James Bondage Part 1

The reason for this picture will become clear shortly.
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Recently, I was sitting at the cafe thinking about Wittgenstein, language and the matrix of questions which surround being human. Let's face it, for all of our cultural diversity, we share some pretty common issues: the meaning of life, the nature of relationships, the fear of death, the desire for love, the pangs of lust and the inevitability of taxes.

Well I was really on a roll that morning...something big. My mind was cutting the peripheral issues like a hot razor through custard (as opposed to the usual wooden spatula through a honey-baked ham). Most unusual was the new way how I was thinking.

I have a very "Greek" mind. I tend to look at things as a yes-no, left-right, on-off, 1-2 situation with varying degrees in between. . But that morning, sipping on a double white-mocha and with the espresso kicking in I began to see things differently and a new model began to emerge - a multi-faceted model - a web of interconnected relationships between scientific disciplines (see below) that would by-pass the overly rationalistic, stiff and competitive model the modern university uses. I began to see complete inter-relationships and my mind was now racing at top speed.

At that moment, I reached down to take a swig of my mocha and BAAAM! My brain was suddenly turned into guacamole.

I swear, all I did was look up from my notepad. Had I known she was there, I would never have looked up. But I did and my eyes met hers and was returned unaverting. The moment stood a little outside of time until she smiled, and I smiled and we both blushed. Then she turned and walked away.

I returned to my notebook but it was futile, my brainpan filled with a quivering pile of mush.

I had been reaching for Einstein's shoelaces and now was a stricken adolescent whose body was in complete hormonal imbalance without possibility of recovery.

Life can be so cruel.

Not mysteriously, suddenly I cared less about Wittgenstein and the meaning of life. All I wanted to do was find her, walk with her, joke and laugh, smell her light perfume, wrap my arm around her waist and feel her soft lips.

Game over, at least that day.

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Part two: James Bond makes us espresso

James Bondage Part 2

When I saw my first espresso machine I was enchanted. It was a large brass monster with a high-handled plunger which a man approached and brought down extracting a small cup of delicious nectar. Then the man steamed some milk and combined the two, placing a silver spoon onto the saucer before handing it to M who asked, "Is that all it does?"

This man knew how to do things right, and was, of course, Bond, James Bond.

I was sitting in the theater with four friends watching Live and Let Die, Roger Moore's first attempt to fill Sean Connery's not-so-saintly shoes.

And we were taking notes on everything because our fathers were basically slobs who wouldn't know espresso from Sanka, an Austin Martin from an Opel GT, or a Guiness Stout from a Coors Light.

No, we were taking notes because Bond women were hot, and Bond was our only teacher.

But there was more than that.

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I think it is widely understood that Sean Connery was the quintessential Bond, and as such has been a dominant definition of masculinity over the last forty years (no matter what Barbara Walters says).

But what is the meaning of James Bond? What is the essence?

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Load torpedo bay three.

James Bondage Part 3

Ruggedly handsome, well equipped (in all senses apparently); buxom women are drawn immediately to his charisma; and he can fight (see above) underwater without head gear and still look handsome.

He is also licensed to kill, travel at will to exotic locations, boink whomever he pleases, eat and drink as he sees fit and, er...save the world in the meantime.

Then he has all those wonderful toys. Cars that spray oil slicks, dive underwater as subs, have submachine guns or just turn invisible.

Watches that explode, deflect bullets, track bad-guys and still tell time. Jet-packs, Little Nellie, high-powered scuba gear, boats with missiles, etc...surely this is also the appeal.

Nope.

It helps...they all enhance the persona, the Bond Ethos. But that isn't it. It's deeper if you can believe that anything is deep in a Bond film besides regular penetration of women or the bad guys secret lair.

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Next Bond:The Unalienated Man.

James Bondage Part 4

International politics, the most seductive women, deadly enemies both male and female, death and split-second decisions at every turn 24/7.

Yet Bond moves with a self-confidence and wholeness that is unshakeable. Everyone responds to Bond, enemies, femme fatales and lovers alike. In fact, it's the villains that seems most hard-pressed to impress this man.

So whether Bond is at the roulette wheel, playing baccarat, holding a dangerous woman, or behind the wheel of a Lotus underwater, it really does not matter.

He does what he pleases in the moment like a savvy Zen Master (with a raised eyebrow) because the universe seems to bend to his style and will.

And what is more appealing than that?

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Which brings me back to the beauty who made such obvious contact not 20 minutes ago.

She lingers outside at a table. When I look over she is not looking, but I feel her doing the same.

It's a game, a slightly ticklish dance that can go either way. It could end abruptly by one withdrawing, or it could be lightly played, or I could go and just be funny and see what happens.

But Bond would know just what to do. Me? I'm not so sure.

See I am 35 and I have been in love many times. I have been married twice to very beautiful and smart women. So one thing I know is that the universe does not bend to our every whim and desire for comfort and completeness. If it did, mosquitoes would not exist, or if so, at least not most of the Republican party.

And if I an honest about my own abilities to sustain a relationship with a woman I would have to rate myself up there with the captain of the Titanic and his ability with icebergs.

No. If the world we lived in was not heavily alienated there would not be terrorists, mosquitoes, meter-maids, gas-powered blowers, 6,000 pieces of spam in your email box, pop-ups, the Dallas Cowboys, and the Los Angeles Dodgers.
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Part Five: Women

James Bondage Part 5

My grandmother took me one the bus to my first Bond film. I;m not sure she knew what she was getting into, but she never let on.

Loved that woman.

So I felt the first stirrings as a young boy of what it looked like for a man to seduce a woman, and for a woman to seduce a man.

It seemed beautiful to me at the time. Almost holy. Maybe it really is.

But we all know Bond, with the rare exception of Tracy (his only wife) really only uses women as it suits him. Some part of his heart is dead and has been all along.

He describes some as like "caviar" to be tasted, others he ruthlesslessly fucks then uses them for advantge. A few he cares a bit about. He is slightly sad when they die. But let's face it, with the exception of Tracy (On Her Majesty's Secret Service) he never allows himsefl to fall in love, not to mention actually learning how to love and care.

No, in this regard, many an average Joe is a lot more man than James Bond could ever be. He is a beautiful shimmering pool 18 feet wide and 300 feet long, but still a baby pool at best.

The deep end is only 27 inches deep.
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Conclusion...

James Bondage Part finale

We are so shaped by movies and the expectation they shape, or the hopes they give us.

Sometimes they workout, because it is a dual deception. They are viewing you like a film as you are doing the same.

Later the re-runs get boring and you find out other films may be more interesting.

Anyway, I had given up on my immediate desire to re-orient/re-structure the modern university in a way that would be coherent and helpful rather than asinine and competitive.

The guacomole sliding around in my brianpan had not yet begun to leak out my ears, so I was safe for a bit.

She was still outside. It was cool and I had the long dark cashmere coat, which is an advantage when you are tall and lean as I am.

I wondered what Bond would do. He would know exactly what to say and do. But then he is just a fiction.

I immediately reminded myself that I am just a fiction as well.

Which really helped me get my courage up.

I wrapped up my leather journal and stuffed it into the down inside pocket of the long coat.

(I admit, in the coat I look a bit menacing, especially with my long flowing hair down the collars.)

I walked out in the smoky air knowing she was watching me.

So I came straight over with my head slightly down. Then looked up as she studied her book.

"You left something inside" I said.

"Excuse me?" she said looking mock-surprised.

"You left your blush," I said, "which I picked up alongside mine." I smiled.

"My blush?"

"Yes, they both dropped to the floor at the same moment and they scampered off together...didn't you see that?"

"no I must have missed that" she smiled widely.

"Well they did...they ran off together and are partying at Old Ironsides right now."

"Hmnnn."

"Care to go for a walk?"

"With you? It's late how do I know I can trust you?"

"ER, my Blush is off with yours," I said looking off.

"I mean they are the ones who have to be protected...we are just guardians, right?"

She laughed and her eyes crinkled up like a kinda of long-wanted release.

"Okay..where do you wanna walk?"

"The capitol? It's a nice night?"

"I have a better idea," she said. "Follow me".

______________________

So I did. I mean I was bigger than her so I was only slightly afraid (hell I am bigger than everyone who is not in football or basketball).

So we walked and talked and laughed a lot. And both our blushings caught up with us after a few blocks and they started to do a dance around us and even make fun.

At this point I parted company with Bond. Confidence and intelligence are one thing, but it is not reality. No. I am better than Bond, even if I am a fiction.

We did not make love that night, nor did we fuck. We listened to old LPs and lighted candles and found some disgusting old chinese food in the freezer. I smelled her raven-colored hair and felt the bone-curve with my hand...that exquisite place that every woman has between her ribcage and her hips.

And I woke up with my head clear and looked at the hair across her face and saw the line of her jaw and her eyebrows and I felt a joy James Bond will never know.

Just one fiction to another. Get a life dude.

Weird Science Part One

Have you ever been sitting around when suddenly your mind always a little time capsule to bubble up to the surface and you a remember a whole "time" that you had essentially forgotten about?

That what happened this morning as I sat in the Chez Malraux courtyard sipping a spicy cup of Dark French Roast (DFR) with the spirit of Hemingway upon me, saying, "It is good to sit in the courtyard of a villa with the woman you love, drinking strong coffee in the cool of the morning."

I almost said "sipping" but Hemingways never sip.

I had just finished looking at the current edition of The Psychic Reader, and I was wondering why they bother printing the thing out. Why not just, you know, just psychically project it out into the ether?

Oh yeah, the ads. Gotta make bank somehow.

Anyway, as I put the magazine down a sudden detailed memory or series of memories came over me in a sudden Proustian rush as the DFR did that nice bittersweet thing at the back of my palate.

I remembered the old Weatherstone cafe which, at the time, was the only place you could get a cup of DFR in downtown Sacramento. I had been spoiled in San Francisco where cafes have always existed. There were no Java's City's, Starbucks, Cup O'Joes etc... anywhere in the city (if at that time you could call it that. Downtown back then looked like deserted movie set).

Remembering the old dark and dusty Weatherstone, and learning the science of brewing the perfect cup of DFR, I suddenly remembered what had brought me to Sacramento in the first place. I came to study psychology.

The more I sat there the more memories led to other memories and I suddenly began to remember why I had repressed the whole mess.

But I had the morning off so I started to jot them all down and I'll share them with you now
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Part Two is coming.

Weird Science Part Two: Lab Rats

I entered the field of psychology with the sort of enthusiasm reserved for only the few, the proud, and the truly naive. Four years later I would realize and describe the earning of my degree in psychology as less like science and more like reading Wilhelm Reich while being torn to pieces by wolverines.

I charged into my first psychology class with my tape recorder, fresh binder, paper, three different fine-line pens all ordered in front of me.

My professor, a grey-haired woman in her forties leapt into an impassioned lecture.

"Zee amount of fatty tissue which has been found around zee frontal lobes of many laboratory animals has direct linkage to traumatic infant psychosis."

Did I say leapt? It was more like slept, or the movement of a lab rat recovering from brain surgery.

In my next class, Psychotherapy in a Post Freudian World, the professor had no use for rats, fat, or infants; and ended the class by telling us "Of course we all know that we are living in a Post-Freudian age. The Behaviorists act as if they do not know this, but deep down inside they do. The Existentialists choose to disbelieve it as well." he said.

"And as for Freud!" he said dramatically, "It is now commonly accepted that he is just not Freudian enough."

As I was leaving some students had clustered around him and he was pointing at diagrams of several behavioral models and giggling.

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Part three on the way.

Weird Science Part Two: Col. Kurtz

The late Marlon Brando as Col. Kurtz in Apocalypse Now.
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I entered my next class, Basic Principles of Behavior Modification hoping for something more down to earth. As class begun a wild-eyed Veteran tore into the room replete with combat pants and a USMC t-shirt. Before we could alert building security he informed us he was the instructor.

He had a crazed look that brought Col. Kurtz immediately to mind. He showed up every class time with a juice bottled filled with some dark, thick Agent Orange-like substance which he would swig before spewing fresh curses at whoever had the audacity to ask him a question.

And yes, I checked it out later...he had tenure.

One day he entered into intellectual combat with a young Creationist, which is generally pretty entertaining to watch. The professor had just finished showing a movie about moths in England. The white moths survived at first because of the proliferation of white elm trees in the area, rendering them invisible to predators. But when a factory was built and the soot from the factory started to turn the white elms a dark charcoal shade the birds swept down and ate the white moths like candy. At that point the naturally darker moths became the dominant moths of Hampstead heath as they were now camoflaged.

This was conclusive proof of the proces of Natural Selection, a major tenent of Evolutionary theory.

After the film the conversation went something like this:

Creationist: Professor?
Kurtz: Yeah WHAT!?
C: I understand what happened in the film and have no qualms about Natural Selection...
Kurtz: (rolling eyes in the back of his head and taking a swig)
C: ...that seems easily demonstratible within each species, but what evidence do you have for one species evolving into a whol enew one? Should we have millions of intermediary fossils?
Kurtz: Didn't you watch the fucking movie!!?
C: Yeah, I saw the movie and I agree that Natural Selection occurs. But you didn;t answer my question. Another one is how does emotion, self-consciousness, personality and reason evolve from primal slime?
Kurtz: (taking a hefty swig) What are you fucking blind!!? The MOTHS! The MOTHS! WHADDABOUT THE GODDAMN MUTHA_FUCKING MOTHS!!?

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Part Four next.

Weird Science Part Four: Play us a song

From Col. Kurtz's class I walked, somewhat stunned to my car to retrieve my cheap vinyl yoga mat for my next psychology class where I was quickly introduced in the ecstasy that is Hindu meditation. or if not Hindu meditation, at least, the latest flowery, bastardized American reincarnation of it.

Years later I now wish that it had been a serious version of Yoga so that I too could look 15 years younger, be limber enough to put my underwear on in the morning without falling over, and have an hour-long Tantric orgasm like Sting routinely has.

So if when I left I was not ecstatic with universal bliss, I was, at least grateful that it was the second easiest class I ever had since I did not have to take notes or doing anything but sit in the Lotus position.

From there I aumed my way in to my upper division psychology class where I was greeted by a professor who looked so aged, scholarly, and wise that I knew I had finally arrived at a real psychology class.

He started his articulate opening remarks, then stooped over and retrieved an accordion, which he proceeded to strap on, He started to sing an old fraternity song - a song which roughly mirrored the old polka tune I Don't Want Her, You Can Have Her, She's too Fat for Me...which left me slumping in my chair.

I wanted a degree in psychology to help me understand what it means to be human and to explore that with others. Instead I suddenly seemed doomed to become a singing neurologist, toting a copy of Jung's Interpretation of Dreams under one arm, a cheap yoga map under the other, and the deep desire to drink during my classes.

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Conclusion on the way...





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Weird Science Part Finale: Final Grades

Psychic Jean Grey being, er...not being torn apart by Wolverine.
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So over 100 years after its birth, modern psychology had lapsed into a state of dismemberment. Each "school" of psychology approached human nature from a divisive and myopic angle, applying only it's own hermeneutic, diagnostics and treatments. Since each school's perspective was universal, there was no need to give place to other theories or practices. Lacking any unifying core, the various schools of psychology became increasingly obsessed with the trivial.

In short, as Kierkegaard once said of Hegel, "You have answered all the questions except what it means to be born, live, and die as a human being."

It's deeply ironic that while these psychology programs were growing they lacked one thing: a head.

********

Now it is 1996 and things are better, at least in theory. It seems there is more diversity and a growing cross pollenation of ideas.

Which makes me wonder what it would have been like to study just ten years later. Maybe I would never have given up and become a writer. It makes me wonder what happened to the Fatty-Rat-Brain Lady, the Accordion Guy, and most of all the Agent-Orange Behaviorist who use to abuse his students.

They are probably all on Prozac.

So what was the easiest class I ever took there?

That's easy. It was my Psychic class. My professor tried to give me an F because she said I never showed up to a single class (which is true).

"I was there every class period," I told her. "I was there psychically."

I got an A.

CoffeeHouse Diary #6 Maughamus Interruptus

I've been interrupted for the last damned time today!

But before I tell you why I am so frustrated I have to interrupt myself and give you some personal information as background.

Some people have dogs, other cats, hamsters, rats, mice, iguana's that never move, and fish.

I have a goldfish, a crayfish and a parakeet named Nichaolas Birdayyev. The crayfish also has a name. When my sons cought him at the park pond I asked what they wanted to name him.

"Mr. Go-Go Head" ws the immediate reply, so Mr. Go-Go Head it was.

He lived in peace in our flat until 4:15 a.m. this morning when my sound sleep was interrupted by a high-pitched whine. The whine came from my fish tank filter because it was not longer able to reach down into the water. I could not longer reach down into the water because the water level had dropped dramatically by at least ten inches.

Any guesses as to where the water went?

I spent the next two hours trying to save my goldfish who I had raised from tiny "feeder fish" to near trout-like proportions. My living room was a marsh and at one point I looked over just in time to see Mr. Go-Go Head about to engage Mr. Birdyayev in moratl combat. The parakeet was trying to shout down the crustacean with a series of threats involving him flying into the kitchen and preparing a ramikin of butter suace, but Mr. Go-Go Head was not impressed and continued his laborious assault to get his claw around Mr. Birdyayev's beak.

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To be continued.

CoffeeHouse Diary #6 Maughamus Interruptus 2

Part two
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I turned off the boiling water (how did the bird do that?) and locked him in the cupboard with only a flashlight and a worn copy of Gulliver's Travels.

Next I scooped up Mr. Go-Go Head who tried to pinch me. Idiot.

I put my finger out to his half dehydrated body..."go ahead asshole, you wanna pinch me or get back in the water?"

"Water" he gasped.

"Okay, but next time you molt I'm gonna grab your little yellow ass by mistake and leave your husk on display."

(He cursed me under his mantles).

Twenty minutes later I feel back to sleep but was once again interrupted by one of those high-powered gas leaf-blowers outside my bedroom window; then the phone started to ring (about five times way before 7:30 a.m. which is the opening time for calls) and my neighbor knocked on my door wanting to borrow tools, and at 5:13 every morning the "Cheap Bird" wakes up and makes the most loud and obnoxious bird calls ever heard just outside my window.

"Cheap...Cheap...CHEAP!!"

Fuck. I am gonna get one of those wide Tennis rackets and go out there some morning at 5:13 a.m...no 5:10 a.m. so I can warm up and get limber. And when that damned bird comes swooping by screaming "Cheap" I am gonna hit him into the cheap seats in deep right center.

*******

CoffeeHouse Diary #6 Maughamus Interruptus 3

Part Three.

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I unplugged the phone, turned up the stereo, grabbed the newspaper and settled in for a relaxing Saturday morning.

SPLAT!! SPEW! SPLASH!

"The HAND" burst through the mail slot and shot a huge wad of bills, ads, junk mail and magazines across the floor in three full waves of postal spew.

Unnerved by the events of the last ten hours (towels still on the floor, the bird screeching profanities from inside the cupboard, Mr. Go-Go Head pacing and snapping at the fish that use to be able to hover way above him) I decide that it is useless to resist.

*******

CoffeeHouse Diary #6 Maughamus Interruptus 4

Part Four
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T.S. Eliot wrote a poem called Choruses From the Rock, where he suggests that history itself was interrupted, or "bi-sected" as he would say, buy God.

Other famous interruptions include presidents and dignitaries being interrupted by assassins, countries interrupting other countries, coitus interruptus to avoid freedom interruptus, and news reports interrupting prime time televison.

Beyond that, we are all constantly interrupting each other in conversation or other ways. Chances you will not finish this article without being interrupted by the phone, a family member, a knock on the door or an Instant Message.

*******

CoffeeHouse Diary #6 Maughamus Interruptus 5

Part Five
_________________

Now back to today. My girlfriend is in Las Vegas on a well-deserved company junket.

There, losing your money slowly is occasionally interrupted by a win or two which, in turn, encourages you to bet more and lose more. Your few moments of winning are a brief interruption in the Casino's taking all your money.

They are very patient. They do not mind an interruption or two.

While she is gone I have been reading Hemingway's Men Without Women, since that is what I am. It is a collection of short stories and I am reading the last one entitled, Now I lay Me, which is about a man who has trouble sleeping at night, so he thinks about fishing or he prays for everyone he has ever known.

I do the latter, most every insomniac night. If that doesn't work I think about women.

I had just gotten to the part of the story where he is having trouble remembering the Lord's Prayer. All he can remember is "On Earth as it is in Heaven."

Suddenly, as I read I was interrupted by an argument between an aging matador and his picador.

Something is very wrong.

I look at the bottom of the page and see that it is numbered 17 where it should naturally say 225.

The book has been misbound and mangled. So the conversation I am reading would normally occur on pages 17-18 of The Undefeated, which it does, except that in my misbound copy these two pages are now nestled between pages 224 and 227 instead of their natural nesting place.

CoffeeHouse Diary #6 Maughamus Interruptus 6

Part Six
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Of course, you could guess my next move. I went back to The Undefeated and sure enough, there were pages 225-226 of Now I Lay Me inbetween pages 16 and 19 of The Undefeated.

Just Mis-bound.

But the thing that kinda disturbs me most about this latest interruption is that I read The Undefeated yesterday and I found the matador's meditiation on the Lord's Prayer to be the best part of the whole story. In fact, I interrupted my friend Bob's watching of the Giants/Red game (which was interrupting some Reality Show) to tell him how much I enjoyed that particular part of The Undefeated where the aging matador, faced with the possibility of one bullfight too many, thinks about the Lord's prayer and about praying for all those he has known in the past by name.

I do not pray very often, but when I do it's pretty naked and honest.

In this case here is my prayer:

"God. I should very much like to be with you, so long as it is not at all in Heaven as it is here on Earth.. Amen."

Hopefully no one will interrupt me as I try and pray this.

The Art of Kissing

Sitting at the bar of Il Fornaio waiting for a double Americano, my date suddenly leans over and kisses me softly. I whisper "I like that very much," my lips just inches from hers, "don't stop."

I have always enjoyed kissing with one exception, the Grandma kisses I got as a child. They were so wet and obligatory. In fact, if you watch the old Malraux family super 8 movies you will see these kisses and then me squeegeeing my face off after every one of them.

Not that I did not love my Grandma. I would have been crushed had she not kissed me, but geez, they were so wet and slimy.

*******
Do you remember you first romantic kiss?

Mine was, like most people I suspect, a complete disaster. I was 14, and a sweet babe named Sharon had a crush on me. We ended up in a tree fort in the semi-dark. I put my arm around her and began to shake. She asked why I was shaking, I said I was cold even though, of course, it was probably 80 degrees in that tree. I really didn't know why I was shaking, just that my body was making me look stupid.

I thought, "I had better kiss her fast before it gets worse and I have a seizure."

But I didn't know how. How do you kiss a girl?

Well I watched a lot of movies and noted that they always tilted their heads (so as to not bloody their noses I supposed) and that as they kissed their cheeks went sorta "hollow".

How do you do that? I figured you had to somehow inhale a bit while you kissed.

Well I did finally kiss her. And I sucked, literally. I sucked. I was not enjoying it as much as I thought I might and thought, "this sucks", when, in fact, It was only I who sucked.

For Sharon it must have been like putting her soft lips to the live end of a shop-vac.

********
Two years later I got to kiss another girl at Ocean Beach in San Francisco. We were running around the dunes and drinking cheap disgusting sangria and laughing when she fell into my arms laughing and we were suddenly all over each other kissing.

This was a lot more fun for a bit until the sand became invasive. The "mouthing and the tonguing" as William Everson would say, became rather raw and crunchy.

And I was still a lousy kisser. How do I know? She broke up with me the next day.

I never blamed her.

*******

Later I learned, or was "schooled" in kissing by a young beauty queen who had an amazing mouth and no inhibitions at all. Better, she understood the drama of kissing and how to tease with the tongue. How did she get so good?

I have a theory. She was some kinda "Christian" and as such was "saving herself" much to my chagrin (she placed third in the Miss California contest that year). But as a result, she had mastered almost every type of kissing and petting on the planet by the time she was 20. So where some people at that age rush right to banging away, this girl could kiss and touch for hours.

Sheer delirium. Like a three hour orgasm...really.

And ever since then I have noted that there are many women who have no idea how to kiss. They immediately jam their stiff tongues down your throat until they are massaging your adams apple from the backside.

It's not very sexy or romantic.

I think it's because that is what they got from men early on. No drama, no nuance, no teasing, no softness that grows slowly in intensity. Just the quick bang.

Of the multitudes of women I have dated I have only met maybe seven that really knew how to kiss. Okay, nine. The other 47 sucked almost as bad as I did back at Ocean Beach, only sans the sand.

*******

There are so many other kisses though that are just as significant as the passionate kiss. The light kisses to your lover's temples when they are troubled, the breathy plush kisses on her eyebrows after lovemaking, and the short kisses to the nape of her neck as she does the dishes.

I am also thinking about other types of kissing and how healing it can be.

My youngest son Ian does it just right and at the right times.

A nervous habit causes me to pick my thumbs until I hit a major vein. Then I notice. It is usually stress induced like when my editor is working me harder than a one-lipped woman in a kissing booth. Once Ian, when he was three. noticed this and asked, "You have a-a-owie?"

"Yes," I said, hoping he would not ask why I indulge in self-mutilation.

The little boy took my thumb and gently kissed it.

"Make-a-feel-beddor," he said with big kind eyes. And it's true, it did feel better to be touched by the little lips of such innocent love.

We hear musicians and read poets who tell us that love is the most powerful force on Earth, and that it will prevail over greed, politics, prestige and even marriage.

That day, for a moment, I saw what they meant. No amount of money, power or prestige can buy or obtain the grace and healing that comes from the kiss of a child who wants you to "feel beddor".

Like love, it's just a gift.

Anonymous Blogging Part One

Driving into Anonymity. Black and White print, C. MacDonald, 1992.

This article is dedicated to Anonymous Midwest Girl .

Anonymity Part One

Three things converged and when that happens I generally act, or at least write.

The first was a request from fellow blogger Anonymous Midwest Girl to write a story for her after she had read my piece of fiction below. Unfortunately, though I am one, I do not feel in the mood to write one this week.

But I did want to honor her request (who can resist those dimples?) so that was the first prodding.

The second came from reading anonymous postings at a popular site. We have all seen these cowards before...the rail and rant and accuse and smear and never leave their names so there is no possibility of response or responsibility.

Idiots and cowards.

Third was an email from someone who would want to remain anonymous about the dangers of blogging. She sent me this article, which is worth reading. In fact, upon reading it I immediately separated my professional sites from my various blogs because, frankly, too much information is not what potential employers want.

In fact, they want to make sure all you think about is them...not relationships, meaning, God, spirituality, sex, fucking, drinking, epistemologies, politics or simply pouring out in blog form what is truly on your mind.

Her email simply said "Beware" and it's good advice...to a point.

The above photo kinda captures it for me. Major connections and transport across a grand divide, but much is shrouded in fog...incognito from the shore.

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Let's start with "beware". Blogging is journaling in public space. When you were a kid you might break into your sister's room and try and get at her diary...to get some edge. Reading the personal thoughts of others can be dangerous both ways, but mostly for the one writing.

It's how I found out my Ex (then) wife was in love with our therapist.

So, the solution for most bloggers is three-fold.

Some simply do not write about anything that could ever be used against them. They just love to write clever shit and work it.

Others, maintain a deep level of incognito...no pictures, no location...not their real name. The let fly. I find a lot of these folk are natural introverts who finally get to air it out. That's good. Very good. Their blogs are often, by far, the best.

Then there are those who create new personas where they kinda get to do both. or, perhaps, they get to try new ideas on without agreeing with them at all.

Let me give you some examples from a few I read daily.

Every morning I get up and like getting the paper (though it is far better) I go to my daily read. Here is how they shake out anonymity-wise.

Immoderation Girls: Not much anonymity here at all. We Know a great deal about Lindsey and she wants us to. She is smart, funny, pretty (to say the least) and wants to be a star. I feel sure she will be.

Friction Friction: We know his name is Greg, and a general local. We also know (from other bloggers) that he is a sexy beast and is wicked smart. But no pictures. He has the middle ground. We know alot about him but could never spot him in a crowd at a Blogger convention (though I might suspect).

Sex Scenes at Starbucks: Smart woman. No picture because she is probably a sexy beast. She is careful to remain anonymous. We have corresponded for months and we never broach that subject. Good friends, but I do not need a picture or details.

By the way she sees pictures of me and my family all the time. It is different for men and women. Of course I am utterly trustworthy, but many men on the Internet are not. Thus I relish our conversations but do not need anything beyond that. Some of that is also my respect for her husband, a man I am sure I would greatly enjoy as I do her.

Waving or Drowning: Mike Todd seeks no anonymity at all. Open-ended exploration of spiritual and political issues no holds-barred, yet with grace and care.

A Canadian site went down. I cannot find her site because she took it all down after he went into a bar in canada and someone recognized her...which brings up the whole issue of women posting photos.

It's not exactly the same for men. I doubt any woman has downloaded my picture and is, er, well pleasing herself with it in view (I kinda need to be there personally, or so I am told).

Simply Complicated: Yong Mimi is a literary phenom. She is funny, unrepressed and I could get her a book contract. But she wants to remain anonymous. I respect and admire this. She'll be a phenomenal author in ten years when she decides to not be anonymous (and yes I still wanna be her agent...I saw her first!)

All these writers and so many more write full on and honest to some degree. The degree is sometimes synonymous to their level of anonymity (except Lindsey and Mike).

Which really makes sense in a repressed culture like ours (which itself is such an irony).

Anonymous Blogging Part Two: Hanging Ducks

When I read some of the "anonymous" comments on a favorite website today (which is also fairly anonymous) I realized we need a new term.

Because those who blog anonymously still fling their life and thoughts and feelings out there. And they respond to comments and discuss. They just do not want to be censored (funny in a 1st Amendment, "land of the free" scenario).

But these anonymous commentators are always the most nasty. In my view they are worse than live chickens squawking around the yard. A live chicken can be cornered and put in the pen. These folk who hit and run are not better than chinese braised ducks hanging from a window.

They gave up the ghost long ago.

If I was down at Crissy Field I'd feed the live ducks and watch them waddle. Some are beautiful, some are beat up...but they are alive inside and out.

When I pass by the glass windows and see the ducks on a hook, I think "poor bastards".

Taal Tarzans & The New Aparthied

Live 8 in London.

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I 'm sitting at Cafe Espresso in the Anchorage Building in San Francisco. The cafe mochas here are first rate. They serve them in a bolo glass with fresh whipped cream and they have just the right amount of Ghirardelli chocolate and the correct amount and strength of espresso all for four bucks. That may sound a little steep but remember you are in the heart of Fishermans Wharf.

Although the coffee here is excellent; the name of this establishment is not. Naming your cafe "Cafe Espresso" is like naming a grocery store, "Store Grocery." Perhaps the owner spent too much time thinking about his menu what type of glass to serve his drinks in. I imagine that he has a wife that he refers to as "wife," and a son, whom he and his wife call either "son" or "boy," which kind of reminds me of those old Tarzan movies.

Tarzan used the same system for naming; "Come here boy!" he would yell, and Boy would come. There are still a few Tarzans around.

* * * * * * * *

I have sired two boys. After last week's Live 8 Concerts they had lots of questions about Africa. We talked about the current situation Africa and how over 9,000 Africans die daily from starvation, malaria and AIDS.

The older one proudly displays his White "One" Band and even tried to get some to distribute at his school. A white band is not much, unless you are informed.

As an aspiring musician he wondered why Bono, a rock star, would be so concerned about Africa.

I told him it was a story at least 20 years old. We talked then I slapped in U2's film Rattle and Hum into the VCR and played him a couple of relevant songs from 1988.

Later he wanted me to explain Aparthied to him. It's a tough one to explain.

Two days later, I observed Conner, the elder, slashing away on his new Les Paul and inciting his younger brother Ian to play the crowd.

"Ian, you be the crowd," he said. "When I say APART - TIDES I want you to start yelling and go crazy, okay?"

"Okay," agreed the humble one.

Conner hit pretty close to the three-chord formula, paused, and then yelled "APART -TIDES!"

And of course, young Ian went crazy, yelling his fool head off. (Don't laugh. You did the same damn thing at the last concert you went to.)

It's hard ro comprehend or explain how insane the doctrine and practice of apartheid was.

The lesson is clear; every time we hear any word that supports or upholds racism, we should - all of us - yell, scream and go crazy until the damn thing stops and we can fall silent in thanks to God and man for its abolition.

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first in a five part series

Taal Tarzans & The New Aparthied part 2

Notice the tribesmen in this Tarzan movie are either crackers or covered up.
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I wrote years ago about hearing my own name recited over and over and how it sounded strange, like something a tribal chief would say in a Tarzan movie - you know what I'm talking about - the tribal chief steps out of his hut, looks Tarzan in the eyes and says, "Oougon kai polo?"

"Me Tarzan! Let Jane and Boy go!" Tarzan says as the tribesmen hold him.

"AAAACCKK!!" screams the chief, "MAUG-UM MALROW!MAUG-UM MALROW!!"

The other tribesmen go apeshit over this, knowing that the chief has assigned Tarzan to certain death. The command "MAUG-UM MALROW," (as you may know) was the universal command for Tarzan to be taken away to the snake-pit, or tiger-pit, or whatever pit had not yet been used in a Tarzan film.

Taal Tarzans & The New Aparthied part 3

The Taal Monument, South Africa.

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Well, 20 years ago the Tarzan's were still in charge in South Africa, and they had built a tower named the Taal Monument. I saw a picture of it in The San Francisco Chronicle years ago) see above).

The Taal Monument was built by the government of Pretoria to "honor" the Afrikaans language - the white man's language - the language they had hoped to make the universal language of South Africa.

It was a symbol of political, economic and racial oppression.

Taal Tarzans & The New Aparthied part 4

To the Tribesmen, the Taal Monument looks like the above.

The resemblance is striking, don't you think?

Both of these symbols depict attempted unification gone bad. The former was very expensive, required lots of concrete and steel, and offends large sections of the populace. The latter can be formed with a human hand - free of charge - and can be used to salute other drivers on the road or can be saved for special occasions to add visual emphasis.

It doesn't offend as many people - probably because it's smaller.

* * * * * * * *

The attempt to enact one universal human language is really an attempt to have universal control over human life and thought. There are stories about towers similar to the Taal Monument going back as far as the book of Genesis. There, in the plain of Shinar, the people desired to "make a name" for themselves via one language and set about building a tower that would reach into heaven (Genesis, chapter 11). God was displeased and ended up confusing their language so that they couldn't communicate, scattering the little bastards all over the globe. Take that!

The Taal Monument is an answer to the question "Why did God do that?" The more I learn about language of men and the towers of men - the more I see how they almost always use them to destroy or control other men. God did them a big favor then and now.

Orwell's 1984, the selective rewriting of national histories, the potent Babel of the Ad-men on 5th Avenue, or the religio-speak of various sects, cults and fundamentalists are all the attempts of men to "make a name" for themselves - to reshape the human condition and the rest of the world in their image. Usually those who resist this imposed universal language (in whatever version it presents itself) are given a Taal Monument as a sign - or its equivalent.

In South Africa, those in power and weilding Apartheid had to be scattered and their babeling nonsense wiped away like the shit it was.

What should now be done with the Taal Monument?

I suggest tearing it down, or better yet, leave it up as a monument to human stupidity and cruelty. Only it should rigged so that all the exhibits should employ all eleven official languages of South Africa. And just for fun? They should all have those little "touch here to play narration" buttons so they can all go off at the same time.

Sometimes a little babel is a good thing.
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Oh we're not done yet...hehe.

Taal Tarzans & The New Aparthied conclusion

Without a Silver Spoon by Bode Fowotade. Available here along with other great artwork.

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But back to the present.

A different type of Aparthied exists today. It's a larger and more subtle version and is world-wide. A continental problem has become a global one as Africa is, as some describe it, is "on fire", and as Bono and others point out, if it happened almost anywhere but Africa to dark-skinned people we would not allow it.

In other words it is still Aparthied, it's just inter-continetal now. It is politically, economically, and racially-based, just as the original doctrine was.

Therefore the African emergency is primarily an issue of JUSTICE not charity.

The problem is huge. I've read alot of criticism of Bono and Geldof recently and Live 8, mostly from pretty cynical folk. Being cynical myself, normally I'd join them except what they say is flatulence.

One guy said that the rock stars should just donate the money to save Africa. Problem solved.

Idiot.

He is comparing a tires with Texas.

Bono and Geldof have been consistent for twenty years in using brains, political saavy and celebrity to create awareness, political pressure and create VOICE all over the world for a dying continent. It was such pressure and the Live 8 concerts, marches, press, etc... that got the numbers for AID and debt relief kicked up as high as they became.

Without them can't you just see Dubya saying "We need to move past and beyond the Millenium agenda for Africa" ?

Which essentially means, we aren't gonna do shit because we need money for our wars.

"I'll send my wife to do a two hour 'fact-finding mission'" and show American compassion."

Which is comparing a silver tea spoon with Texas.

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So we are back at square one where we need to yell and scream at the top of our lungs (VOICE) whenever any form of APART-TIDES rears it's ugly and demonic head.

There was a lot of that going on at Live 8.

Rage in the UK

Photos from one of four bombings that took place in London this morning, July 7, 2005. Over 40 people are dead and 700 injured. The terrorists made sure that one of the four detonations was done above ground (they others were below to cause more death and destruction) so that the world would see thair acts of terror and rage.

The article below was written in my Coffeehouse Diary many years ago. It was before 9/11 and before Oklahoma City. But it is no less relevant today. You can just replace the various places with the new hot spots.

In other violence, 100 fuckhead idiots clashed with police in Scotland outside the G8 Summit, taking some of the real pressure off the G8 leaders from the nearly 38 million who supported LIVE 8 and the peaceful demonstrators outside of Gleneagles as the conference started.

IDIOTS. Or as Meems would say "Fucktards".
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I sat at the stop light last week at Howe 'Bout Arden and watched the usual transpire. The light turned dull green in front of us, yet three cars made the decision anyway to send their hulking monsters of rubber and steel careening into the breach under a full red sky. People honked, glared and cursed. One of the kamikaze pilots whipped his front bumper so close to mine that I doubt I could have dragged my ATM card between them. I watched his face as he passed by. He was angry, determined and offered no apologies. "To hell with you," I think was the message.

Later that day, as my 2-year-old son and I were driving out of the local mall, I saw two tough guys sizing up a kid walking ten feet in front of them who was so wired into his Walkman that he was oblivious. Then one of the thugs broke into a run toward the kid, pumping his arms in preparation for a surprise attack.

But the attack never happened, because I drove down hard on my horn as my car slashed past them into the far lane.

One minute I'm jostling my youngest son in his car seat and making jokes, the next I'm trying to figure out how to respond to his new mantra, "What happah Daddy?... What happah Daddy?..."

But that wasn't nearly the end of my day. Later, as I was driving to work, a woman in a shiny black BMW came so hard and fast into my path that I thought, for a brief moment, that her car was an advertisement. There she was--in her 4,000-pound vehicle--trying to blend into my traffic lane like a sumo wrestler at the nine-items or less checkstand.

I used the horn again--a sober medium blast to communicate that I still wished to survive until lunchtime. She responded with a cold hard glare, then saluted me with the silent single-digit sign for intimate union.

I was a bit unnerved by then, so I turned on the radio. Talk radio Wow! What charisma! What conviction! What righteous indignation! As I listened to Rush Limbaugh, and later to Jerry Brown, I couldn't help but get the mental picture of two pit bulls whose rear quarters have been surgically attached. Whether you approach from the right or left, you're confronted with a rabid foam of slashing white teeth.

It seemed to me that anger was in the air, and everyone around me was taking in full, deep breaths.

The FULL Diary entry is HERE.