Archive for the ‘San Francisco’ Category

As If 2 Were 3, Reading Like A Banshee (Do Banshees Read?)


26 Sep

Master of Banshees

Master of Banshees

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Date: Thu Sep 26, 1996 6:49:37 PM

Built up into nothing short of some kind of Greek or Latin classicist of the short line, Bukowski farts to Mozart and Bach, and takes his toast butter side down, unless he's in a jam where the first movement is the quick jump he's been waiting for to launch his assault on an adversary or tart, so to finish up with this friendly exercise in mastiff-taunting wordslurp, I point to another fine stroke of congeniality from the just side of the near postal toastmaster of LA himself:

"Good Times? There were never good times. There were bad times and times not as bad. People like to talk about the Brotherhood of Man. Two types: those who have nothing and would like a Brotherhood because they THINK that would bring them something; and those who have everything (materially) and speak of the Brotherhood of Man as NOW because they think it's working for them at the moment..."

It's amazing how closely Bukowski almost to the word mimics the vibrant Henry Miller prospective. Of course Miller writes circles around CB. Bukowski begrudgingly even admitted this in a letter to Miller's son (he calls him Larry in the letters, but I think his name was Tony) who had written praising him for reinstating his belief in the literary scheme as the best writer around. Bukowski told him to look over his shoulder at the old man if he wanted to see the greatest writer alive.

Anywaze, you now have plenty of fodder from which to launch a Landry war on words. Today is my 41st bird day. My weeklong depression is kaput, but my week shot to hell, having done little other than soak up the sofa reading like a banshee (do banshees read?) but what a good read it was. By the way. That Guy Kawasaki book is not at all what I expected. Rather than a book about the Macintosh way (which was the title of an early book he authored) this book is about business in general, interesting enough, but I put it down about half way to engage in other reading. I do plan to finish it, but I am now wondering if you would find it relevant. My Power Mac is on a 2-3 week backorder, so I've put my excitement on hold while Sue is peeing her panties with anticipation. My web building has stalled due to earlier mentioned technical difficulties, but a week off has strengthened my resolve.

Iusually hide during a holiday, but tonight I am feeling a strong urge to fly off the handle, and will probably go grab a few beers out the refrigerator to read my day's mail which I postponed from my usual first thing until the last thing today for some odd reason. Oh I know. I read something else. And didn't want to get bogged down into letterwriting until this afternoon. All things considered I've have a pretty good bird day already. Now to check me mail, and pop a Black Label. Until next time,

GT

Literary Highs & Lows


16 Sep

poet

The poet Charles Bukowski

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Originally published on September 16, 1996 as an email to Lynn Landry in San Francisco

Finished the Bukowski book, and am 75% finished with D'Sousa's 650 pager which I unabashedly declare as the most thorough and well-adjusted look at the sociology of racial nativism in the literature to date. But to dash off that old egotistical drunk with a few passages, I either am forced to reflect my own struggles, or claim lines I find fascinating for a variety of reasons of which I suppose I'll mark up in the appropriate pauses. So have a laugh, attack of superiority, goof, or gaff. Be assured that I'm not trying to browbeat you with anything particularly profound, but am simply exercising the most available form of verbal flatulence not essentially my own:

Bukowski wrote:
"...as per a 'literary conspiracy' against me, I suppose that a great many do hate me—much of it caused by my writing style which is rather unpoetic, also in my drinking moments I have caused difficult feelings, I suppose. No excuses, man, also in my own short stories I am often the bastard villian of the pieces. I guess I am convincing. Also I don't mingle much with the literatti (sic)...no New York City or North Beach up at Frisco, none of that. I am the loner. People come around here, I beer-up, and I have a tendency to run them out the door. All in all I suppose I have given off rays that I am a son of a bitch. They almost have me believing it myself."

Well, Buk nailed me on this one, although I believe my own grammatical intuition is in lot less need of an editor than CB's, who throughout this book of letters was found railing against the "gross impertinences" of that particular class of literary befrienders, and yet appears as sloppy a writer as I've ever seen in print, much less world famous. Now where is my baseball bat. There are a couple of vaguely familiar intruders with a case of Black Label at the door again...

"I'm an asshole in many ways, I even enjoy my assholeness. I can tear a man in half in a short story; I can also tear myself in half, but I'm no knifer, I don't whisper things into editors' ears. I'm no destroyer. Nothing can be destroyed that has the power to move forward into its own thing. Fame or acceptance or politics or power has nothing to do with it. Nothing is needed but self going-on as self must. One only need realize this small realization."
Bukowski wrote:
"Well, the female is a clever creature. She knows how to regulate her affairs. Most often it is the man who falls apart; it's the man who jumps off the bridge. When we give over our feelings they run off with us. There's no regulating them. I give over my feelings too easily, and it's not all regulated to suck and fuck (as the sculptress calls it). I get as much or more, out of other parts. Small talk. Breakfast together. Sleeping while touching. Waiting while the other goes to the toilet. Lovemaking after a stupid argument. Drinking beer with maddened friends. Hundreds of tiny things. I am never bored when I am with my women. I get bored in large formless crowds. Bored, hell, I get desparate, I lather and blather at the mouth, my eyes roll, the sky shakes. What am I talking about here?"

Uh, Gabriel. You're talking about Gabriel...

Bukowski wrote:
"I think that what has happened with Hal is that he has put total importance upon POETICS and what a poet is supposed to be. A good poet never knows what he is, he's a dime from the edge, but there's nothing holy about it. It's a job. Like mopping a bar floor. I can't rail too much about him; I suppose that the things he has imagined in his mind seem very true to him. Who is to judge? I rattled around his place in Venice a couple of nights drunk but it was more in energy and clowning than malice or a wish to destroy. I'm an asshole in many ways, I even enjoy my assholeness. I can tear a man in half in a short story; I can also tear myself in half, but I'm no knifer, I don't whisper things into editors' ears. I'm no destroyer. Nothing can be destroyed that has the power to move forward into its own thing. Fame or acceptance or politics or power has nothing to do with it. Nothing is needed but self going-on as self must. One only need realize this small realization."

Well, so far I have done nothing but quote what I presume to mirror my own thoughts, but this brings me to a question about the language you used in your last letter, Landry.

You wrote:
Your individuality schtick as an artist and a human being is very interesting. For one thing, I think that you are one of the few people I know who really is asserting their individuality. So many people think they are doing it when all they do is change uniforms.

INTERESTING? Does your usage of this word best translate to clever, queer, peculiar, noteworthy, what?

bukowski-sweat

Bukowski's Sweat

You wrote:
However, I do not think that whenever me [sic] or anyone else brings up generalizations about minorities or women they should be dismissed as bunk. I think that white males (at least in Western Culture) are socialized into a world that allows them to see the world differently. It must feel pretty good to come in on top. Then, if you fail, you only have yourself to blame. While I don't think anyone should use their group's oppression as a crutch or an excuse for any flaw they may have, I don't think the general population of blacks, Asians, women, Hispanics can escape some of the hardships put upon them throughout history by white men.

Now we are tiptoeing into the pond best swam within the context of D'Sousa's book. I just got off the phone with Len Bracken who does not share my enthusiasm for D'Sousa's points of view, he having heard him on a radio talk show (I caught him on Donahue), although I challenged him to read the book before dismissing him out of hand. I am throroughly convinced of the integrity of D'Sousa's work, perceptions, and remedies for what ails us as a culture, although admitting it will take a cold day in hell to convince the Boasian liberal establishment to nudge an inch off its pedastal, but I'd rather postpone that commentary until a more appropriate time. Because I do have many personal anecdotes to throw around like monkey wrenches to this idea that life is so simple for a particular white male who has taken the time to look around the workplace today. Now back to the asshole of the hour:

Bukowski wrote:
"Norse? I understand his viewpoint. We simply come out of different poetic backgrounds. And when I'm drunk I am generally rude and boorish and stupid to everybody alike. I don't just select Hal. If he could understand this he might feel better. Before a man can ever meet the gods he must learn to forgive the drunks. Alta? I understand her viewpoint, and it must certainly seem plausible and right to her, but creation, art, is the breakthrough. We hardly do what is proper or kind, though often, in life, we are kinder than most, much more. Without flying flags about it. Alta does not know how to write a sentence down. It hurts her pitch. I don't want to rape Alta. I don't want to rape anybody. I never have. But if an artist wants to go into the mind of a rapist or a murderer and look out of that mind and write down that mind, I don't think that is criminal. Furthermore, I didn't say my stories in NOLA were "sarcastic." I don't apologize for my work. If I write a story about a shitty woman then that shitty woman did exist. One form or another. Blacks can also be shitty as can whites. I refuse to be restricted in the materials I can paint with. It's really all so ridiculous to defend anything as JUST that thing, can't they even understand that? Oh Alta, I HAVE love...that's why I can write other things..."

bukowski

Charles Bukowski

Ditto again. Hence my own niggardly kept reputation. A capsule rant of the reality of a consciousness which seems to have predicted "me" since a child, if I may: I presumed at the insidious sterile age of seventeen to wreck my whiteness, my elitehood, my natural intelligence by lowering my standards to the world's. I have refused time and time again the higher education the world says I must have in order to achieve the level a strong native intelligence requires. I have stated on several occasions and to surprising acclaim that I drink to excess so I can be as stupid and as forgetful as the rest of the world. I tattooed my body, not in a jones to appear chic and confrontational but because a Navajo wanted to mark me and because I dared toss away any hope of worldly respectability my native intelligence and white skin supposedly entitles me to receive by throwing in with the foolish and the irresponsible, blackening it. I fattened up to escape the hype of my earlier thinness, and to test the women who claimed to love me for my mind when time has proven it was my body these older women desired, and to bulk up later when self-defense became an issue among the thugs of Eighteenth Street, probably doomed by the genetic horseshoe with these big bones of mine. I dare to remain jobless so as not to take a job from those who claim the system is rigged in my favor. In my uneducated but highly observant 20s back in the 1970s there was a period I was popular and found myself in friendly proximity to many of the Corpus Christi and Atlanta gay masquerade, and also infiltrated the hispanic and black cultures, and as a result often had projected onto me what I was reading was the sole domain of my own kind, the white male...et cetera ad nauseam. But enough of this blather. Not the place. Not the stuff of email where it simply sounds like histrionic self-rationalizing apochrypha, but the iron truth is in God's own magic pocket calculator. As long as my memories sustain me, I will not relinquish the my own justification of my own experience any more than a thousand subsets of humanity do with their own slant after their own fashion.

This has gotten rather long, and I have three more bookmarks to exploit for your perusal, so until next time....

GT

Fingers Of Low Resistance, Least Resistance, And No Resistance


11 Jul

Resistance

Resistance

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Date: Wed Jul 11, 1996 3:04:06 PM

Not to beat a dead horse into dog food, Landry, but I am nevertheless still interested in digging deeper into this resistance topic, in exploring what you as a female writer deem appropriate sexual language and conduct, specifically at the social or public level. As a (willing/unwilling) member of the freelance pseudo-liberated Generation X think tank, how can we expect to defy this irrational political correctness now dominating the landscape, without bloodying the field, without ignoring the differences whereby how men and women perceive the sexual arena, and their respective roles within that arena, even as it appears that the gender roles continue to evolve? For despite my own mental gymnastics, I am somewhat of a prude in this matter, myself, and actually seek liberty from the constraints of my own background.

First a few definitions: pseudo-liberated. You touched on this concept by admitting your awareness of blatant contradictions in what your own spirit in liberty tells you versus what your reality-checking brain dutifully informs you is necessary to remain in control of what can soon degenerate into a chaotic and unrewarding sensual killing field if unchecked because of the very nature of individuality. The plain fact is that every person of every generation is genetically (both physically & psychologically) predisposed to a certain level of what passes in the popular mind as freedom and the lessening buffers to loose-lipped vulgarity.

This freedom is then tested in the sexual marketplace. Gains and losses accumulate. Winners, losers, predators, victims, survivors, casualties. That's the real dirt in the sex game. The sexual elite? Without too much rehashing of old literature we both know that one person's freedom is often another person's enslavement. Each camp seeks its own reflection in the mirror of its ideological yearnings. We each, male & female, across the entire corpus of human identities use different tools to plow the field, sow the seed, and harvest the fruit of our lusts and loves, fetishes and fixes. Individual tastes are formed by a complex matrix of genetics and environmental influences working within us at every turn.

The point is, they are strong sexual warriors with no pity for the serfs and only seek upward mobility, just as men do, and women always have, albeit in different mutations of the basic idea throughout generations and cultures.
Often over the course of a life we change to meet the ever-mutating challenges of sensuality and desire. Common sense and societal mores of the day often intrude upon what others might find more to their own liking, as common sense can often be as wrong as the public powers. Thus few of us can in truth boast that we are truly liberated simply because we do not know what it means to be liberated.

Classes who arguably at that point of sexual liberty live to pursue this sexual freedom to their own accumulative advantage while the many are still left to fend for themselves in the heat of the old torturous battles between moral agency and libertinism. Freedom or liberty in this case can only mean freedom of opportunity to succeed or fail at getting what we desire...

Great thinkers of antiquity, realizing this imbalance and opening for societal failure suggested suppression of the urges rather than chasing a false rainbow corrupting the loins with the tricks of envy and abuse, forced by success and especially, persistent failure. Failure is disease, disease is failure. I observe women with their hypertextual sense of liberal guilt for the masses rarely take pity on hordes of men delegated by natural order to mere pawns of the sexual princes and princesses ruling the sexual arena. But consistent with their incumbent sexual and business tools, battle plans, and gains to be made, they are often cold taskmasters, subtle manipulators, starving their opponents and thwarting their competition by any means necessary in order to control the field. The point is, they are strong sexual warriors with no pity for the serfs and only seek upward mobility, just as men do, and women always have, albeit in different mutations of the basic idea throughout generations and cultures.

Because we have willingly accepted this bartered state as a necessary compromise to what we collectively can manage to squeeze from life, having failed at any number of dry nuances over the years, a truce has settled upon us.
I realize many of the above statements can and will infuriate many a feminine perspective. None of my postulates are meant to pacify female anger for the brutality men have set upon them throughout history. I am grievously sick with self-loathing turned against the gender sporting cock, balls, upper body strength, and this so-called social power everyone in the PC generation is always raving about. Pure madness.

But finally after 32 or 33 years of apotheosizing the feminine component of humanity, and weaned from this generalized self-loathing by the redemptive notions of writer Camille Paglia, I am equally stricken with a loathing that spreads out beyond that primitive misogyny men are often accused of, often rightfully so, to encompass my own effeminate strains the radical feminists carp so much about when lacking a fair shade of the same themselves. We all need to face a few facts. Few of us are ever given a fair shake. Male or female. Games are played with romantically inclined lies in the name of spectacular truth. Only once this false game of shadows and overwrought sentimentality has been diminished and replaced with a more intrinsic set of values will equality even find its true voice in the war between the sexes.

It was only a few weeks ago I last threatened another Tolstoy—to leave the manor in hopes of reasserting myself as I used to be, as I want to be, but I am not the same flesh and bones I once was, and the chances my new independence would prove futile and an idiot's folly are astronomically high.
I am not advocating the overthrow of anything. I simply know that what passes for love in this country is little more than mercantile power wearing a mask of fair weather friendship, lust, or loosely formed business arrangements. Those vows most mouth are garbage lines not worth the paper they are written on or the God they are supposedly supplicating. And lust if not outright ridiculed is still spoken of insincerely in most pseudo-liberated circles propped up by double standards and power negotiations. So let's not be coy, sweet idealists. It's time to throw off the blinders, and realize that true equality between the sexes is a war of give and take...

Most will finally settle for a truce and whatever accommodations their current market value will warrant. I am fortunate my own loved one still finds a measure of grace in my own strengths, raw intelligence and wit. And I in her, her own steady delivery of basic goods and compassion for my weaknesses in return for the strengths I bring which have nothing to do with sexual etiquette. Ours has nearly ceased as a sexual bond, but we freely and frequently commit to hugging often, an act Ann Landers would have us believe is the best love has to offer, and we suffer in each other's absence, so attached are we to each other. Because we have willingly accepted this bartered state as a necessary compromise to what we collectively can manage to squeeze from life, having failed at any number of dry nuances over the years, a truce has settled upon us. The presence and care of children should, but sadly do not often enough, deepen those mutually accommodating bonds of any union.

Too many people possessing usually fine minds find this sort of language an insult to their self-images, despite even more failure these self-images often play out to be.

But you seem to recognize yourself at this juncture of life quite clearly, as I did ten years ago. A lot of superstition and subsequent poor choices can change a person in a decade. It was only a few weeks ago I last threatened another Tolstoy—to leave the manor in hopes of reasserting myself as I used to be, as I want to be, but I am not the same flesh and bones I once was, and the chances my new independence would prove futile and an idiot's folly are astronomically high. My marriage while generally sexless (a decade of frustration leads to great changes in the heart, the mind, and the body) is certainly not loveless, and in our case, love and social stability won out over sex. Those who neither possess but over or under emphasize love, social stability, OR SEX, are given to great tragedy, and dangerous lives, although nothing I have written on this topic can resolve a damned thing in the world beyond my own need to articulate my innermost thoughts on the topic.

I don't think this letter is very well written but breaking into the breeze, my friends, go the three fickle fingers of low resistance, least resistance and no resistance at all.

GT

The Fillmore Was Much More Than An Acid Rock Shrine


31 May

fillmore

The Fillmore

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In response to the comments on my offhanded way of saying the Fillmore was sort of famous—I know what the Fillmore represented to the 60s and if you people really knew me you'd know that I don't really care about that. Especially anything associated with the Grateful Dead. When we were there, I wondered aloud to Jack what the Fillmore was BEFORE Leary and the Dead. I imagined jazz and dressed up ladies, Mambo music and dancers. My interest in SF was prior to the whiny baby boomer hippie types. I first really became interested in this city (aside from watching The Streets of San Francisco as a wee crawfish eater) when I read The Mediterraneans by Jack Kerouac. I liked the SF post war where rebels were hard to find and there were coffee houses and poetry and $.25 beers and Charlie Parker. I think ultimately the 60s "movement" won't amount to much in American intellectual history as the arrogant baby boomers want to believe. I think it was kind of interesting, but how much art and poetry do you remember of that particular time.

That's just one girl's opinion.

Hey—this guy Jack works with rode the bus with us this morning. He was kind of chatty in the surfer kind of way. He said that he was reading Burroughs last night and all of a sudden, his lens popped out of his glass frames. He thinks that there was some weird energy coming off of the Burroughs.

Trippy, dude.

Landry

The Price Of Hurling Stones, Tomatoes, and Sex Toys Into The Past


28 May

cadence

The Cadence

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Date: Tue, 28 May 1996 16:26:35
From: Lynn Landry

More interesting than getting drunk with a friend and having sex, is getting drunk years later and talking about it. Or dancing around the issue. OR starting and stopping. Having a past is SO MUCH FUN.

Gabriel, my friend Rob is having a Babyhead film festival at the Biograph on Saturday, June 1. He showing a few different videos. Two have me in them and it could be so embarassing, I may never enter the eastern time zone again. I don't have all the details, but I think it being shown around 9 or 10 pm. I will find out and let you and Sue know so you can heckle me.

Landry

Life Is Not A Straight Line


28 May

life-line

Life Is Not A Straight Line

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Date: 28 May 1996 09:13:27 +0100
From: Lynn Landry

Hope that you got in at least one war movie this weekend to celebrate your country's ability to kill, kill, kill. I saw Patton.

There was much activity this weekend. Actually, there was much activity this weekend that involved drinking beer. Friday was just your basic night of drinking beer at Trax with the usual suspects. Not much to tell. The Adam's Family Pin Ball game was broken and I didn't do too well at pool. Jack was on the table a lot but I don't think that is as interesting as ME being on the table. Saturday was beautiful. Temp was in the 80s and the sun was shining. We spent it running errands and cleaning the house thinking that this weather was going to be that way the whole weekend. Wrong. Sunday, winter was upon us with cloudy, dreary skies and temps didn't go above 55. Kind of a drag, but better than 100 degrees and 98% humidity.

That night we had beers at this micro-pub called Toronado's. Very good atmosphere and the bartender was this hip looking older woman who really know her beers. I liked the way she'd tell the men "full body..." Then, we bussed down the street to the Fillmore where we had tickets to see these three bands—Screaming Bloody Marys, The Dilly Creeps, and Idiot Flesh. The Fillmore is a pretty famous club here and I guess among the band freaks like Jack. It is an old theater with high ceilings, balconies and crystal chandeliers. There were black lights shining on the crystals which gave the place a purplish, goulish glow.

It was a very good show with each band better than the previous one, as it should be. The first band is being promoted by East Bay Ray from the Dead Kennedys. He jumped up on the stage and played guitar for a couple of songs. This band was kinda like retro-punk. Not much new to offer the world but good enough to hold your attention. The next band, The Dilly Creeps consisted of four guys, three regular dudes in lumberjack shirts and one guitar player called Buckethead who wore a Kentucky Fried Chicken bucket on his head and one of those eerie white generic masks kind of like what the drunk rich guys of the Carnival Krewes wear at the New Orleans Mardi Gras. Buckethead was a tall skinny frizzy haired guy who looked much taller with the fried chicken bucket extension.

She talked like Californians are stereotyped and told me that she needed to find East Bay Ray because she needed to get him or something like that. She was freaking. I think she was nothing but a groupie. I think it is so sad that women do that groupie thing. I mean, dumb is dumb, but you don't see dumb men hanging out in clubs trying to sleep with some musician—or am I the dummy here?
The last band, Idiot Flesh, was not what I expected at all. These guys wearing what looked like old-fashioned striped pajama hats (ala "Twas the Night Before Christmas") stuffed with toilet paper so they stood straight up. They were in little matching body suits kind of like the oompa-loompas. One guy had fake kabuki makeup on. Instead of Japanese characters on his face, he just had regular old arabic numbers—14, 15, 16, 17, 18. The band started out in one of the theater boxes all crammed together with trombones and snare drums and big red sticks. They started playing some "o when the saints come marching in" music, beating on drums playing trombones and then they began to make their way around the balcony, down the stairs and through the crowd on the floor with an entourage that grew to about 20 people with whistles, things to bang on, mouths to chant and big red sticks. They got to the front of the stage and chanted and I could here Jack and his work/musician dude/friends kinda chuckling and making fun of this little scene. One guy referred to it as Cirque du Sole-hell. Then the musicians in the entourage (the oompa-loompa looking guys) went on stage and they started to play the wildest, craziest, coolest sounding music. If you're going to put on a show like that, you'd better be good, is what I say. It was an evening of crazyness. There were strange, interpretive dancers painted white, a king and a queen doing some sort of action on the floor, some guy in a thong dragging a large box, people beating on saws and gears and playing Australian aborgine horns. My god, you gotta see these people if you get a chance, it was incredible.

During the course of this evening, I met this girl named Candy who wasn't more than 21. She reminded me of Drew Barrymore with that pixie bleached blonde hair and frosty pink lips. She talked like Californians are stereotyped and told me that she needed to find East Bay Ray because she needed to get him or something like that. She was freaking. I think she was nothing but a groupie. I think it is so sad that women do that groupie thing. I mean, dumb is dumb, but you don't see dumb men hanging out in clubs trying to sleep with some musician—or am I the dummy here?

Anyway, it was a great time. But, we realized that you can't get a cab in San Francisco late at night. Nor can you catch a bus. Luckily, one of Jack's coworker buddies gave us a ride home. Although at one point the door of the car on my side flew open and I nearly fell out. I didn't even register the incident right away because I was slightly wasted.

Kristen and Steven are here. It was great to see people from the homeland. They came in a day late because they had to stop an hour outside of SF due to high, hurricane force winds. But, they finally arrived Monday morning, safe and sound. They were just as excited as we were and I appreciated living here all over again.

Kristen has an interview at my company later.

Hope to hear from you kids in TV land.

Bye.

Landry

Greetings To The Dollhouse


21 May

studio

Landry's San Francisco

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I like the dollhouse appellation for your house. Very appropo. Interesting analysis of Jack and his "can dish it out, but can't take it." It is something I am learning in our cohabitation. He's also very adept at making a good first impressions; then when you're hooked in, everything changes.

There have been some rough spots, but for the most part, things are going pretty well between us. And, I can't blame any troubles all on Jack because I have my own baggage to deal with that doesn't make me the most pleasant person in the world. I can be negative and I stress out about EVERYTHING. I have been trying to let some things slide but it ain't easy. It's kinda tough, when for so long all I had to think about was me. If I didn't have money or if I fucked something up, it was me and only me I had to answer too. Now I have to deal with someone else fucking up or me fucking them up. It's a little tough. Plus, I had to adjust to living with someone else. When we were in DC, it still felt like Jack was just a houseguest. It was still my place. That ain't the story anymore. But, in spite of the little failings, it is still a good thing. I'm not anywhere near hanging in the towel yet. I'm sorta ready for the long term thing. I just don't know if I really get into the relationship thing. I mean, it sounds nice, and I like the concept, but the reality has always been a problem for me. It's a growing up thing.

We don't have much in ways of furniture. We are finally at a financial peak where we have paid off the move costs and we are collecting our full paychecks, so we are ready to shop the yard sales of the SF queens. Those gay guys throw away or sell cheap some really nice stuff.

That reminds me, I was concerned about Jack's homophobia and somewhat racist attitude and how it was going to connect with this oh so PC city. But, he seems to be doing fine. The only people I knew living here are gay—two gay guys named Michael and Celso and one lesbian named Booooooo (has to be seven ohs). I think he is one of those people that only takes people on an individual basis. He seems to warm up to people pretty quick without making any judgment on them; yet he can't seem to work it out in his head that the stereotypes he believes to be true are a lot of times not.

I find too that the work environment is much more civilized here. People have a sense of humor about themselves and don't stomp around thinking they make the world go around. And, I don't have to listen to conservative assholes like at my last job. Here, I probably sound like Rush Limbaugh to some of these granola heads.
We do live in a somewhat "brotherly" neighborhood. A lot of guys like to walk by around 2 or 3am blasting their radios they have slung over their shoulders—I thought that big radio thing had gone out of fashion, guess not. They yell at each other in the streets a lot too. Some things are universal.

San Francisco is a frontier town in a lot of ways. It's like things on the east coast just didn't make it out here. Too far. Sorry, we don't have that here. I still like the town because of the more relaxed atmosphere and all that, but I appreciate DC a lot more. DC actually has a really active art culture that I just took for granted. And, in spite of the Nazis that have their grips on the taxes and government and stuff, DC is pretty hip and loose. However, I will never pine for another winter like the last one. The weather is fabulous, and I don't ever want to experience uncomfortable heat or cold again. I find that people don't get into much intellectual talk here, either. I miss that. Perhaps I just haven't found the niche yet. After all, those Beat Poets were here a long time ago. People seem to like mundane music, movies, etc. I don't understand it. There is more to life than just being laid back. There has to be some brain stimulil. I liked being able to get into it with my fellow DC-ers. I also miss the friends I left.

But, I am making more money and I paid off most of my debts, so I am now in the position to take some art classes and stuff and perhaps take some trips. I find too that the work environment is much more civilized here. People have a sense of humor about themselves and don't stomp around thinking they make the world go around. And, I don't have to listen to conservative assholes like at my last job. Here, I probably sound like Rush Limbaugh to some of these granola heads.

Anyway, I gotta get back to work. Write much. I'll read. I'll respond.

Landry

The Apple, The Worm, The Drip


08 May

new-york-apartment

New York Apartment

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As we both once thought true, Landry, Master Jack was the hoofer the the rest of our whole stinking gang suspected was going to fly higher than the laws of normalcy would usually allow, but somehow it always broke down with him. It wasn't me. I had signs to follow, my undoing I suppose. Concerning Jack's failure to rise above, I don't know why specifically, although a major contributing factor in my mind is that crack habit he's got. A consistant need to pound drugs is obviously bad news for most gonzos. And like most gonzos Jack feels immune to these special dangers, and always feels like he can rise above any problems just in the nick of time. But time is merciless, and all I'm saying is I hope Jack steers clear of most of that garbage out there in his new start. Yes, we had a little run in about that rabbit worm (and monkey) of his. He hasn't done it very often and I blew up so bad the last time to the point where he was obviously ashamed. If it happens again, I doubt I will give him a second chance. I just think it is throwing your money away in addition to being a waste of time. I'm at a stage in my life where I just don't want to deal with that crap no how any which way, zero tolerance, no more turning the cheek in allowing lurkers to run roughshod.

B Suzy and I are hopping the Amtrak up New York City this weekend to make the rounds with an old friend, Jennifer. Jack knows her at a distance. Up close, who knows anyone? We are each mere fractals of our true self.

Working on her doctorate in social anthropology—she just got notice of acceptance to Cornell—so she will be moving to Ithaca in upper state within a few weeks. The past two years at the New School have left at the freezeline of parental support, but this Cornell package carries with it an $8K annual stipend, so she's set for pocket flash, but observes the town of Ithaca as an eerie hovel, full of strange hippy looking people, no strip malls, no 7-11s, nothing but a few docile streets, a couple of schools, and hills to kill for if one happened to be a skate punk. She's not, however, and without a car, is already sweating the cold icy strides up and down those inclines, fretting she'll hate it, if she survives it.

Such are the crass ironies of a well-circulated life, eh Landry? Hope all this psychodrip suits you. It’s what I do when I write, and when I am alone wrestling with my thoughts, or wife. My style often takes the form of a complaint. But in all honesty, I just want a live that suits me, just like everybody else. Unfortunately…
Jennifer is still rather gothic in appearance and outlook, can't squelch the hipsterific riot grrrl stirring inside her, although she's embraced an academic mindset, is quite the scholar, dean's list et al, and seething to escape the stranglehold of her past. This weekend should be fantastic now that the heat wave in which we suffered 95-100 degree weather for three days straight has pissed off and new highs in the low 70s are expected. Her lower Lex Ave walk-up of course is slack on AC, and I suppose you don't have one either. I understand there are few of them on the SF Bay. But here at the Dollhouse climate control is ALWAYS a cool calculation.

Well, gotta go start some dinner. I'm blackening some salmon steaks tonight, although Tim is chewing top sirloin because he avoids seafood. The lad pays us a flat rate per as a dinner guest, so if living here boosts Tim's self-esteem and his sense of responsibility a notch or two as he claims and keeps him off heroin as he says it is doing, then I suppose we can all feel grateful that this particular opportunity knocked. His extra money helps keep us on monthly budget and out of hock, so it seems to be working all around, although of course I've had to stand firm on a few principles Tim would conveniently fail to understand, but I should brag in his name that these moments have been few thus far. I guess he's been here eight weeks on Friday. Jack only lasted three days when he returned from Germany, frying my patience before he bolted up to Diane and Adrian's to squander his small forture with them.

Such are the crass ironies of a well-circulated life, eh Landry? Hope all this psychodrip suits you. It's what I do when I write, and when I am alone wrestling with my thoughts, or wife. My style often takes the form of a complaint. But in all honesty, I just want a live that suits me, just like everybody else. Unfortunately...

GT

S A M P L E X

"Ignorance and virtue suck on the same straw. Souls grow on bones, but die beneath bankers' hours.""


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