Dave Needs a Shave (a la Seuss)

Though it is hard to see, (because the picture is blurry), This is the portrait of a man who is inordinately furry. You can’t see much more than the tip of his nose, But that’s fine ‘cause in this photo he’s wearing no clothes. He grew up in the city in a family of lawyers, In houses and vacation homes with house maids and foyers. And he grew up believing in argumentation, And in conducting oneself in accord with one’s station. But as he grew older he began to resent, That he was allowed to say little about what he wore or where he went. So during a stint in a boarding school out in Ventura, He began to rethink all the things he’d been sure of. He was thinking a thought that was long and quite subtle, And then he began thinking his mother’s rebuttal. And then, realizing he’d been trained much too well, He snuck out at night and hopped a bus for Carmel. Out on the cliffs with all that was wild, He felt he’d been squelched since he was a child. Forced to be shorn and forced to be svelte-- None of this matched his true inner self. So discarding everything he’d been taught (and not learned) And all the things that he’d been given (but had not earned), He emptied his mind and took off his clothes, (As the indecent exposure charge on the arrest report shows). And that was the start of his extended flirtation With radical thinking and self-exploration. He ditched all his schooling and refused to go home, He tried to live in a hole in the woods like a gnome. He did without heat, clothes and food for a day, Then he decided he’d better find some other way. He felt he could deal with a job selling fruit, Because it was close to nature and his boss was hirsute. In his thinking, a job was not a capitulation, But a very small concession to civilization. In most things he wanted to be different from his folks But he did not want to fail and be the butt of their jokes. So he had to earn money, at least to get by, Until food and housing start to fall from the sky. The produce stand owner thought the kid was a freak But he showed up on time and worked hard all week. He made some new friends and got along with others And made his own clothes out of stuff found in dumpseters. One of his tenets was that it was a sin To cut off whatever grew out of one’s skin. He’d say, “Like the hair of the dog or the mane of a horse, It is best to let things take their natural course!” So, though his friends and co-workers found it all quite peculiar, He just got furry and then he got furrier. And being half Jewish with liberal political sympathies, He soon had hair out to his extremities. Soon he tripped on his beard and his hair concealed all emotion. The wind caught his afro and blew him out to the ocean. The Coast Guard found him entwined in the kelp, Fending off otters and yelling for help. Once safe on shore, shivering in the back of a squad car, He admitted, “Even the best thoughts can be taken too far.” What goes for the best, goes even more for the worst, But if you’ve been similarly dumb, rest assured, you ain’t the first. Now he’s a store manager, and wears a low fade, And has traded self-abnegation for a desire to get laid.

Posted via email from Run Ahead of Me

Baby - Os Mutantes

There was one time when I was spending a lot of time out in the hinterlands of the Bay Area. I would get a map, find some semi-remote destination, get on a bus and head off into the woods to go hiking and camping. I spent most of my nights outdoors, my legs were generally tired, I bathed when I got back to civilization, and I liked it that way. It was like voluntary sporadic homelessness, except I had a base-camp in civilization to which I could return. In any case, one night when I was camped up in the hills of the Point Reyes National Seashore-- somewhere between Point Reyes Station and Bolinas-- I was listening to the radio as night fell and I happened upon the college station where they were playing the strangest line-up of Mexican metal bands and this Brazilian group called Os Mutantes. Turns out Os Mutantes was big in Brazil at around the time of the Beatles and was part of that whole explosion of brilliant rock during the 60s and 70s. Much of their oeuvre is insane, quirky, fun experimental stuff (reminiscent of the Beatles' more experimental work), but I fell immediately in love with this one track "Baby," which is a little ballad with a sparse instrumental track. I just love it. It doesn't really matter what it means exactly. There's just something refreshing and simple about it that stands the test of time. For me, at least. It also takes me back to that campsite in the woods, where I hiked for two days straight through beautiful coastal woodlands and along the rugged seashore. How do you beat that?

Pumpkin Master!

So two Saturdays ago, my son and I went to see a movie at the mall. We went a little early so that we could swing by the Farmer's Market. When we got off the bus, the first thing my son ran to was the "Guess the Weight of the Giant Pumpkin!" exhibit. What he wanted to do was draw all over the little pieces of paper that were out for people who wanted to guess the weight. He also wanted to write his name. So I was saying, "Good job! I like your train... oh, look, that's a letter 'i'," and stuff like that. So my son says, "You do one, Papa!" I look at the form, eyeball the pumpkin and say to myself, "What the heck. I know pumpkins. I've lifted plenty." I think for about five seconds, comparing a few weights in my mind and then write down 211 lbs., my address, and slip it in the box. I think no more of it. A couple of days ago I get this letter in the mail that says I won! Not only did I win, but I guessed the weight *exactly*! What are the chances of that? Just call me "Pumpkin Master." Send me your pictures and I'll guess your weight, too!

In Memory of Those Who Have Gone Ahead of Me

I find myself writing this entry, just a couple of days after Día de los Muertos. I put up some remembrances of Holly. I suppose I can post pictures here later. October was also a month to remember my dear friend and co-worker, Tanisha, who as called to glory on 10/26/09. Never her equal shall I meet here on earth. I am getting better at celebrating these times when I turn my memory back to people who have gone before me, but it is still mostly sadness that I feel. No longer regret. No longer guilt or agony. Just sadness. In any case, here is a Laura Jansen song that I've enjoyed listening to recently [although I'm certain that I am taking some liberties with the meaning]: Laura Jansen - The End And here, also, is a picture of the indomitable little Hollywog, whose battle started when she was only eight years old.

La Burbuja de la Realidád

From an interview with some musicians: "Cuando digo esto sé lo miserable que soy y nunca he podido ponerme en juez de los demás, pero vivir en una nube de pedos, en una situación cortesana, no es una cosa conveniente, tampoco. Es como una manera que uno tiene de detener la realidad para que no te afecte todo el tiempo." --La García He's basically saying that he is as bad as anyone else and he doesn't appoint himself judge over other people, but keeping up appearances, being oblivious, or "living in a fart cloud" is not the most comfortable way to live. However, he understands that being oblivious and unconcerned (i.e. "living in a fart cloud") is a way of keeping reality at bay so that such realizations don't affect you all the time. I think this is an Argentinian phrase, "to live in a fart cloud" (vivir en una nube de pedos), which means to be unconcerned about what is going on around you. I suppose we who live in a literal fart cloud would definitely fit the bill. Ignorance is bliss. This isn't a "gross" phrase in Argentina, although it's probably a bit slangy, but I think it captures nicely the intersection of how we ignore the reality of what is around us (the fart cloud) in preference for our "preferred reality," or escapist pursuits, while simultaneously denying how we contribute to the whole situation (our farts). It's all tied up nicely in one stinky little bundle of words. Anyway, I like the phrase and thought I'd share!

César Chavez Library: Thursday the 19th of August

The guy to the left of me does philately in his ECKO Other Ground print shirt. The guy to the right blasts death metal into his headphones while he draws careful line drawings on sheet-after-sheet of copy paper. The guy to my immediate right is quiet and square-looking; he reads and writes and occasionally types. The guy down at the end of the row has recently rolled out of a boxcar and wears acid-washed denim blackened with grime and a Karl Marx style beard. I believe mice live in it. There's a lady who is here often. She sits perched on the edge of a chair and does not read. She just watches everyone and appears perturbed by the hard rock music. Her ears lay back like an irritated cat's. Soon she leaves. I spent much of the morning with my son at pre-school. Now I won't see him until the evening. I'm on vacation, so I just come here to kill time. I find the environs and the people watching to be pleasant. Later on I will have some Thai iced tea and a chicken-and-rice bowl at the nearby Quickly snack bar and watch the Simpsons on their TV. Tomorrow is the last day of my vacation and I will return to my normal schedule. The goat in me is happy (Capricorn)-- I frolic in my goals and ambitions. I love tasks and plans and passion and motivation. This is my native element, and only in the soil of realism and daily duties does my imagination take root-- not in the airy vagaries of vacation time. Yay, work!

Walking My Neighborhood: Friday the 13th of August

The kamikaze dog who bit my pants legs repeatedly the other evening scratches desperately against the screen door and chews on the bottom corner with her lip pressed desperately against the metal, exposing her horrific 1/4 inch fangs.

The girls one house up are dousing each other randomly with the hose. They don't even bother to spray. I think their game is more like Marco Polo, but with a hose. Since they keep spraying the sidewalk I didn't stay long enough to figure it out.

As I reach the corner, the two snack vendors approach from opposing sides. God forbid they ever face each other in open battle; fruit skewers to the midriff, hot sauce in the eyes, smearing oil and mayonnaise on their arms to slip the enemy's grip. It would be a mess.

They honk their horns insistently and glare at each other across the main thoroughfare.

I speed up to avoid the conflagration.

In someone's back yard they are doing terrible things to a tuba. The cymbals and snare get their abuse, too. The combined effect is drunken, carnival-like madness. Next door the Templo Monte Sinai stands in severe silence.

I catch a lyric from a passing Escalade, blasting a bolero-- to my Spanglish ears it sounds like "comiendo hongos con las sirenas." I'm pretty sure I missed the mark, but it would be fun.

To my Spanglish ears every single bolero sounds like it has the same rhythm and the same tune. The same tuba baseline. Its like a game where you make up different words to the Yellow Rose of Texas, like Emily Dickinson did, and sing them really loudly, pretending they're brand new songs.

A woman walks slowly down a full story staircase talking urgently in K'iche'.

A few houses down a woman smiles at me. She wears a blanket knotted at the shoulder, tying a bundle to her back. I am likewise carrying things-- a booster seat in a messenger bag and a jogging stroller under my arm.

We are bonded by the kinship of carrying things, divided by the particularities of custom.

Later, as I return with my son, the street is flooded with bicycles. They are fitted with carts with amps and speakers and the riders are fitted with hipster clothes and sculpted hair.

Hundreds of them mass in the square. It's a "bike party," as they loudly exclaim, but only for those to whom bicycles are a lifestyle accessory-- excluding all who use them out of necessity.

On the way back, the tall women in stilettos prances around her coupe, emblazoned in Morrissey, The Cure and other decals. She is waiting for her boy toy to finish up with his slow rearrangements of items from seat to seat. He has streaks of glittery Christmas tree foil and green-apple green in his hair, and a funky hat.

They both seem to have recently run off from the circus. Or possible they're carny folk. I think she's slumming it with him, but he doesn't know.

We pass the El Centenario taco truck and the tortilleria (La Finca) and head up the hill. On the other side the far hills seem emblazoned with Christmas lights and the perfect half-circle of the moon lazes above, lighting our journey.

Legend of the Mapache [Dos]

[slide 1] Safe atop their former mountain sanctuary, the raccoon-dogs laid in their fortifications. [slide 2] The demonic eyes of their ravenous foe haunted their dreams. [slide 3] Their only thought was for revenge... [slide 4] and sustenence.

Legend of the Mapache [Uno]

[slide 1] They once enjoyed an idyllic existence, in the peaceful woods atop Raccoon Mountain... [slide 2] but one day their peace was interrupted by war. [slide 3] The neighboring raccoon-dogs attacked, [slide 4] progeny of an unholy union, and they were driven from their homeland... [slide 5] to become refugees. [slide 6] They wandered the dark night of their exile, [slide 7] did what they had to to survive, [slide 8] let nothing stop them. [slide 9] Sometimes they felt they would go mad. [slide 10] They came to a place where people fed them peanuts. [slide 11] They were looking for a home.