There goes that great American novel…

OK, I’m not writing a novel. I tried writing a novel once when a Good Samaritan stepped in and told me it was the worst thing he’d ever read. Which it was. So I write non-fiction. Or try, when the epilepsy doesn’t object.

For a couple weeks now I’ve been pushing myself with the writing, seeing what I can do without setting off my epilepsy. There’s been no fuzziness, no numbness in the limbs, very little stuttering and speech problems, no confusion, none of all the symptoms that make me everyone’s quirky special friend. I’m almost as dull as regular people.

But yesterday I stepped outside and the world was gorgeously two dimensional. The colors were vivid, even at dusk, the perspective flat. It looked like a Van Gogh painting, tho’ I suppose only an epileptic can see the epilepsy in a Van Gogh painting. Tonight it was even more vivid. I really can’t explain how beautiful it is, tho’ LSD has a similar effect. But it’s not a good sign. That Van Gogh effect is an epileptic aura, a prelude of the fun to come if I don’t cool it with all the renewed writing. I hadn’t had an aura since I stopped writing last year. Start up again and now I’ve got Vincent Van Gogh eyes.

Experiment over, I will follow my pal Kirk Silsbee’s admonition and take it slow, take it slow. I think in be bop, but I’ll have to write like a cool Stan Getz, if that makes any sense.

So this’ll be the last essay for a while. Now just jokes and insults and the occasional brief whining.

Anyway, a poet once said:

They say

this was where Ray-

mundo Chandler drunk

and wrote and thunk

he oughta write some more.

What for?

.

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Bergen op Zoom

(2017, mostly)

Die Antwoord would lose a lot of their Goth appeal if Goths could pronounce Afrikaans. Dee Antvoart, with that mewling diphthong, is not happening if you have black painted fingernails. DIE!!!!! Antwoord, though, that is cool. Sort of like how Björk sounds cool like New York except in Icelandic where it rhymes with jerk. A dipthonged nasally jerk at that. Admittedly New York is full of nasally jerks (not to mention dips in thongs), but that doesn’t help any, it’s still Björk like jerk. So I say Björk like New York and avoid the embarrassment.

Heavy metalers have no idea how an umlaut can reduce a strong vowel to something weaker and embarrassing. Motörhead doesn’t matter because ö is an er anyway, though Mötorhead would be Mertorhead, not so gnarly. Lemmy knew about umlauts, but then Lemmy collected Nazi paraphernelia so of course he knew about umlauts. (“Mein Führer, durch für gegen ohne um! Aus ausser bei mit nach seit von zu! Gegenüber!”) Blue Erster Cult could have been a nonstarter outside of parts of Brooklyn, but there were very few Germans on Long Island to point it out and besides, BOC weren’t metal anyway. But Mertley Creyew is just plain embarrassing. And I saw Möngöl Hörde on a marquee once and read it aloud: Merngerl Herd. Mern Grrrl Herd, somebody said, and everyone laughed. Riot Grrrl humor. Not a good sign when your macho metal name could be mistaken for an angry female punk band from Olympia, Washington. Actually it said Merngerl Herdeh, but why ruin a good Riot Grrrl joke with proper German pronunciation? How punk fucking rock my German’s spelled?

I’ve always wondered if these things affect popularity in any way. I noticed this many years ago when (pardon the non-sequitör) I realized my favorite funny named city, Bergen op Zoom, was pronounced Bergen op Zhome and suddenly was no longer funny. That cursed Dutch phonology. I haven’t made a Bergen op Zoom joke in decades. Imagine my chagrin: Zoom is funny, but Zhome is where the heart is. Which is such a forced pun it just shows how unfunny the correctly pronounced Bergen Op Zoom is. Or how unfunny long O’s are in general, O-Hi-O excepted. So calling Das Boot boot as in boot the footware is funny. Calling it Das Boot as in boat is just sad. But then it was sad. A very sad film. Depth charges, doom (as in room) and despair. No Tony Curtis and Cary Grant in a pink submarine.

Seems I digressed.

Moon

Gorgeous crescent moon tonight over Los Angeles, tinctured orange from smoke I’m assuming. Seems magnified considerably by atmospherics. Raising my cup I beckon the bright moon wrote Li Bai, thirteen centuries ago. Of course his cup was filled with wine, mine only coffee. He drowned. I’ll just be up all night.

I don’t feel right if I don’t write everyday.

(from a Facebook thread….)

I’m just a working class boho living the easy life in LA. My office is this iPhone, a red folder for a few bills, a calendar I scribble notes in, one drawer of a file cabinet, a few zines to be read, a zillion books, some records and cds, and a TV my pal Sarge gave us. My desk is a rock garden and a small army of trilobites watches me in silence. One side of the room is all windows, worth the rent all by itself; the million dollar view and weather are free.

Today the weather is blustering through every window in the house and swirling madly about, warm and a little humid with hints of a more southerly Pacific. It’s all so easy and unhurried. But then so are we. We’ve been here for thirty years and a hundred parties. We’ll be here for more years and more parties. We’re Silver Lake lifers, going on four decades, watching the old Beats turn to old hippies to old punks to aging hipsters, each loathing the generation just before them and venerating the generation that came before the generation they despise. So me, I’m nuts about the Beats. Their poetry, their jazz, their asshole attitude. I can dig that. Fuck you if you don’t. The hippies and hipsters just flinched. The punks grinned. That’s how it works. You want to see me flinch start talking about goat yoga.

Think I’ll spoon a little Bustelo in my coffee maker and have a cup, put on a record since the CD player died and the monitor to the PC is on the blink, and see if I can find something in my drafts that I can finish. I don’t feel right if I don’t write something every day. But I have to be careful now because I’m epileptic and words can set off seizures and weirdness (and if that ain’t Beat, what is?)

But then this’ll do. So maybe instead I’ll just get stoned and watch the sky turn slowly pink then red then purple then black and listen to the coyotes make their crazy music. Why not? It is Saturday, as if Saturday had any relevance to a retired man. The jazz is emanating from the record player and an obnoxious little zephyr just scattered paper all over the floor. It’s the wee people’s doing, my grandmother would have said, half believing it. And the banshees howl by night, looking for sinners and Englishmen.

That’s a wrap.

Life is good

(2017)

Forgot to take my spazz meds this morning, drank too much coffee, got a lot people pissed off on Facebook, remembered to take my meds and now sit here, neurons calm as a windless sea and watching you all yell at each other about Gomer Pyle and astrology. Life is good.

Christmas 2017

A vast hollow boom rent the silent night, followed by a ragged lseries of other booms, just as loud. The first one startled me, the others just made me smile. No matter how much they’ve gentrified Silverlake, there’s still little pockets of Mexico where somebody’s tio borracho breaks out the stash of unbelievably illegal fireworks he’d smuggled up from TJ or maybe bought off an ice cream truck across the river and sets them off in a ragged volley because, hell, Christmas Eve is a holiday like any other. Now Silver Lake is utterly silent again as I write this, even in here, where the Christmas tree lights throw crazy shadows on the ceiling and the entire room looks like a Van Gogh still life. Brick needs to take his seizure meds.

Merry Christmas, all.

Fire season

The fires up north are 600 miles away. The ones around Lake Elsinore an hour away but the winds are blowing the smoke inland, away from us. Until the winds begin blowing from the east we’ll smell very little smoke here in Silver Lake between Hollywood and downtown L.A.

But when the winds do begin blowing from the east, they’ll be bone dry and our local mountains and hillsides will go up like tinder. Our eyes will sting, our clothes will smell like smoke, ash will come down like a light summer rain. By day the sky will be filled with palls of smoke and by night the mountains will glow orange with rippling flame extending for miles. It’s weirdly beautiful. Sometimes we’ll drive the freeways that follow the foothills just to watch the eerie sight of fires burning in the mountains all around us, like we’re a city besieged. All day long sirens follow caravans of fire trucks hurrying to the front and sometimes immense helicopters hover over the Silver Lake reservoir like dragonflies drinking their fill before soaring off to drop the water on some doomed foothill neighborhood. They pass overhead in a roar every ten minutes. Flip on the local news and you can watch them drop their load with Norton bombsite precision. Minutes later they’re back overhead. The dogs bark excitedly and the neighbors watch from their sun decks awed and concerned.

Fire season is an overwhelming sensory experience, even the coyotes pitch in to howl and keen at every screaming, honking fire truck, and the local television stations follow it all day and all night and it’s all anyone talks about. Fire season is as Los Angeles as Raymond Chandler and as unnerving as The Blitz. An earthquake would almost be a relief. But that is all still to come: the air is clean now and a tad humid with the sea breeze and we sit here nervously waiting our turn.