Spent the morning at the dentists. Nothing like emergency root canal surgery on vacation. Anybody in need of a small silver rod about the size of a pin? I got an extra one. In my sinus. On its way to my brain. Seems like somebody "lost" it in there (i.e. my jaw) long ago during some procedure or another. Nothing can be done, short of drilling into my skull. Oh well. At least nobody left a priceless painting or a dirty dish towel in there.

Vacation + California + Christmas = eat like a pig, play with kids. take pain medication (got me a bottle of Vicodin). That's my routine. I'm starting a buisiness with my 6 year old nephew. We're going into the retail lemon business, with fruit absconded from grandma's tree. With a sack of 41 at the low low price of $20.85 apiece, we can make a whopping $800 plus dollars for a single sack of lemons. That's the idea, anyway. From there were going to try more "value added" options, like making lemonade and (getting grandma to bake) pies. The sign we have outside has not attracted even a single customer so far, even though the lemons are juicy and big.

Off to stuff myself sick again. Hope you're not back at work while the rest of us get to play/have emergency surgery.

Well, all, it seems that the well has run dry. My pink job in the pink labor archives is over. Days of endless blogging leisure are done. New job starts in Jan. Doubt the G-men will look favorably toward bloggers and blabbermouths. Crazy holidays make reading and writing sporadic.

Nothing more for the moment. Here's a tip if you're bored and wish you were reading my updated blog: start your own blog. If you have already done so, go update it.

If none of that suits your fancy, have a happy new year. I'll write when I can.

Following the link on www.odge.blogspot.com (Hometown Unicorn), I have taken a personality test on some random website and discovered that I resemble none other than:

What Famous Leader Are You?

What kind of crappy test is this? I'm insulted. I'm angry. I'll kill the bastards. I'll invade their homeland! I'll put my face on every flat surface so that they know I mean business. I'll-

If you were destitute, would you become a beggar or a thief?

Reading Sahalie's recent post about her man S's frustrating job at a call center got me to thinking about this question. It also got me to thinking about life, work, and life's-work.

It seems that S got frustrated, quit the job, and then got depressed about the state of things. A few doors were broken. Soothing words followed, calmness ensued. No lasting damage that a locksmith can't fix and nothing we all haven't been through in our own way.

S, whom I do not know except vicariously, gets high marks for having the dignity to walk away from a demeaning job. I've done call center work, as have many who read this blog, and the combination of low pay, quota pressure, and mechanization make it among the least rewarding and most difficult jobs I've ever worked. That is not to say that it isn't a blessing or a perfect job for some (to each his/her own) -- but it was a grind for me.

I quit one call center job after 4 days, scared shitless by watching workers stare woodenly at their screens for 2 hours until a break bell rang. They all jumped up, punched the clock, grabbed a deck of cards, rushed downstairs, played 10 minutes of cards, the bell rang again, they punched back in, and were staring woodenly at their computers 15 minutes later. Meanwhile, I sat at my desk and -- on break (mind you) -- clicked open Windows' Free Cell.

A nervous, incredulous hush filled the room.

"Wha...what are you doing?" a co-worker of mine finally had the wherewithal to stammer.

"Playing Free Cell. See, its break-time..." I started to explain.

The co-worker blanched and looked around the room with a wild look in his eyes.

"You can't *do* that," he said quickly and with a hushed voice, "they're...*watching*."

Then he went back to whatever he was doing and did his best to appear that he did not know me, had not spoken to me and, come to think of it had never even *seen* me.

That day I packed up my things and said hasta la vista to work at the hideously misnomered "fulfillment center".

The next time I worked in such a place was to do web research. I was given a computer and some rediculously vague assignment by someone who had no idea who or why I was there. They assured me that all I had to do all day was browse the web and look for whatever I was supposed to be looking for. (I'm not trying to be vague here: the assignment was really that general) Regardless of the pointlessness of the position, I was told very directly that some yahoo with a corner office spent his day spying on workers to make sure they weren't goofing off.

8 hours later I blew that joint for good.

My wife tells a story about working a crappy temp job for 3 hours then, at lunchtime, walking away and never returning. She never mentioned it to the boss, either, and the temp agency sputtered and raged and claimed she would "never work in this town again!"
It was a lie and now she laughs about the whole experience.

My father-in-law tells a story about scoring a big job with a repair company as a young man. He took apart a cash register for a customer, realized he had no clue how it went back together, and, without comment or preamble, simply left the parts on the boss's desk and walked out.

Last week, my friend B.C. got canned from his engineering job. The boss decided to pull rank on him and force him to choose vacation (which was owed him and which he was using to go home for Christmas) or work. Whenever a boss says "choose between me or your family/life/self-respect/dignity" it is time to get a new boss.

B.C. is bummed about it, I'm sure, but in 5 years from now he'll look back, laugh about what an S.O.B. his boss was, and know that he stood up for himself when it counted.

There are enough times in life when it is wisest not to resist. We all need work and money, and should be grateful that we have access to it in this country. Resisting is especially pointless when it is merely a question of vanity or ego -- pride is, not coincidentally, one of the deadly sins.

Some people would bitch that privelaged folk (like myself and many other middle classers) feel like we're better than people who work shit jobs for low pay and no respect. Its not that at all. Its just that when you have options -- whoever you are and in whatever context you have them -- you owe it to yourself to at least *fight* for self-respect, better working conditions, and the like. If you lose, at least you didn't just take what was coming and shuffle off to that great ticking time clock in the sky.

The beggar waits in the well-lit corner, holding the cup, secretly resenting passersby in whose pockets and upon whose benificience salvation lies. There is no dignity in begging, but the beggar is merely a nuisance (and not a threat) to others.

The thief waits in the dark corner, holding the sap, not resenting passersby because s/he, at least, has a measure of control over the situation. The thief is wicked and despised, but does not shrink from the mirror. If ever there is payback, the Thief will not divulge bitter coin.

I guess I have revealed my own bias here. Given the choice, I select the latter. I keep the trappings of a highwayman in my closet, just in case.

I'm sure I have better things to concern myself with but this one has been bugging me for awhile:

What's up with the British royal family giving out knighthoods to entertainers?

Examples:
Sir Paul McCartney
Sir Ian McKellan
Sir Sean Connery
Sir Tom Courtenay
[soon to be] Sir Mick Jagger

Are there woman knights, or at least an equivalent title for women? Just curious. Regardless, how positively rediculous is it to give an entertainer a knighthood. Knights are supposed to be bold, tough, real-world people, defenders of the realm, loyal militants, champions in the flesh, the very *personification* of badassedness and (at least in theory) virtue. I ask you: has Mick Jagger ever been virtuous or loyal to the realm (which he fled in order to avoid paying taxes)?

Actors are just playing at important things (and for the record I'm not including charity benefit concerts -- I'm just as happy as you are that celebs raise money for AIDS victims). Musicians, well, don't get me started on the role of musicians in the royal court. Ok (since you mentioned it) giving a musician a knighthood is like giving the court jester a title for making you laugh. Not only are jesters, almost by definition, unbefitting of great titles, but it is there job to entertain and at least, in modern times, they get filthy rich doing it. Can you imagine Mick Jagger or Sir Paul McCartney coiffed in mail, ramming a lance through the skull of some vile Scottish yoeman? Neither can I.

No need to water down one of the world's most prestigious (and formerly functional) non-hereditary awards by giving it to thespians and croakers. I guess its just a sign of the corrosion of traditional mideavil values in England. How sad.

Props & accolades to Wiley of Snake Oils, who contrived to get my CD site exposed via banners on blogspeak. Much appreciated, W. Such fine feats are generally beyond my limited capacity to market myself.

If you're new to my blog, go here to hear the mp3s.


Found, one Banana

I know many of you are wondering what became of my banana yesterday. Believe me -- I was wondering the same thing. That is, until around 12:07 p.m. That was when I stood up, felt around in my pants pockets for my wallet and (you guessed it):

*SQUISH*

Put my hand right in it. It was right where I'd left it: in my right front pocket. Why had I been unable to detect it through my standard-procedure patdown of a few hours before? Well, because I had utterly flattened it on my ride to work. It was the worlds first two dimentional banana, slimmer than a wafer. Actually , it resembled less a banana than the raw ingredients of a banana (stem, peel, a sticker, mashed pulp) none of which had any further relationship with the other. They had become dissociated. Individualistic. Worse: one of them had produced a greasy, yellowish stain right next to my crotch.

"Don't mind this," I told my co-workers, pointing at the stain. "Its just a banana."

I lost my banana this morning.

I know that sounds like a personal problem. Let me assure you: it is. Entirely. Let me also be clear that a) I am not speaking figuratively and b) I don't expect you to help me look for it or even care much.

Here's how it happened: I stuffed a banana in my pocket as I was rushing out the door late for work. I drove to work, thinking about today's lunchtime christmas party. When I got here, there was no banana in my pocket and I wasn't happy to see anyone.

Now, losing a banana is not quite the same as loosing a meatball when somebody sneezes. When that happens, you have to chase the damn thing out into the garden and this time of year (what with all the ice and such) that can be a dangerous and potentially fatal excursion. We didn't have snow/ice when I was growing up, but I knew a kid once that slipped on a skateboard, conked his cabeza, and took a slow ride across the river pretty quick.

The good thing about a banana is it tells you pretty quick when its had enough sitting around. Nothing like the warm, dank shriveling-banana smell. Reminds me of a time in high school when either Sex McGinty or myself (I forget who) slipped a banana beneath a paper-mache bust of Mr. Accardi, our great fuzzy-bear of an art history teacher. Did I already tell this one? Probably. Who care's.

I think it was week three or four of the school year, tenth grade. Now, mind you that purposefully hiding a banana is not the same as losing one outright. Unless you've planned very badly, the former rarely results in actual hunger for the newly fruit-poor. Anyway, our banana was stashed in the first of what was to become a yearlong reign of high school food terrorism. Our campaign, flush with success, culminated with the placement of salami over the lens of the slide projector. ("I don't know what's wrong with my projector...") Meanwhile, the banana mouldered and blakened. It was a rot grenade, exuding powdery black stink spores. We even lifted up the head to peer underneath, only to find that the banana had sprung with a fecund assortment of tiny, whirring gnats. There were black, stringy tendrils from the peel which, coupled with a sort of slow, viscid sap, acted as an adhesive between the bust and its cardboard base.

We were smug.

We were full of youthful hubris.

We took our campaign to other classrooms: biology, philosophy, mathmatics. There was a mutant crawdad brawl during a disection. There was a (grilled) chicken fight during a filmstrip. Somebody left a piece of cake hidden on the floor over the weekend. Soon after, the classroom snake "escaped".

In "health education" with "Dumb" Dan Kubelka, I executed the creme de la creme of my youthful prank career. Coming to class a few minutes early and realizing that Kubelka had us set to watching yet another irrelevant movie reel on nutrition (at a school that whored its students to the coca cola company), I contrived to tie a string around the film power cord. Then I waited, string taut in my loose fingers.

Film: Like the car your family drives, your body needs fuel. *beewwwwwwwwww...* [<------ sound of film dying]

"Dumb" Dan Kubelka: [scratching his head]

A Student: Hey teacher, the cable is loose in the wall.

Film: The body needs over 5000 calories a day to maintain healthy functioning *bewwwwwwwwww*

"Dumb" Dan Kubelka:...

The student: Hey teacher, (etc.)

Film: In order to be sure that your body receives the nutrition it requires, you must eat balanced meals. The food pyramid *bewwwwwwwww*

Film: And-

*bewwwwwwwww*

[etc.]


Ah. That was a good one. It took ol' Dan a good 25 minutes to figure out what was really "wrong" with his projector. By that time, the class period was blown.

But back to the banana. First the one ol' Sex and I left under the Accardi head in E Hall. See, we were smug about it all year and thought we were so damn cute and funny and all that and the *last* minute of 10th grade art history, Mr. Accardi pulled us aside and said, very calmly and without a hint of scorn or malice:

"Sex and Clay, would you mind removing the banana you left under the head?"

We were burned. Totally. Either somebody had ratted us out, or he'd been wise all along. My bet goes with the latter.

But that was another time I "lost" a banana.

This morning I just genuinely misplaced one and...I'm hungry.

[some later installment: the Pizzi sugar-saliva stalagtites, orifism, and the Great Paper-airplane Tribunal]

This "flu-epidemic" hysteria is fascinating. I say "hysteria" because I'm fairly certain that's what we're dealing with here. Anecdotally, I know a few folks who have spent the past couple of weeks squirting syrup from their hindquarters and baking icepacks with their skulls. Totally sucks. Sick blows. But from what I can tell, there does not appear to be a statistically larger amount of people either a) contracting or b) dying from this year's outbreak.

Sure, some kids got croaked in Colorado. Colorado is famous for that (anybody remember a little place called Columbine? How about the Sand Creek Massacre?).

Catch this. NPR, paragon of news virtue (I'm actually not being sarcastic here), reports that the "outbreak appears to be growing worse" because, catch this, the death toll has climbed from 12 to...ready for this?...20.

Twenty people reported dead from the flu. Twenty people out of a nation of, oh, 260 million? By my unscientific estimate, that means one in 13,000,000 of us have died already. At this rate, by January or February, it might be down to one in 11 or 12 million of us.

I'd better go take out that extra life insurance policy.

Martha, keep the kids in the bomb shelter and shoot the fuller brush man before he can get anywhere *near* the air scrubbers.

Now, I'm not really being glib about the seriousness of the flu. It actually is a mighty slayer. When its on a roll it makes the grim reaper look like Heidi in a field of daisies. We all "remember" the flu epidemic of 1918 in twice as many people died in 4 months as did in all of WWI. Even when its not a true epidemic, it faithfully arrives every single winter, nixes thousands, and goes away.

This year is different.

This year, a group of unfortunate youngsters prematurely climbed the golden stairway. People started to panic. They began requesting flu shots. Shots were given. Shots became scarce. The elderly and the sick couldn't get their shots. The news media picked up on the scarcity, juxtiposed it with the tragic kid deaths, and *bam*. Instant recipe for hysteria. More panic. Long lines at flu clinics. Enough media stories about flu and flu vaccine to cripple your average TivO.

I might be completely wrong about this. Maybe we *are* experiencing something abnormally bad. But I doubt it.

Remember these other recent outbreaks of media-hysteria:

fire ants from Argentina (ow. little billy got bit by an ant or two (billion))

white flies/killer bees/the Med fly

West Nile Virus (which in all fairness has, I believe, killed at least 10 people in the last decade)

Salmonilla in eggs (we're still really freaked about this one)

eating too many carrots (you might go blind, after all)

E Coli on strawberrys

kudzu

Y2K

radon

reyes syndrome

gang violence in *your* hometown (exceptions: most inner cities)

SUV rollovers/tread separation

bullying

cholesterol

[my favorite] hyponatremia: drinking too much water during a sporting event

dangerous music (jazz in the 20s, rock in the 50s, rap in the 80s, Marilyn Manson in the 90s etc.)

indoor air pollution

"killer mold"

These are just the few I can remember. Realize that all of these things can be truly horrible on an individual level, but what makes them mass hysteria is the disproportionate amount of fear and/or behavior modification that occurs as a result. For example, with the salmonilla thing: our fear has gotten so bad that we treat meat in our kitchen (I'm talking about my wife and I here) as if it is *poison* until it is cooked. Everything it touches we wash. We scour. We scorch with industrial chemicals.

We freak ourselves out. We love to instill panic in one another. Maybe it makes us feel like we are in control of our destinies when we alter our behavior to, say, avoid eating excessive quantities of carrots.

So to those of you are sick with flu this season, I must say: very sorry, hope I don't get it, hope your friends and loved ones don't get it.

If anyone in the news media wants to film me running around in the street, holding my head and screaming for the latest update from the CDC, I'll be right here waiting for my cue, calmly munching on this here raw chicken breast.

Well, the day has finally arrived.

Clay Sails: King of the Hobos (my debut CD) is complete. Finished. Fin.

All except for the CD covers, which I must do at Kinkos.

The website is complete, although probably not entirely bug-free. I thought I had kept it small, but god help you if you have a 56k modem. It takes about 11 hours to open. Still, you can get the .mp3s there.

Although I say on the site that I charge $4.99 for CDs, all of my blog readers get a free copy if you/they want one. If you already gave me your address, no need to do so again, but if you didn't, now is the time. Either email me privately (claysails@hotmail.com) or put your mailing address in the comments section.

The site has pictures and a bunch of junk about my hopes and aspirations (cue Miss America theme). Hope you enjoy it as much as I enjoyed making it.

Go here: Clay Sails: King of the Hobos

Here is today's game:

Pick any set of words from anywhere and form a band name out of them. It works better if you limit your selection to an arbitrary quantity of 5 words or less.

For example, [shutting eyes, pointing at a memo on my desk] my new band is called:

"The Labyrnths of Overall"

[again]

My new band is called:

"Impact Incorporating"

[and again]

MNBIC:

"Expense Reports"

God, what a boring game. It seemed like it might be fun. Maybe I'm just surrounded by extremely dull paperwork. You try it.

Mostly, morning commuting is dull and monotonous. I comment bitterly to the radio. I struggle to wake up. I sip coffee. My drive usually takes about 45 minutes, sometimes more, occasionally less.

This morning was a rare morning. Traffic was slow but I didn't care. The sky was perfectly clear from all the rain. Puddles glinted like mirrors. Sodden trees stretched away on all sides. Even the office towers seemed in their place.

I drove but my mind flew. It was a tricycle pedalled by a clown strapped to a moon rocket. Thoughts bounced off logos and tailpipes all around, spun into the nasal cavities of strangers gliding anonymously past, plunked into their coffee, caromed and winged and zzzz'd, never resting. There was elation, as irrepressible as sudden laughter. There was life all around. There were memories of places and time: hidden rocks north of the city where teenagers make out; a wood floor whose every dent and scratch I came to know in a winter of isolation; a road whose curves are not asphalt but hips, and whose only signposts point directly to the heart.

I passed over a flooded river in a wooded glade. The Culligan man waved. Synth bass and pristine, crystal rythms, a robot's unconcious loose in a liquid world. Somewhere in there, between the speeding rails, between promises forgotten before they were made, that bright, dizzying sadness appeared. Dropped from the sky, more like it, or boiled up out of the frozen ground like marsh gas. Yes, here it is again. Right where it always is. Waiting patiently for its time to be recognized. Not because it is selfish, or in need of attention, but because it, too, like the arrowline between lost and found, is true.

I'm sorry I could not share the rocks with you that day
(when the blind opera singer sang your name
and the green beams in the trees glanced your way).

I'm sorry I kept to my own
(when the floor we were on was one
and the boards could have giggled and groaned.)

I'm sorry we only passed on the road
(when we drove the same way alone
and could have travelled together home.)

Did you know there's a Greek temple above seacliffs on Rhodes where waves have crashed every day since I was 17? Did you know discos have gone dark all along the sea of Galilee? Did you ever find that frisbee I sank into San Francisco Bay one clumsy afternoon last autumn?

I depressed the pedal, slashing through puddles and rainlight. Schoolchildren scattered. Busses sputtered like fuses, ticking timebombs of meat, ready to scatter into wind at the age of consent. Is it just my imagination or did a moth just summersault in that cadillac slipstream?

Here at last, I am where I am. Euphoria fading as the engine cools. Music too loud. Pulse too high. Thoughts tucking themselves away, back to dry boxes, diving for cover. Your face, my mood, your voice, my hands, whatever it was, away in the current, rising fast, lost. And I longing, should you ever decide, that you reveal the view from your side.

I saw a morning show today that had a stroke victim who had awaken from a coma only to find that she had a French accent. (Note: she had apparently never had one before). If I went into a coma I'd hope to wake up with the singing voice of Neil Tennant (Pet Shop Boys) or Rufus Wainright Jr.

On other fronts:

Inspired by a passing comment on Sahalie about doors, I started thinking about the nature of strength. She referred to the method most commonly employed when you/people are attempting to pass thresholds/obstacles in your/their lives (this is a choose-your-own adventure-type sentence, in the end you will construct whatever combination of words/ideas suit you).
Somehow I got onto the idea that doors, being made of wood and are, therefore, little more than thick paper, which is a porous, easily breached, and rip-able substance. Therefore doors (or should I say "thick paper") are easily torn down.

'Now wait,' you say. 'Its not that simple. You're making a huge leap here, Clay.' I know I know: if all doors were paper, we'd have to ward off legions of junior-high age miscreants who would, long ago, have folded up every door in sight and hurled it at Ms. Tannenbaum's giant ass when she was bending over the chalkboard. There would *be* no such thing as doors. We'd have giant gaping windows where all doors used to be. Maybe we would instead employ giant, trained walruses (walri?) to stand in thresholds. Ever try to wiggle past a wary walrus? ( <------try saying *that* with a mouth full of crackers). It would never do. Walruses would attract sharks and polar bears, which would pit building contractors against the animal welfare community. Yet stay with me for a minute: if all doors were windows, we'd all have to wear false moustaches...you know..."in the bathroom". That is true, but air circulation would be better. And since windows often come with screens, flies would not be a problem.

Now you're wondering, if doors are really paper, why *didn't* they get chucked at Ms. Tannenbaum's ass etc. etc.? Is it because youths of the world are too concerned with bouncing booty in the boom-boom room? Is it MTV? CBS? SUVs? No. Kids aren't stupid. They are very perceptive: they realize that paper has a strength all its own, irrespective of the case Ms. Tannenbaum's bruised buttocks might make if we hauled it into court and forced it to testify (Jim Carey-style) before a jury. (No one wants that, by the way). Paper's strength lies in the fact that it can be *written* on. It can *communicate*. It can transmit ideas and preserve thoughts and *even* though there is nothing new under the sun and no thoughts are original, etc. we feel more substantiated in our ideas if lots and lots of paper has been produced validating our ideas (hey, it worked for Christianity).

So doors, windows, paper, walruses -- it all boils down to one thing. Which happens to be a secret. No, just kidding. That would be mean. There are many kinds of strength. That's all I'm saying.

I saw a morning show today that had a stroke victim who had awaken from a coma only to find that she had a French accent. (Note: she had apparently never had one before). If I went into a coma I'd hope to wake up with the singing voice of Neil Tennant (Pet Shop Boys) or Rufus Wainright Jr.

On other fronts:

Inspired by a passing comment on Sahalie about doors, I started thinking about the nature of strength. She referred to the method most commonly employed when you/people are attempting to pass thresholds/obstacles in your/their lives (this is a choose-your-own adventure-type sentence, in the end you will construct whatever combination of words/ideas suit you).
Somehow I got onto the idea that doors, being made of wood and are, therefore, little more than thick paper, which is a porous, easily breached, and rip-able substance. Therefore doors (or should I say "thick paper") are easily torn down.

'Now wait,' you say. 'Its not that simple. You're making a huge leap here, Clay.' I know I know: if all doors were paper, we'd have to ward off legions of junior-high age miscreants who would, long ago, have folded up every door in sight and hurled it at Ms. Tannenbaum's giant ass when she was bending over the chalkboard. There would *be* no such thing as doors. We'd have giant gaping windows where all doors used to be. Maybe we would instead employ giant, trained walruses (walri?) to stand in thresholds. Ever try to wiggle past a wary walrus? ( <------try saying *that* with a mouth full of crackers). It would never do. Walruses would attract sharks and polar bears, which would pit building contractors against the animal welfare community. Yet stay with me for a minute: if all doors were windows, we'd all have to wear false moustaches...you know..."in the bathroom". That is true, but air circulation would be better. And since windows often come with screens, flies would not be a problem.

Now you're wondering, if doors are really paper, why *didn't* they get chucked at Ms. Tannenbaum's ass etc. etc.? Is it because youths of the world are too concerned with bouncing booty in the boom-boom room? Is it MTV? CBS? SUVs? No. Kids aren't stupid. They are very perceptive: they realize that paper has a strength all its own, irrespective of the case Ms. Tannenbaum's bruised buttocks might make if we hauled it into court and forced it to testify (Jim Carey-style) before a jury. (No one wants that, by the way). Paper's strength lies in the fact that it can be *written* on. It can *communicate*. It can transmit ideas and preserve thoughts and *even* though there is nothing new under the sun and no thoughts are original, etc. we feel more substantiated in our ideas if lots and lots of paper has been produced validating our ideas (hey, it worked for Christianity).

So doors, windows, paper, walruses -- it all boils down to one thing. Which happens to be a secret. No, just kidding. That would be mean. There are many kinds of strength. That's all I'm saying.

Arrrgh!!!

Due to Blogger's confusing layout I have managed to kill my last entry, which was an entertaining dramatization of a hypothetical blogger going through a midlife crisis and deciding, with the aid of a woman named Martha, to solve it by updating his template. It was purely allegorical. Or metaphorical. Or metaphysical. Or pataphysical. Or hyperbolic. Or metabolic. Point was, I explained that my blog is getting a face lift that will make it better. It will vastly improve your reading experience, which will hopefully be a suitable substitute for real happiness in your otherwise empty, worthless life. Oh wait, I'm projecting. No I'm not. My life is neither empty nor worthless. It is meaningless, of course, but who can help that? An ants life is meaningless, too, but at least I get to eat ice cream and crack wise to the bathroom mirror (a practice that disturbs all within earshot, including myself, but is terribly entertaining). But I didn't mean to imply that you had an empty, worthless life. Even though I directly said it. See, I'm just going "blah blah blah", and I really can't make absolute statements about your life since I don't even know who you are. Well, I know who *some* of you are, but not all of you. You are enigmas. Wrapped in riddles like a hot dog in a pig-in-a-blanket at a run-down diner where the silverware is still moist from the dishwasher. Why a hot dog is wrapped in a riddle, I don't know, but then again I haven't been in the restaurant business since I was a teenager and a lot has changed.

You catch my drift.

Don't you?

[*knock knock*]

Hello?

Hellooooo...?

Its slow ache Saturday night. That steady drum of pressure from long ago, old rythems I used to dance to. Its not right to say whats on my mind, so I give you instead this, an old poem, words that, like tonight, make me feel like the song imbetween days:

Spires of Clayton

So what you couldn't see it.

You were covered by a dust bowl in the 30s.

I was 25 but there was a decade under my skin.

I slept though three thousand promises under your slate blue skies.

I saw through nothing for once in my life.

I stared in cold brown mountains, past mules with eyes like old campfires.

I slept in fields of mint blown cool by the ocean.

I knew your roads though I never told you my name.

I fled you gladly when the train arrived.

So, what, you couldn't see it?

Its been there since 1885.

I've seen it there since 93 when they razed the stables
and slated the sheds for dynamite.

I saw it in the circles under your ice
and that skating sideways mountain with the devil's name
and ways and courts and and streets and trails
so pastel you chew them only *after* a great meal,
when flavors have grown indistinguishable,
and you want only new coins to throw
into fountains where wishes come true.

It was the core of an old volcano,
some damn center that remained
long after the visible mountain, melted in long ago rain,
floated down like a blanket or a falling sheet
into the unmade bed of Clayton.

Its smoke was yours and the screen we made
was cinema obscura, 8mm Ed Wood on an absynthe binge.

We were handheld opera, miniaturized for Russian princesses
not one millimeter shy of a bullet through the night.
Then we were falling through it, that far from dying hands,
and the ceramic star pattern we left when we hit
was on a shiny, white cup no larger than a mouse
in a pigment so fine applied one hair at a time
with everything on hand,
so that pain was a painting,
and whispers were brushtrokes,
and silence was shattering.

Confession time. I like Tom Cruise. No, no. No like *thaaat*. I mean, I think he's a good actor. I'm unmotivated to defend that claim, its just that I usually give him credit for being more than just a pretty face.

But seeing pictures of him dressed up like a samurai, waving a sword around with such mock seriousness on his face, and I can't help but snigger just a little bit. Its too rediculous and, yes, cheesy. Without having actually seen it, "Samurai" seems like some sort of pale ripoff of James Clavell's most excellent adventure book "Shogun" -- a story that can hardly be topped.

Sure, its full of the usual "white hero becomes one with the natives and falls in love with the exotic, mysterious asian chick (probably the daughter of a prince)" motif -- every movie has to have that element cuz white guys like that theme. Toss in some oriental mysticism, some "traditionalism vs. technology" tension, and it has the makings of a smash hit. Tom Cruise has to die at the end. Or the girl does. Mixed marriages rarely last in the movies (although they did in the most excellent "Shanghai Knights").

So my guess is this movie is going to be duller than potatos. I don't really care, mind you, but I wish Western film-makers could make a movie about (Japanese) samurais in their own element. That would be infinitely more fascinating than watching a white guy lose his barbarian ways.

On other fronts: first snow of the season this morning. I must say, my enthusiasm for it is not what it could be. Not ready for winter. We don't get nice fluffy piles of snow here: we usually get some combination of slush, sleet, wind and black ice. We're like Chicago but without the awesome blues clubs.

Just heard the Bush administration is denying that their recent lifting of imported steel imports was not in any way due to the massive trade sanctions the Europeans and Japanese were about to level. They assert that it was just an "independent" decision based on a dispassionate assessment of the success of the tarrifs so far. That holds about as much water as their recent reversal on allowing legal counsel to prisoners at Guantanamo (coming, as it did, on the heels of a Supreme Court decision in the matter). It holds about as much water as their claim that recent terrorism in Iraq proves how successful our Iraq policy is. Their PR is getting more and more far-fetched with every passing debacle.

I see that my last pronouncement was not taken seriously. Perhaps you thought I was fooling? Well, here's definitive proof that I, Clay Sails, am Ruler of the Entire Galaxy.

You are a survivor. You thrive among the the deadly earnest. Your life looks good on paper, yet still you keep watch the horizon for smoke. Is the Carpathia coming or not?

You stare down hardened criminals until they weep and cry your name in the dark. All they want is mercy (which is something -- perhaps everything -- you have ever known). Yet it is beyond your power to grant.

You flesh out fantastic worlds -- feverishly, in secret rooms -- for the benefit of strangers. They lick your mind like a popsickle from a summer long ago. The wood is dry and splintery, but a hint of grape remains.

You are a scribe. You steal down lost trails, tracing details too fine or fleeting for others to notice. You translate the language of fish and seedlings, patiently untangling the causeways and the downstream eddies. Your voice is the last one we want to hear.

You inhabit the small hours, reaching across oceans and deserts with words, caught between the phosphene flush and the night. You are on the edge of nowhere, but is it the ouside or the inside?

You are a tickler, able to cause pitiless machines to gasp and giggle.

You you you you.

You think you're so goddamn great.

Me, I prey on galaxies you never even knew existed. Last night, playing Galactic Civilization I snuffed out the sniveling Yor, and crushed the uppity Altarians. I reigned poison gas and murder on the warmongering Drengin, outfoxed the Torians, and reduced the Arceans to ruin. When the dust settled it was *my* starbases that ruled the galaxy, and *my* face on every coin. I pity anyone who tries to belittle (much less usurp) my newfound position as:

Ruler of the Entire Galaxy

I'm not kidding. Don't fuck with me. Consider yourself warned.

Just got back from the dentist. Mouth tastes and feels like its been soaking in roofing tar. The pain is just starting. Must get coffee...coffee can fix anything...


Maybe I'll post for real later but if not, check out True Porn Clerk Stories. The author is incredibly articulate and has fascinating insights into the customers at her porn shop.

Just odds and ends:

I got the fellowship I applied for with the Defense Department. That is, if I can pass the security clearance. Getting a clearance is a bummer process: they dig through all of your past, pester your friends and family directly, question you about your lifestyle in search of any sort of 'deviance'. Its silly, of course. The best spies are the ones who look too square to be suspect. Recruiting vast quantities of straight-as-an-arrow yes-men might look good to Jesus, but it makes for a truly one-dimensional organization, and shallowness is a very dangerous quality in secretive organizations. It tends to lead to inflexibility and structural weakness. It is a cancer. I will stamp it out by wearing hawiian shirts and flip flops every day...*if* I pass the clearance, of course.

I wonder if being an occasional member of the Green Party is a strike against me? Or being married to a foreigner. Or having friends who were born very far from Kansas. Or rooming with a deadhead. And unlike Clinton, I inhaled. Oh yes. Many times. I was following the example of many previous great Americans like George Washington, George W. Bush, and Arlo Guthrie.

But that's all behind me now. I'm reformed. I'm an absolute angel. You wouldn't recognize me, honest. I walk old ladies across the street and drape my cloak across puddles for young ladies to step on. I rescue dying earthworms in handmade baskets I weave out of recycled toilet tissue. I didn't just bring ice to the natives in Nicaragua: I brought ice cream -- Ben 'N Jerry's, no less. Cherry Garcia. I passed out blankets during the Ethiopian Famine of 83. Right after discovering a homeopathic cure for hepatitis B.

If the FBI knocks at your door (as they might do) tell 'em I'm a reformed sinner. Living in Maryland has cleansed me of my wicked ways. Tell 'em you don't know me anymore. Tell them you became Hari Krsna and went on the road as a promoter of a flea circus, that you haven't seen me in years, not since nun training at Assissi. Tell them you made me do it, whatever it was. Tell them anything they want to know as long as its the truth. They can handle it.

...

This weekend I went to B.C.'s 30th birthday party. After drinking beers awhile, playing party games, and making obligatory comments about masturbation, I was ready for: more drinking, more party games and more deep discussion about masturbation. Then somebody popped in a movie and my wife decided it was time to go home. The party was fun and B.C. and his wife are cool friends (new ones, too). Very relaxed and chill people. Still, I was ready to par-tay and watching a movie wasn't on my calendar. I was in bed by 11:00 with my party hat on and the kazoo still in my mouth. Heh.

I have to say, for the record, I'm not a big "go-to-a-party-to-watch-a-movie" kind of guy, I guess. In fact, I find that there is little more annoying at a party than a blaring TV in the background (especially if its some sort of sports game). The problem is this: for me, TV is wholly absorbing. Its relentless chattering, music, and eye-catching imagery is simply irresistable. If its on, I am physically unable to tune it out. It breaks my concentration. I.E.

Me: [at party] So as I was saying, I had my fly unzipped and [glances at TV]...uh...um...my fly...and...why in the heck is that guy in a chicken costume?

Someone Else: Is that my beer you're drinking?

[etc.]

My problem with TV and groups of people is that if I'm going to bother stopping my busy and absorbing life to stare at a flashing box, I don't want to miss parts. I don't want to try to have to piece together the show from fragmentary bits. I have to tune everyone else out and there *must* be silence. That's why TV and parties don't mix. Unless of course you have a party specifically to watch a game or a movie. Then TV is completely acceptible. Encouraged, even.

Of course, there is always the time honored compromise of turning the volume off during a party. That's slightly better, unless there are subtitles which are *absolutely* irresistable. I *must* read all subtitles instantly. The problem with leaving a TV on without sound is that, not only is the Massive Marketing Machine (MMM) still working its corruption on your unconcsious (since TV is primarily a visual medium), but, really, what's the point? People are more interesting than TV and unless you happen to live in a world where people are socializing with you on a daily basis, I say leave the box black. If the people you are with are incredibly dull, try using any of the following techniques:

Clay Sail's Top 10 Suggestions for Keeping a Party Going

1. Get everyone else to drink more.

2. Corner some poor soul near the punch bowl and start firing off hypotheticals, preferrably one's starting off with "What if..." (i.e. "What if a family of owls moved into your husband's beard?")

3. Talk very often and loudly about how "playing with oneself" is good, healthy fun.
(Alternate: discuss how one summer you had a job sculpting ass lint for a Swede)

4. Make mashies with the crab cocktail. Photograph it with a digital camera. When you run out of crab, sneak into the bathroom and photograph your ass.

5. Make regrettable noises about how Lord Lloyd George "never should have sent the boys over the top in 1915". Top it off by singing "Hail Brittania" as loud as possible.

6. Regardless of what music (or TV) is on, dance the Macarena, asking if anybody still remembers it. Don't forget to bite your lip and partially close your eyes if you gyrate. As a follow up, bring up "The Roger Rabbit", the "Smurf", the "Brass Monkey" and let the conversation naturally evolve into a discussion of underoos, Quiet Riot pins, and the horrors of velcro.

7. Cart around the crock pot of cheese dip. Offer it up for guests to smell "eyes closed". Tell them its "aromatherapy".

8. Find a buddy. Go to kitchen. Eat spices. Trade. Eat more spices.

9. Wait until somebody leaves the bathroom and then say "P.U. who farted?" as they walk by. Repeat as necessary.

10. Drink more.


Anyway, B.C. is friends with a local band called "Continuous Play". I don't think I plugged them properly when I first heard them. Maybe I did. Anyway, they absolutely rock. Its rare to hear a band play Phish effortlessly and get it right, and their own stuff is even better. Plus the guys are completely down to earth (like B.C. hisself). Continuous Play rock up and down the seaboard and are starting to get noticed, but success hasn't gotten to their heads. Give 'em a listen sometime.