Tell Me Everything

Just got word that Brock didn’t actually get eaten by a bear in North Korea (Thank God), but he was actually felled by a rare illness called diverticulosis (beware gross (but SFW) picture at link). I guess you get this by eating an all-protein diet, or, in Brock Lesnar case, other humans.

It’s true! He admitted it to me one night when we were camping in the Quetico (Canadian boundary waters). He eats the flesh of other human beings claiming that’s why he’s so strong. Hey, who am I to judge?

Some things are too good to be true - free, vintage jazz records until the cows come home is one of them. My favorite music blog has been shut down. I wonder if “Smooth,” the owner and sharer of his Jazz World, even got to say goodbye. I wonder if someday they’ll come for this blog. One never knows…

I wish I could like a tribute to Smooth, but there’s nothing left of his site other than a Blogger redirect page. Here’s an old post where I was really crowing about him.

RIP Smooth. May the sun continue to rise on your Jazz World, wherever it may be…

Is it weird that I had anxiety dreams the morning before a group of gentlemen got together and had a schvitz? Is it strange that I put hours and hours into designing a logo, writing official invitations (mailed both snail and e-), designing, printing and laminating Membership Cards? I spent friday night making a Beet and Farro salad and baking pita bread. The amount of thought and effect I put into a small group of friends getting together and having a heat was astounding even to me.

But I regret nothing. The day was a huge success. Every hour I put in to the planning and execution was returned to me by a factor of ten in the body. I left absolutely jellied from perfect heat and fellowship. I slept like a king.

For more details, check out my sauna blog Good Heat

and of course you know we on the Face-book dot org.

In this episode, maybe I get myself? How? Why? Hope it fits the bill, Johnny. A letter to you to be drafted this week.

Such a tricky thing, picking a guru. Used to be a little easier, I think. First of all, there weren’t quite so many. India, Tibet and other far-flung places were still a mystery. And if all else failed, you could just see what Ginsberg was doing and follow his lead.

Plus, now we’ve got the same problem that I had with studying at the Improv Olympic: You get it second-hand. I studied with guys who “studied with Del,” and crowed about it like it was the be-all. But it wasn’t for me. I didn’t study with Del. I studied with guys who studied with Del.

I’m looking for a real up-and-comer - a fringey spiritual leader with a whole new take on one of the classics. But not a shyster. And not the seftico. I want the real deal. Also, I’m hoping the in the new guru/student relationship, it’s truly guru/student, not guru/disciple or guru/follower. Is that even possible?

We’re really up against it here. Maybe Chuck Palahniuk has a guru he likes. Seems like the type, I think. I’ll write and ask him. Hey, the last time I did, he write me back and sent me all sorts of cool stuff (stuffed lamb he dubbed my “power lamb,” a CD of short stories, candy, a name tag he signed, etc). But that’s also because he has this thing he does once in a while where you write him letters and he promises to write back. Next time he does it, I encourage you to take part. It’s the best experience you’ll ever have writing to a stranger.

Had an engaging dinner with Aunt Christy and family the other night. She gave me a lot to think about. Thinking - I’ve had neither the time nor inclination to do too much of it lately, and I can’t say that I was glad for the opportunity, especially since it made me question the validity and purpose of this blog.

She made the well-supported argument that our increasingly on-line lives are leading to an overall greater state of true isolation. Despite the fact that now we can see pictures of friends babies and video chat with random South Koreans should we like, the truth is that we’re sitting in front of our screens alone.

This blog in particular serves no purpose other than as a tube through which I shout into the abyss. I guess it’s nice to have record of all the noise, but ultimately, here we are, alone and quiet, bones unrattled.

Nonetheless, I have to say that I get a minor kick out of it, and if nothing else, it’s a good habit and helps keep me half literate. That book I’m working on? Not happening. Blogging, though, at least I can say I’m doing that, right?

And plus, where else can I bag on Siriano with such vitriol and have it be an appropriate conversation. The layers of irony, the linkage, the picture posting. It all works. It’s just so god damn lonely.

SIDE BAR: A thundering thank you to John Robertson, Jonathan Stockton, Becca Jones and Uncle Steve, all of whom took (and I pray continue to take) the time to write me back real, tactile, interesting and intimate letters. I know you and love you better for it, and thank you again.

Letter writing, while similarly solitary, requires a baring of the soul that shames our friend Internet. There’s nothing that you would ever post on Facebook or Blogspot, no email you’d ever write, no iChat that you could ever have that you’d ever even bother to write by hand or machine, print out, stamp and mail. Letter writing requires your very best and most intimate thinking. It opens you up not only to the recipient of your letter, but to yourself.

If anyone else would like to be pen pals, it would be my distinct pleasure. And anyone who’s ever tried it with me before can attest that I always write back.

Had a great dream that I vowed to remember and report on the other night. A vow that was seriously challenged by the descent of a police helicopter that lit up the houses across the canyon for forty five minutes while Elizabeth and I watched and Otis slept soundly. They ended up focusing on Finn and Emily’s house, a college friend who moved in right behind us and who’s currently raising two small children. We were more than a little nervous when the police came on the loudspeaker instructing “Residents of XXX Rainbow, come out with your hands up.”

Got the report from Finn the next day that the bust was a bust. Someone had reported hearing gun shots. We were up changing a diaper at the time, and I know what they were talking about, but it didn’t sound like gunshots to us. E thought it sounded like “a car door slamming,” while I thought it had more of a “transformer blowing” quality to it. But not gunshots. But apparently, one of our dear neighbors thought differently, and thus we were treated to the full force of the LAPD search and discover nothing brigade.

So I forgot all about my dream until this morning, and now because I made a vow, I have to report. I know that other people’s dreams are a huge snore to read, but trust me on this one (I’ll keep it short).

*

In the dream, I was reading a report about Fred Willard’s trial in the LA Times. Don’t know what he was on trial for, but he was super pissed and had decided to defend himself in court. The report read like this:

Willard: So big [expletive] deal! It’s like [mimes being in the shower, discovering that he has breasts, becomes extremely excited, then quickly returns to normal.]

*

I don’t know if it’s really that funny, but I woke up laughing, and that’s always a treat. Thanks, dreams!

It’s no small feat to work yourself up from a guy writing radio ads for an online gambling concern to a Super Bowl ad featuring your childhood heroes (85 Bears) and directed by your comedy heroes of adulthood (Tim and Eric). I take my hat off and doff it, good sir, to you.

Here’s the full version, with the extended Richard Dent sax solo.

An entry from one of my favorite books of all time: The Thesaurus of American Slang, by Robert Chapman.

First saw this book at Liz Moore’s house when I was in junior high and was couldn’t believe that you could publish (and own!) a book with so many synonyms for “fuck.”

Becca got me the copy I own in New York at the Strand. I must have been on some kick about how it was the greatest book ever. Because mostly what you get are slang dictionaries, and those are for the lames. If you don’t know what a slang means, you can’t learn it from a book. You have it learn it from the streets.

Also: Even though the copyright is 1989, the slang is from twenty or more years prior. It’s just so…groovy.

Anyway, here’s the entry for cool. Geetz Romo, take a note.

cool

1 adj Going well; in a good condition, as in “I told the host we thought the party was cool”
all there, A-OK, cooking, copacetic, ducky, fonky, funky, grad, groovy, having one’s stuff wired, hitting on all six, hotsy-totsy, hunky, hunky-dory, in good shape, in great shape, in kelter, in kilter, in town, in whack, mellow, neat, OK, okey-dokey, rosy, sharp, toast, together, up to scratch, up to snuff, up to the mark

2 adj Aloof and uninvolved; deliberately disingaged; totally relaxed
beat, blip, chill, cooled-out, down, far out, fresh, gone, groovy, heavy, hep, hip, ice, illen, loose, loose as a goose, looseygoosey, mellow, nervous, out pretty scary, rat-fuck, turned on, way out, weird, wiggy, wild, zero cool

3 SEE GREAT
4 SEE LAID-BACK

The jingle at the end of the spot makes the purchase of a Handjob more than worthwhile. I talked to Matt about this venture, and you’d be delighted to know not only did they turn a profit with the Handjob, they made five figures on it.

Nothing says I like you…