 1960's spy shows, none of which ever lived up to The Prisoner.

McGoohan was really old, and I guess these things just sort of happen. Still, I am saddened by the passing of Number Six, who in all 17 episodes, always furrowed his brow so magnificently, never stopped trying to escape, and finally, never gave Number Two the "information" he so lusted for.

AMC has the whole series online for our streaming pleasure. I would say that I highly recommend it, but that would be a lie. The Prisoner is mandatory viewing.

I am not a number, I am a free man!

Please give me this movie. Place it in my little hands.

imdb-visioneers website-jefferscorp website

When I saw this trailer, I thought I was going to shit myself. Over the past couple of years, I have fallen in love with Zach Galifianakis. It all started with his appearances on Tim and Eric as the head Gravy Robber and the Snuggler. Then, saw his Vodka Movie series, also featuring Tim and Eric, and all love was solidified.

I like Zach Galifianakis because he's fucking funny. You know what I think is really funny? When he gets angry. I think anger is really funny. He can also do/say really bizarre stuff with a completely straight face. I believe Zach Galifianakis in the Vodka Movies. I believe he IS that person.

Visioneers looks bizarre. I think it's a really cool idea. It could be a really good movie. In all probablity, it's a problematic but really interesting and entertaining movie. Even if it's a piece of shit, it will be worth it to see Zach Galifianakis flip out a bunch of times, but I'm sure there will be much more to it than that.

I really want to see this movie. It makes me angry that it's not in every theater in America. America needs to see this.

I need to see this. Please. Please give me this movie.

the pigeon is still remembering fascism

A dog chases its tail. It grows tired. It stops and rests. Then it gets back to chasing its tail. This goes on and on until, eventually, the dog dies.

Another dog chases its tail. It grows tired. It stops and rests. While resting, it realizes that it will never catch its tail, that the exercise is completely futile. It does not return to chasing its tail, rather it sits and thinks about how stupid it is to chase one's tail, and how, really, there is no point to anything. Occasionally bursting into tears, the dog thinks about these things until, eventually, it dies.

In 1986, the city of Harburg unveiled the Harburg Monument against Fascism, War and Violence-- and for Peace and Human Rights, a large metal column that sunk slowly into the ground. It was a counter-monument encouraging the personal responsibility of memory work.

In 2007, Mark Hatlie, of sites-of-memory.de, visited Harburg. After struggling to find anyone who knew where it was, he found the monument. His photograph and caption sum it up better than I can:

"The pigeon is still remembering fascism."

I look up the word "revolution" on the Oxford English Dictionary website:

revolution

• noun 1 a forcible overthrow of a government or social order, in favour of a new system. 2 a dramatic and far-reaching change. 3 motion in orbit or in a circular course or round an axis or centre. 4 the single completion of an orbit or rotation.

— DERIVATIVES revolutionist noun.

— ORIGIN Latin, from revolvere ‘roll back’.

A dog chases its tail. It grows tired. It stops and rests. Then it gets back to chasing its tail. This goes on and on until, eventually, the dog dies.

There will always be another dog to continue in its stead.

happy new year.

your poor author has been thoroughly brain raped

I will start posting again once I recover.

Here's a picture of George Takei in a kilt: