New Beginnings

Out with the old and in with the new they say. While it's important to use this time in reflection of the past year's accomplishments, shortcomings, milestones and, yes, tragedies and sad events, what will we all make of 2008? A clean slate is set before us, an open canvas upon which to make our unique, indelible marks. Change stretches its young legs one man and one woman at a time, and from there momentum gains steam and can effect society as a whole. It's a time to think globally by first working locally. That begins as much in all of our hearts and souls as in our backyards. Life is too short; what can we do to cause change? How can we reinvent ourselves? Is there more each of us can do to bring about change in our daily lives that can affect the lives of others? What special projects have we long placed on the back burner that we can implement in the New Year? How can we individually grow? What can we donate, not just monetarily, but of time? What are our passions? Our loves? What can we embrace more readily? How can we expand our minds? How can we improve our personal health as well as those in our community? What can be said, shared that we've previously been too afraid to reveal? How can we become happier human beings? What can we do, where can we go in the New Year in an effort to truly live? "Get busy living or get busy dying" is one of my more favorite movie quotes, and they are truly words to live by. The dawning New Year is the time to embrace these words, our friends and loved ones and most importantly our fellow man. It's a trying time in our civilization, and we all need all the help and consideration we can get.

What a Country

Moviegoers love their tidy happy endings, and no I speak not of the sexual kind.
Since before Frank Capra completed a full circle of bliss to despair back to thankful, joyful relief in his “A Wonderful Life,” we’ve run for the solace of movie houses to get our fix of utopia with extra butter. We like it when the guy gets the girl, when the good guy overcomes evil, when everything turns out honky-dory by the rolling credits.
Basically anything that reminds of us real life.
So when things go bad, and stay that way, by the expletives ejaculated from the peanut gallery, you’d think you just witnessed the most despicable crime play itself out on super 16. Worse even then Keanu's acting.
Never mind the $11.50 you just shelled out to some pimply-puss high school kid who thinks “Mrs. Robinson” is merely his fifth-period alegbra anatomy teacher. Instead, you 'was robbed by that crappy, illogical, unparalleled dénouement that rankled your chonies into such a bunch a tree full of monkeys couldn’t solve.
We’ve all seen those special movies that resound to a chorus of frustrated sighs from those all around you peppered with a “What the fuck?” over there and an “Is that it?” and a “You’ve got to be kidding me!” from behind. I’ve even seen soft drinks hurled in disgust at the silver screen. Talk about the rise of the proletariat.
So it shouldn’t have come as a shock to hear bewilderment recently at the conclusion of “No Country for Old Men,” brothers Ethan and Joel Coen’s ode to the modern day western. But this ain’t the country of your grand pappy when the likes of Lash Larue and Gene Autry roamed the plains. The Duke himself would’ve blinked if confronted by the slight of hand from these young whippersnappers.
The good, the bad AND the insanely talented.
The Coens succeed at something myriad filmmakers before them have longed for but never quite could muster, pissing off the establishment with an exquisite film framed by stellar dialogue that pushes boundaries -- both literally and figuratively -- yet still seemingly never delivers that final orgasmic bang of appeasement. And that’s not saying anything about Tommy Lee Jones as the stoic yet bothered Sheriff Bell, Josh Brolin’s role of a lifetime as Lewellyn Moss or the truly diabolical character of Anton Chigurh played to pitch perfection by Javier Bardem, perhaps the best big screen madman of this young century.
If you’ve seen the movie, then no doubt you have your own 2 cents to pitch. You probably loved it or hated it, felt euphoric as the screen faded to black or felt cheated by the most magnificently sexy whore who had you thinking just for a moment that she really loved you.
But one thing you can’t deny is “No Country” made you feel.
The killing scenes were gruesome, and there was anticipation and intrigue that built to a fever pitch. And there was, as only Hollywood could write it, a Woody Harrelson cameo, whose murdersome father Charles is mentioned in Cormack McCarthy’s novel from whence the movie comes. It’s all the makings for a cult classic. And that it may very well turn out to be.
For all its plot twists and turns yet apparent failure to deliver the goods in the end, the Coen brothers’ adaptation uncovers the true grit of McCormack’s literary genius, that the America of our forefathers crumbles from within under its own weight.
And there could never be a happy ending made from that.

Why Do No-News Politicos Continue to Make Headlines?

The entire country is seemingly abuzz about a gaffe committed by Bill Shaheen, formerly Hilary Clinton's chief campaign strategist, when he commented that Barack Obama's pro-active admission that he did drugs as a youth would untie any chances among Republicans should he win the Democractic nod to be the party's next presidential candidate. But there's a question no one, especially the media, is asking: Why is this news?

As we've all come to grips with, no one is more humanly fallible than politicians. What really gets our goat, however, is the blatant hypocrisy of public office. George Bush is by and large a boob who skirted military service, has made questionable decisions to say the least on an entire array of topics endemic to our national security domestically and abroad -- and I'm not talking just about terrorism but the ability of our country to take care of its people, SCHIP anyone? -- and has stripped away many basic constitutional rights as his administration has utilized fear tactics to get what it wants. And I won't even get into possible charges of war profiteering or the fact he’s a horrible public speaker.

But these allegations, or more appropriately grievances, are really nothing new to politics. While history might reflect on George Bush as one of our worst presidents -- or according to him our best -- many of his predecessors can be accused of similar activities or worse.

Bush is certainly not the only politician to have done drugs, and he admitted previous philandering with cocaine and alcohol. Before him, Bill Clinton admitted to smoking pot. Despite what the Christian Right says on the subject, or the myriad other social evils plaguing our society, both men were elected to the highest office in the land, the world even. So Bill Shaheen's forecast that Obama's admission would hurt his chances in a national election can be viewed as flawed. With that said, I’ve only seen – so far – one journalist question why such comments were taken as far as they were. Sure, Shaheen was a respected and successful strategist on a host of Democratic campaigns for the last quarter-century, but why was there a story about this in the first place?

Television and print news has become infiltrated with spin artists, so called “experts” who are little else but hired guns by either party to push respective agendas on the public. FOX News is the biggest example, but all the major networks are guilty. I won’t say such insiders are totally worthless because, with the intrinsic complications surrounding the political process, such people explain to the common folk how Washington, D.C. really works. There are many, many legitimate reasons why bills drag through Congress and there is much minutia and intrigue at play within the Beltway. The whole mess is daunting; these people can and should shed light on the nuances that can help all voters toward making educated decisions on matters of our country’s political course.

But, instead, these people jump at the opportunity to push their own agenda or that of the politicians they represent. Too often the words of these “experts” are taken as Scripture, and the media has done a horrible job in communicating when comments are accurate reflections on current events or simply spin designed to help their bosses in the polls. In Shaheen’s case, such spin evidently hurt not only him, as he resigned from Clinton’s campaign, but possibly Clinton herself. Yet who’s truly to say? If you read any host of articles, you’d be lead to believe it may hurt her a lot. But upon closer examination, the ones who say this reside in the camps of Obama himself or that of John Edwards. Whether this was a calculated risk or plain lack in judgment remains to be seen, so just how much to heart should we take these opines?

Certainly the media plays much too big of a role in determining societal trends and, as we learned with Iraq, oftentimes takes the bait and force feeds the public exactly what pundits and politicos want us to hear rather than offering the nuance and truth we really need and want. Instead of allowing different groups to dish dirt on one another, the press should be filtering the wheat from the chaff to help the public make more informed decisions. A big part of the problem is that the media, especially Washington correspondents, become themselves part of the game.

Instead of reporting what some campaign strategist says, why is the media not taking it with a grain of salt and then digging deeper to find the true meaning? The very first questions I would have asked Shaheen is, “Well Bush’s drug use certainly didn’t hurt him among the Neo-cons, so, besides the fact he’s a Democrat, why do you think Obama would suffer? Isn’t being truthful in this day and age of public relations spin and double-speak refreshing?” Instead, we got a story worthy of the gossip column.

The watchdog has been asleep on the job for far too long.

Carbon

The chemical reaction wafted the fruits of its labor high above the mingling crowd. It was the usual eclectics gathered for a birthday party on the aftermath of a seasonably frigid day in the City of Angels. It had rained hard the night before, and earlier in the day was its blustery hangover.
But just as the wind had been responsible for the bone-chilling cold it now revealed twinkling stars on a black velvet backdrop of space punctuated by the last remnants of orphaned storm clouds, which stood out like dingy and weather-beaten, three-dimensional cotton balls.
Three well-timed aspirins washed down by a cold imported beer could not have provided better relief.
Perhaps aided by alcohol, the weather had now teased away the thick coats that had once been generously applied. Then there was the warmth in the form of friendly conversation, and of course the heat from the cigarettes.
Dozens of lips pursed in huddled masses parting occasionally to respond with wine-fueled chatter. One group discussed what they had heard earlier that day on NPR Radio, while others touched on such subjects of sex, drugs and the feasibility of the city's rapid transit service.

A party in L.A., especially among artists, teachers and other vagabonds, is never complete without guests named Marlboro and Camel. They seemingly come as naturally to such gatherings as, in this particular case, Lohr and Coppola. While one tastes much better than the other, they both leave their stain.
Inside, the iPod inside shuffled in odd dissonance as the small, two-bedroom apartment choked under the weight of mingling guests attacking the kitchen in search of a buzz. From between a handle-bar mustachioed, red-haired man who looked of another century and artsy-looking women in high heel pumps discussing pop music scooted a 2-year-old girl holding in her small hands a grip of tin foil. You could just tell where it was headed.
Note to self: teeth and metal don't mix. Elsewhere around the room revelers obliviously guzzled from red plastic cups and dined on hummus and chocolate birthday cake.
I stood out like a sore thumb. In my right hand I clenched a glass goblet. I noticed several others looking at me sorely, as they seemed to say to themselves, "And exactly who do you think you are?"
But then there was the smoker's lounge outside. Smokers don't really care who you are or what you have in your hand, thought it would be a lot cooler if in that hand is perched a cigarette. This is a persecuted lot, after all, and if you're willing to brave the smoky elements if for nothing else smoky conversation then the more the merrier. Something about smoking in a social setting lends itself to certain sense of camaraderie. It's an inclusive activity from at least the angle that it gives one something to do, as if drinking weren't enough.

It's a funny thing about the brain is how very exactingly self-destructive it can be. A common phrase uttered when someone does something particularly dumb is often, "Use your head." But the human brain with its ability to reason and choose is a tricky organ. Research shows a correlation between alcohol and nicotine cravings. And smokers will congregate as if they are immigrants in a new land. They rely on each other for some odd form of moral support.
But most smokers at any party or bar are rarely real smokers. They're what my peers in 4th grade called "posers." They allow themselves to succumb to that brain chemical that, when introduced to alcohol seizes the body and tells it "I just gotta get me some." After all, my dad has smoked since he was 15, as if my attendance is validated by my genealogy.
So outside they file, either with their own packs or ready to bum a cig or two. And you can always tell the real smokers from the fake by who has a lighter, who doesn't and who instead has a matchbook.
But, still, they smoke. Who wants to live forever, anyway? Not I, as I puff away. Carbon is a main ingredient in our bodies, no? It's every where, the air we breath out, food for the trees.
This thought process of course lasts for a whole three cigarettes before my head begins to spin and I feel like I am going to vomit.
Oh the buzz.
A party is just a party, after all, incomplete without gregarious puffs from cigarettes washed down by liberal amounts of alcohol.

Writing Exercise #1

They say writers should write, well because that's just what they do. I often times find myself turning to the keyboard rather than a friend's ear to get out into the great expanse what's on my mind. What's troubling me or perhaps perplexing me. What's got my goat or what's inspired me. They say writing is the best thing to do. When you're a writer that is.

I've known people who don't know alliteration from a salutation from masturbation. Just like I know people who can't carry a tune. One of my best friends sounds like a rusty organ pipe choked by cobwebs when he tries to hum a tune. The man can't even whistle, something I just can't comprehend. They say writing comes easiest to writers much in the same way that melody and harmony comes naturally to those who sing.

They say writers should write for hours a day because after all it's an exercise. Just as flabby thighs and bellies that hang five inches over the belt line can happen to the sloth, so too can writer's block congest a good word man. So I sit down and write.

I go to karaoke bars to mostly have fun but also to practice my singing. Sounds lame, I know, but it's the truth. I just have to sing for others to hear rather than keeping it cooped up in my car at volume 45. So, too, I write. I write for a living, but it's not the same. I doubt plumbers who unclog shit from backed up toilets all day run home to plunge the porcelain god at home. It's like the old OBGYN who goes home with the last thing on his mind being the female genitalia. For every beautiful one there's 150,000 fat, smelly, hairy organs to prod, test and smear. Granted not a happy thought, but it certainly sums up how I feel about the whole situation.

So I write, not knowing exactly what will spring forth on the computer screen from the flurry of fingerings upon keys. It's like cardio for my digits. I ran tonight for the first time in weeks. It felt good, like sitting down and writing a while. It relieves stress, and dammit people like me. It's self re-affirmation at its barest best. It's a beautiful woman who longs for my attention. It's the frenetic frustration of the office. It's me.

So I write without a care. Because its simple. It's better than fumbling on the guitar, because I'm better at it.

It's an art. And so I write more. But I also read.

Reading is the true lost art of this generation. To be a good writer you have to read. Hemingway, Faulkner, hell Charles Schultz. Just read, dammit. TV is crap, let's face it. There are a few semi-redeeming shows currently on the air, take "House M.D." for example, but all else is a half-hour to an hour closer to your death.

So writing is reading is living. Take it from me, a writer in L.A. I MUST know what I'm talking about.