Pain...real or imagined?

My heart hurts.

No silly, atonement isn't what you put in the fax machine!

An artist discovers his genius the day he dares not to please. - André Malraux

Art is the desire of a man to express himself, to record the reactions of his personality to the world he lives in. - Amy Lowell

Art is coming face to face with yourself. -
Jackson Pollock

What is real is not the external form, but the essence of things . . . it is impossible for anyone to express anything essentially real by imitating its exterior surface. - Constantin Brancusi

It's only words... unless they're true. - David Mamet

All art is autobiographical; the pearl is the oyster's autobiography. - Federico Fellini

We must never forget that art is not a form of propaganda; it is a form of truth. - John F. Kennedy

Every great work of art is offensive to someone, for a work of art is a protest against things as they are and a proclamation of things as they ought to be. - Gerald W. Johnson

Censorship always defeats its own purpose, for it creates in the end the kind of society that is incapable of exercising real discretion. -
Henry Steele Commager

The writer must be willing, above everything else, to take chances, to risk making a fool of himself - or even to risk revealing the fact he is a fool. - Jessamyn West

What marks the artist is his power to shape the material of the pain we all have. - Lionel Trilling

A work of art which did not begin in emotion is not art. - Paul Cezanne

Art is a way of saying what it means to be alive, and the most salient feature of existence is the unthinkable odds against it. For every way that there is of being here, there are an infinity of ways of not being here. Historical accident snuffs out whole universes with every clock tick. Statistics declare us ridiculous. Thermodynamics prohibits us. Life, by any reasonable measure, is impossible, and my life—this, here, now—infinitely more so. Art is a way of saying, in the face of all that impossibility, just how worth celebrating it is to be able to say anything at all. - Richard Powers

Art is long, life short; judgement difficult, opportunity transient. - Goethe

The artist is always engaged in writing a detailed history of the future because he is the only person aware of the nature of the present. - Wyndham Lewis

The fact that no one understands you doesn't mean that you're an artist...

Now begins my personal practice of humility...Through many, many years of denial and self doubt, and the constant badgering (lovingly so) of various wonderful people in my life, I have been able to grasp the realization, nay embrace it, that I am an artist. As I have stated before, it is my life, my purpose for existence in this body; through the struggles, the triumphs, the countless defeats, the snickers, the praises, the befuddlements, the astounding set backs and self deprecations, the revelations...
It is what I do, in whatever shape, form, colour, or medium it may embody: photography, painting, writing, sculpture, performing...

As we are merely the summation of our experiences and people in our lives, it is life, my life and the people and things in it that inspire me, motivate me, provide me the sustenance to create. It is my process. I am also a performer and thus my work is projected beyond myself. What I do, I do out of a dire necessity to express, to share, to heal, to grow. In the far distance follows a hope that someone, somewhere, sometime, may derive emotion, inspiration, perspective, insight, or strength from the remains. I do not do this with malintent for, or praise by others.

In the wake of Papa's death and my tellings of it, it has been brought to my attention that not everyone may understand this, and/or has serious personal issue with it. As I am merely a fallible creature and stumbling along my own path, I sought counsel from some dear and wise people in my life. I first asked the brother I never had, my spiritual and intellectual anchor, his input. His first remark was that I made an ethical screw up in publishing a private moment. He then followed by saying that what was written was very nice, honest, candid and bittersweet, nothing seemed out of place. I also asked my other brother from another mother his input. His reply was, "Dude, you're an artist to the core, it's stamped on your ass! What you wrote is so you! It's the only thing you know and anyone who knows you, will get it. Not everyone will get that." I also told a fabulous and connected woman in my life, quite frankly one of the most amazing people I have ever (re)met, that I had every intention of writing about her presence in my life. I asked how she feels about that. She asked me not to yet, as it is between us. And so with this in mind, I have been in a state of reflection and this is the product.

I am concerned that I may have acted in a behavior that I admonish. Whether this is true or not and I am correct in my assumption or not, I express myself thusly...
We all, each of us, have different stress point tolerances, emotional triggers, psychological stamina, brute strength, levels of communication, comprehensions of the world, of our own worlds, of each other... I love my family!! My entire family, with no exclusions. Sometimes, we F*@# up, or misunderstand, or misinterpret or miscommunicate. Sometimes we don't want to be bothered, or are unable to deal. Sometimes we assume, presume, collectivize, or minimize. Sometimes we don't focus on what the important issue is at hand and get caught up in our own poo instead. Sometimes we get so encompassed in trying to care for everyone else, we forget ourselves for the worse rather than the better. Of these, we are all guilty, regardless of what family!

For anyone on who's behalf I misspoke, I sincerely apologize. If it seems as though I am attempting to elevate myself above anyone, I am not. To those who I have expressed my disappointment in, please know that it in no way signifies a loss of love! I have inadvertently disappointed people at times. If they stopped loving me, I'd have no one to share life with. You see, we don't usually realize that we let someone down momentarily. That's where the beauty lies in people telling us. If no one ever told me I had done so, cripes man, I'd never think to cut it out and be more conscious!

The death of a loved one is probably one of the most emotionally and mentally taxing environments to be immersed in. People say and do things they don't mean, they don't realize, they shouldn't. I think it is, in part, a way to release and attempt to make ourselves feel better and more important. Thankfully, forgiveness, understanding and family love have the power to persevere.

The odd irony of to whom...

Papa is dead. 8.35am, Monday October 8th, 2007. We had been giving him 2 different meds all week. Morphine for the pain, and RDHP(or something-I'll figure it out later) which is a 4 drug cocktail to help him relax and sleep. It all had worked rather well until Sunday nite. Throughout the course of the nite, Papa grew more and more agitated. He continually complained of having to go (to the bathroom). Each time I would lower his bed rail, get him standing, up over to the commode, and then back into bed. And each time, nothing would come. You see, he didn't really have to go, it was the blood building up in his abdomen that was creating pressure and making him feel as though he did. He began complaining of back pain and stomach pain, and so I gave him morphine. He was restless, and so I gave him the other meds. He was still restless, more meds, the third time he got up, he tremored slightly, then began to pass out. I got him back into bed. I sat him up just to situate him in the bed and he began to pass out again. Now he was quiet. The look in his eyes as they glazed over was a gut wrenching sight.

I knew it was time. I ran upstairs and woke Nana and my mum. Papa came to and was in discomfort. I gave him 2 more shots of morphine. He finally began to relax. We called everyone and they all arrived post haste. As all seven of his children, and all of his grandchildren stood in the room, around him, watching him, Papa's respirations grew shallower and less frequent. And then, finally, he partook of his last mortal breath. Nana was right there, at his side, and she burst wide open. She leaned her body over his and lay on top of him, crying, weeping, shouting "No!". The rest of the family followed. I immediately went to her side, holding her, in an attempt to console her and reassure her that it was alright. His body was no longer in pain. He was in the room with each and all of us. My mother stood at his head, with her hands cradling his cheeks. I rose and went to her side. "He's ok now. He's still here, ya know?." She cried. "I know.", she muttered under sobs, and I embraced her.

As my mum and aunts helped Nana into the kitchen, I sat down beside Papa. I held his arm, his right arm with his sacred heart in mine. I lingered on the inks of our arms, together, one last time. "Hey there old man." I couldn't move my eyes from him, the man who raised me, instructed me, led me, cherished me, respected me, loved me unconditionally, who was proud of me, who never forgot me during even the worst of his alzheimer's, the man whom I idolize, exalt, appreciate and adore. The way I have known him these 32 years, is no more. Being blessed with my spirituality and level of awareness, I realize that death is merely a transition from the physical shell, and that Papa still exists and flourishes. With this in mind, I just sat there, regarding him, taking my last, deep, concrete visions. Tears again, crested my eye but never quite broke. Then they were gone.

Mum called the hospice nurse who was at another house in Basking Ridge. She got stuck in traffic and didn't arrive to officially pronounce until well after 9 o'clock. I stood beside the nurse as she dispensed all of the remaining meds into paper towels and then into the trash. She quickly completed her paperwork, expressed her sincere condolences, and then left. The coroner came shortly after 10, alone, in his white wagon. He removed an orange Reeves stretcher from the back and then proceeded up the front steps. I pulled up Papa's pj's under the sheet...You see, he was an exceptionally modest man, to the end, and I wanted him to be able to have that. We then rolled Papa to me, placed the stretcher under him, rolled him away, and unrolled the stretcher. After covering him in a sheet, I helped the M.E. cinch up the straps and us 6, Uncle Rob and Frank, Robert, Christopher, Steven and myself, each took a handle and carried Papa to the wagon, onto the gurney, 2 buckles, and in he went..."See you later old man."

At noon, I went with my mother and Nana, along with mum's friend, to the funeral home to make the arrangements for Papa's cremation and service. I was absolutely flabbergasted! I never fathomed how much goes into caring for dead loved ones and how many details there are! We were there for a good 3 hours easy! Social Security benefits transferring, how many death certificates needed, where do they have to go, what about his insurance going to Nana, obituary, urn, what clothes to cremate him in, priest, VFW, repass, flowers, food, music, photos, contacting all the legalities concerned, what will medicaid cover, what won't it cover, prayer cards, words, holy moly! Phew...finally over and back to the house.

Oh the dramma!...

Well before we left for the parlor, I handed everyone pen and paper, and asked them to write some things they would like said about Papa in the obit. Aunt J was the only person able to sit down and write about Papa and her love for him. M began writing the names of the kids and grandkids, but was ferklempt and could not continue. When we left, no one was able to give us anything else. For what we thought we could afford, we put the names of each of the children with their spouses, and each of the grandchildren, then the number of great grandchildren. Now apparently, my cousin J has recently found reason to believe that his first child might not actually be his child. Because of this, he and his wife, D, had resolved to not include her as a grandchild. Somehow Aunt N had incited between herself and D, an argument about this (they've not gotten on from the get go). Nana decided she wanted J's first child counted because in Papa's heart, she was his great granddaughter and we needed to do right by him and what is in his heart! J took offense to this because no one talked to him about it first, and D, who had for the entire weekend, holed herself up in either the basement or mum's bedroom because of issues she has with her estranged deceased father, was right along side of him.

I couldn't believe what the two of them were doing. This was about Papa and they were making it about themselves. I attempted to reason with the both of them and D lost her patience and shot me down, gave me the hand and walked away with closed ears. J couldn't get over how no one talked to him and he's the last to know. "It's not about you, bud." Well, J and D's children, H and B, whom I love and adore, were not talking to myself or my mother. How really odd! I couldn't believe that their mother, actually instructed them not to talk to us. And as I was downstairs talking with J and pulling teeth to make him understand the sitch, B barreled down and whispered to him that mommy said he shouldn't talk to me! I was dumbfounded. D came down and began packing up their luggage to load with every intent of leaving. Before the service, "What happened between you and your dad sucks! I get it! But you dragged those children all the way up here to support your husband in his grief for his grandfather, and so that they could see Papa one last time. That's what this is about!"

Wednesday October 10
They had disappeared before the service and we were left to the conclusion that they weren't coming. Nana was furious. We arrived to the parlor, and there they were...thankfully, however the kids were still avoiding us like plague. The service was nice. My Grandpa came! It was soooo good to see him! I got to meet plenty of folk, and see some I've not seen in many years. The VFW boys were great, they presented Nana with a bible, flag, and played taps...that set off alot of people. After the words, and as some were departing, H and B came running up to mum and myself and latched on to our legs. We gather that J had finally had enough! He and D got right into their car and left though. I am so disappointed in D. My mother, Nana, Papa, and myself, welcomed her to the family with open arms, respect, and compassion. I've spent many a night and noon on the phone with them, trying to help them communicate with each other and save their marriage. And she comes into the house, and does what she does. I and everyone else love J and the kids to death! I don't think D will be welcomed back in mum and Nana's home, or anyone else's. It's sad that things happened the way they did.

Tending to the Garden (state)...it makes you strong, but sure gets dirt under the nails!

I wanted a perfect ending. Now I've learned, the hard way, that some poems don't rhyme, and some stories don't have a clear beginning, middle, and end. Life is about not knowing, having to change, taking the moment and making the best of it, without knowing what's going to happen next. Delicious Ambiguity. ~Gilda Radner

Vvvvvvvv Vvvvvvvvv (the sound of my phone vibrating). "Marty, Papa's in the hospital. He's dying." These are the words I woke up to this Friday morning. At 4am, Papa had gotten out of bed to pee and fell. My mum ran in to pick him up and as she did so, his eyes rolled up and he passed out (hmmm, sounds eerily familiar, eh?!). At the ER, an MRI was done and an aneurysm was found in his stomach. 8cm, leaking, and bleeding out into his abdomen. Having just celebrated his 88th birthday, and having undergone such illness and trauma only a couple of years ago, the doctor knew that Papa would not survive surgery to close it. All there is to do is wait...

I was on the first available flight out. Now 529$ for an "emergency fair" hardly seems compassionate considering the internet fair was 529$...I'll have to have a word with US Airways at a later date. I touched down in Newark at 10.55pm EST, hopped a cab and was on my way to the house. FYI, don't take a cab from Newark to the greater Bridgewater area unless you're willing to drop 75-100! Phew! The taxi pulled up, I jumped out, and the first thing I saw was the gaping smile of my Uncle Rob. I hugged him so tightly I could breathe through his lungs.

After being buffeted by family hugs, handshakes and kisses, I made it to Papa's bedside. The lights were low, the air stifled yet calm, and I sat in a blond wooden chair with oddly lain spindles that whispered "back breaker" from across the room. I looked at him in the dim glow and lay my hand to his right arm. His eyes opened briefly and instantly connected with my obsequious gaze. "Hiya sweetheart.", he said. " Hi Papa. I'm here. It's ok now. I love you. You are the greatest man in my life, you always will be.", I whispered into his ear as I stood, leaning over him, holding his cool dry hand, as he drifted off. "Okay."

It is now late night Saturday. I don't know that I could aptly put into words the feelings I possess at seeing my entire family in one place for the first time in decades! Rightly said, it sucks that the dying of my grandfather is the reason, however, it is still magnificent. Let not death ease the mind of trivial burden, though! Despite the circumstance, my family still manages to bicker, bitch, and chide each other. It got to the point where it was happening right over Papa's bed. That was enough. I told them to get out of the room. Now! I had a little talk with everyone for failure to know what else to do. I mean, here's my family, as much dysfunction as there is, I love them! Each and every one, with a passion! But this is not about them. It's about Papa! The man laying in bed, dying. The only father I've ever known, and their father! Not only is it bad juju for Papa, it was tearing Nana apart. And my mother...the Universe knows we've had a bitter and terrible relationship for many years (which I'm working on for all those scrutinous eyeballs out there!) and even from 3000 miles away I could see that she's been the pillar of the family! She took in Nana and Papa of her own accord, has taken care of them, provided for them, delt with all the poo from everybody, including myself, and she's still standing, still there. I saw a dire necessity in bringing this to the light for everyone. For cryin' out loud, just cut it out!

Calmness has now come. In the several moments I have sat at Papa's side, regarding him in the night, smiles come to my face. Smiles of memories in passing, of Barney's, of his treasure trove of found items stashed in the drawer of the night stand, of his finger and thumb firing off with a wink and a "Pkkkewgh", of the amazing man he has been.

I'd be a liar if I told you I shed no tears. They've been teenie tiny, and have not quite crested the inner eyes, but they've made themselves known. I've been preparing for this for a while now. It began when I embarked on my journey to the west coast those 8 years ago. Oh how the flood gates flew open! Knowing that I was traversing a continent and leaving Nana and Papa behind was one of the hardest things I have ever done in my life! Now yesterday, I was fighting back bouts of anxiety trying to arrange my flight here, but that all eased once he looked up at me with those big blues. I find comfort in knowing my peace is made. For as his body, merely a shell, dwindles, his spirit will flourish.

One of the crowning moments of the trip so far has been hangin' with my cousins R and J. We grew up together, intermittently, but none the less. And we three amigos bunked in the basement last night, rehashing old memories of yore, catching each other up on our lives and accomplishments, and perusing old photos. It was a hoot! And the second moment was probably seeing my cousin Charlie bound down the stairs in his clean shaven, hair combed, silk shirt wearin', cologne totin' greatness! He drove down from new Hampshire today. It was sooo great to see him again. Damn, I'm chokin' up... Pluukkeh! Excuse me.

Vlad the Destroyer

About 2 and a half weeks ago, a lovely young lady came into the gallery. She had seen a 1940's French caned bench on our website and had to have it. The bench happened to be in our Lambertville, NJ location and was not priced. I called Benjamin, the owner, and told him that I had a young lady in my presence who wanted the bench. Priced much higher, I offered her 1000$ off for that day only. Benjamin also offered to ship it out to LA for free. She was concerned about the shipping time as she was leaving town for several months. Benjamin said it should arrive in about a few weeks and I relayed, word for word, to my client. She bought it, and sashayed out the door with a smile on her face and a bounce in her step.

Let's fast forward slightly. Last week I received a phone call from Vas. Now Vas is our lovely young lady's husband. He was perturbed because I told her that the bench would arrive in 7 to 10 days and it's been 7 to 10 days, and where's their bench? I was very accommodating, as I believe in great customer service. I apologized about the misunderstanding and informed him that the estimate was a few weeks, not 7 to 10 days. He wasn't very pleased but we reached an amenable accord. If the bench were to arrive after they left town, I would hold it in the gallery until they returned. Problem solved!

Now it's this past Friday. I receive a call from, guess who...very good, you're right on the money! Vas. Vas is very agitated. He is angry that the bench hasn't arrived. He accused me of being dishonest. He stated that he went to this designer and to that gallery and to Miss So and So and told everyone the situation and they all agreed that it was very odd and unheard of. He reiterated several times about how this was their first experience with us and that it has been so awful! He was completely fed up and wanted his money back. I told him I would speak to Benjamin and call him back shortly. After debriefing Ben, he wanted nothing to do with it. No refunds, no exchanges, that's our policy...he told me to forget about it and not call the client back. I, am a man of my word. I told this to Ben, and that because I had already told Vas that I would call him, I had to.

And so I call Vas. My first words were, "I understand what it's like to not have something when you want it or when it takes longer than you hope. It sucks! I also sincerely apologize for any misunderstanding or miscommunication. When your wife was here, I repeated the information Benjamin told me word for word to her. To my absolute, best recollection, Benjamin said a few weeks, and I repeated a few weeks." Vas replied, "Fine, 2 weeks, even still, it's been longer than 2 weeks." "No, I'm sorry, I said a few weeks, not 2 weeks." Vas exclaimed that his wife told him that I said 7-10 days and that he would of course believe his wife. "Of course, I get that.", I say. I explained to him that unfortunately, I could not reimburse them because of our policy, which is clearly printed, in a large and easy to read font on the invoice. As I remained calm, polite and respectful, his agitation and language grew worse. He then said to me, and I quote,"I'm going to have my cousin Vlad come to see you while I'm gone. He doesn't speak English very well, but he'll get the point across!"

Close your mouth. Yeah, that was my reaction too. I couldn't believe this guy just said what he said! "I'm sorry, did you just threaten me?" And he said no, then continued, "Like I said, he doesn't really speak English, but he'll be there when I'm not here and he'll make my point. I don't have the patience for this shit!" CLICK!

And there you have it. Quite a day! I'm glad to see that people still have passion! Weeeeeee...

A good support staff is like a rusty crutch; kick it out from under ya, and next thing ya know, you're on your face tastin' dirt!

What the h, e, double hockey sticks am I talking about? Well, as you can plainly see, it's been an eon since my last entry. After the chiding and cajoling of those nearest and dearest to me, here I sit writing, as I should, even though no one has made any comments about entries thus far...

Muy mucho has happened over these past months. I'm still packin' the 15 pounds I put on during my depressed winter-state blues quartet trio, I quit my crappy job schlepping furniture
around, I de-installed my first solo photography show, , was late on the rent by a week and a half, have just about given up on the whole Philippines/film thing, and landed a gig as the manager of a gallery that showcases mid century contemporary art and design furniture.

The latter is, of course, the good of the bad and the ugly. I walked into the place while picking up for a client and met Benny. We instantly hit it off and he mentioned that he needed a manager for the joint. So I said "hello!" and the rest is history. The money is very good, especially as I sell more and more. Our inventory is excellent! I can truly get behind it because I love contemporary art and design. Heck, my life is art. I've come to realize that this is plain, simple, and my natural selection in this universe. I cannot function without it. I must create and be in a creative environment! Throughout the course of my studies and work experience, I have grown an affinity for innovative and groundbreaking art and design. That does not seem more apparent to me than in the spirit of the work that has materialized from the early to mid century and so it's a great place to be and to learn. And I've learned alot so far. The gallery is called Modern One. It's on Beverly Bvd, one block west of Fairfax. Please check it out.

So I'm listening to George Rochberg's Caprice Variations 12, Andante Con Moto, and through my new Klipsh Promedia Gmx speakers, I can hear him(violinist) breathing through his nose as he's working the bow across his violin, searching out the notes with his fingers. I can almost hear his head buffeting to and fro with each strum, and see his hair being pulled and tugged at each nod. Outstanding! but that's...for another entry. Good nite, and good luck.

For our fathers...the men we love.

Sherman made the terrible discovery that men make about their fathers sooner or later... that the man before him was not an aging father but a boy, a boy much like himself, a boy who grew up and had a child of his own and, as best he could, out of a sense of duty and, perhaps love, adopted a role called Being a Father so that his child would have something mythical and infinitely important: a Protector, who would keep a lid on all the chaotic and catastrophic possibilities of life. ~Tom Wolfe

I recently returned to LA from NJ. I went back to the East coast to see Papa, my maternal grandfather. Having grown up without knowing my biological father, Papa was that man for me. He, in his 50's, had become a raging alcoholic. So much in fact that it forced my mother to leave the house, get married and pregnant, as a teenager. I never knew that until I was much older.

Papa always spoke wisdom to me. He was so gentle and compassionate. He held my hand. He taught me about nature and bugs and finding things. He took me to the store and bought me candy and little gliders made of balsa wood at Barney's. He handed down his pocket watch to me, and the watch of his father. He spoke to me of his times in the war, and his times in the garden, and with his family. My family. He never once raised a hand against me or anyone else. Sure he got angry from time to time, but it would manifest itself in him calling me everyone else's name in the family: Frank, Robert, Carol, Linda, whatever your name is!... His frustration always diffused to a chuckle and a smile. I received a lot of nurturing from Nana and Papa, of which I am immeasurably molded by and grateful of.

My last trip to Jersey was 2 1/2 years ago, New Years Eve. I received a phone call that Papa was in the hospital with pneumonia. I was on the next flight out. I stayed there for over 2 months, at his bedside every nite, in the hospital, then in the rehab clinic, and then at home. The pneumonia was bad, but it was the DT's from alcohol withdrawal that nearly killed him. It was an odd feeling having my entire family (my mum is 1 of 7), leaning on me and drawing strength from me. There was a moment, when I had to steal away in secret, and I broke down. I then collected myself and went back to his bedside. He made a full recovery, including the alcohol.

Believing that I was about to leave for Asia for 3 years, I flew back a couple of weeks ago to see him. It was an intensely emotional visit. There is nothing quite like the sensation that you may never see someone that you love and care about so utterly deeply, alive again. Needless to say, I was a complete wreck. In addition to this, Papa has Alzheimer's, and it is serious and exacerbating by the day. Talking to him is like talking to a child, and his attention span is about 2 seconds long. I cannot describe my feeling of anguish, watching this happen to a man I have always known and seen as heroic and commanding.

I spent every day with him. I took him to the VFW and we played pool. It was something he loved doing more than all else. I couldn't help staring at him, bathing myself in every moment I had with him. I was enamored with what I saw before me, the glorious man that my boyhood remembered. I am eternally grateful, and I find comfort in the thought that I am the man I am because of him.

While I was there, I got to see my cousin Charlie, Papa's nephew. It's been 20 years. Charlie served in Vietnam and has lived with serious shell shock ever since. It sent him into destructive drug and alcohol abuse, and separated him from himself. Over the last couple of years he has been involved with an organization that builds schools in Vietnam. It is a means of healing and giving back to the land and people. Charlie befriended a couple of guys, Chuck and Gary, who were also in country, and they quickly bonded. Chuck and Gary recently lost their best friend, Buddha. Buddha's wishes were to have some of his ashes spread on the Vietnam Memorial Wall in D.C.

Charlie flew into Oregon from Vietnam last month to meet Chuck and Gary. Charlie bought Buddha's Harley, and the trio rode cross country in the Run for the Wall. It happens every year. The Run starts in Ontario, Ca, and hundreds of veteran bikers ride to The Wall where they have an honor ceremony. On his way home to New Hampshire, Charlie and the boys stopped off in Jersey... Serendipity at it's finest. He has healed by leaps and bounds. It was an immense blessing to see him and share with all of them.

I called Papa today to wish him a Happy Father's Day, and found out that Dave, my Aunt Mary Catherine's husband, woke up at 1am to pee, passed out and put his head through the shower door. He received a concussion, a broken shoulder, and severe lacerations to his head. It's amazing that the glass completely missed his neck. While at the hospital, he underwent routine scans for cerebral damage. Again, serendipity stepped in when the Docs discovered that he has an aneurysm in his brain. It could have and might burst at any moment, either killing him or making him permanently comatose. He's now awaiting surgery to remove it. My prayers are with them and my 3 cousins.

So today is a serious day to remember. Remember those who are fathers or father figures to us. Be humble and gracious to the magnificent gifts they have endowed upon us and that will live in us to be passed to our children and protégé. And for goodness sake, reach out to those who are still living in our lives and tell them so! Don't make excuses, don't let time escape you any longer than it has. Please!



Elevating from the gluteus
Howdy. Well, although I failed to venture out last nite, I did manage to wash off the few layers of crustaceans and walk over to the theatre today. Now, anyone who knows me knows that I am very anti-Hollywood, as nothing truly good has come out of it since about the 60's. On occasion, however, I do go for a good mind numbing experience and today was one of those days.

So I went to see Fantastic 4. The reviews on NPR weren't great, and of course I expected as much. All in all, it's not a bad film. The main reason to see a mainstream flick is the FX. These were pretty cool. I was a big fan of the Silver Surfer as a kid and so it was kinda neat to see him realized on the screen. Laurence Fishburne was a good choice for the voice of Sliv, but a better job could have been done with more believable inflection. The acting wasn't great, but not awful this time around, although Reed Richards seemed a bit too cool and unaffected when the poo went down. Julian McMahon returns as Dr. Doom, but again, he's still a meek and feeble choice for the ominous and vile character we all new in the comic. Aside from Johnny's mostly flat lines, the writing was ok. There were a handful of funny bits that sparked a hearty laugh. I would say it is worth seeing on the big screen, but not at full price. See it at a matinee or 2nd run theatre.

So now I'm back home. Let's see if I can keep the juices flowing and work on some important things...ttfn

You can't fall off a mountain...

Said 'Ray Smith' to Japhy Ryder... I, however, am not so sure. I say this as I sit here writing, once again in the valley looking up to the peaks above. Not too long ago I was in a hole, several feet below the valley floor, my only vision...of darkness. Then, as quickly as the spiral downward had begun, I found myself scaling the cliff sides in leaps and bounds.

In February I landed a serendipitous gig as an assistant casting director for an indie film production company. It was a blessing from the universe. It allowed me to re-realize my passion for the industry, my entire reason for moving to California 8 years ago. After the gig, the CEO interviewed with me and I had a conference with the chairman and COO. Apparently they were impressed with my work and asked me to come aboard with a 3 year contract to work in Southeast Aisa.

What can I say, I was shocked, overcome, joyed beyond belief. Too good to be true? Well, had everything transpired smoothly, I would have been working in Asia right this very second. I suddenly found myself in the middle of an unexpected salary negotiation and have since been feeling less and less interest and urgency from the company. And here I sit, in my little apartment, in front of my beautiful mac, with greasy hair, scruff, b.o. and a desire to eat everything in sight despite not being hungry, failing at trying to not listen to my natural inner monologue...

I've always loved writing. Any creative outlet, really. I also love using three little dots to express a pause in thought... I am horrible at keeping regiment about scribing in my journal, and thought, "Hey, everyone else is doing it, come onnnn. Don't you wanna be cool, too?!" My knees, buckling under the inter-webbal peer pressure, could no longer withstand the weight. And so...

I will do my best to keep up with this. If for no other reason, to vent and absorb, and perhaps learn from my ramblings. I often talk to myself as I am usually my own company and we have to talk to someone, don't we? Yes, I am weird. Anywho... Let's see if I can muster up the wherewithal to shower and venture out. TTFN (ta ta for now)