It was a sunny September Sunday. The Dodgers were in a tight race. I was in loose boxers, sitting on my balcony in the hot sun with a cold beer and Vinny on the radio when I suddenly got up, put on some pants and left for…a poetry reading.

I’ve never been a particular fan of poetry. I blame this on a bad experience in high school and a dispute with an ancient mariner over the poeticism of William Carlos Williams’ “The Red Wheelbarrow.” 15 words he insisted, almost violently, were a poem, while I maintained they were a sentence.

Thus, in subsequent years, if a woman told me she wrote poetry, I saw a red flag. She may as well have lit up a cigarette; drowned infants in acid; or voted Republican. All that deep psychological meaning. Geez! Can’t you just put it in a sentence? And take off your sweater?

In truth, I’m not totally averse. My favorite poem was written by a fifth-grade classmate named Mary (at least that’s where I first heard it). “Roses are red; violets are blue; most poems rhyme; but this doesn’t.” So I get that they don’t have to rhyme. I just think it’s more fun when they do. I’ve always liked “The Road Not Taken” by Robert Frost. And I once had  an affinity for “The Passionate Shepherd to His Love” by Renaissance English poet Christopher Marlowe (1564-1593). It begins “Come live with me and be my love, and we will all the pleasures prove,” and I read it to my first wife when I picked her up at LAX to begin our new life together. She was pretty drunk at the time, but I didn’t let that deter me. When we split up a month later, i tore up the poem.

I’d met the poetry-reading hostess the week before at the West Hollywood Book Fair. She’d given me a card with an example of her work, whch she called “prose poetry.” I like the piece, and I was intrigued. Might I be a Prose Poet and not know it? The hostess’s large breasts were just an afterthought.

I arrived at Dutton’s bookstore in Brentwood a little before three. After buying the obligatory bookstore-poetry-reading coffee drink, I found a seat in the courtyard, where maybe 15 people were gathered in front of a podium and microphone. A man who looked amazingly like Jack Nicholson, including the shades, but shorter than I imagine Jack to be, was passing out flyers for his own upcoming show of poetry and stories. He was wearing black pants and a black dress jacket with eight buttons, four sets of two, and a collar reminiscent of those “funny” suits the Beatles first wore. The hostess arrived in a long black dress which neither hid nor accentuated her bosom. She moved through the growing audience shaking hands and thanking people for coming and pretended well enough to remember me when I mentioned the book fair.

During the first few presenters, I found my mind wandering, specifically to the question “Why am I here?” And not in a metaphysical sense. Poetry does little for me, and it’s roughly the same with large breasts. But I perked up a bit when the third poet was a thoroughly lovely, wonderfully braless small-breasted woman in a hot-pink tank top. Even she couldn’t hold my attention. Well, not with words. Hers was not “prose poetry,” but what is–to me–standard: a jumble of associated and/or disassociated thoughts and images formed from words, phrases and oh-could-it-really-be a full sentence, all delivered in the poetic, supercilious, docu-rageaholic passion voice. Geez!

The opener was much the same in style, if not eye appeal. A graying Jerry Garcia lookalike, he delivered a lively rant on the failures of humanity, with particular respect to the war in Iraq. Heartfelt and meaningful to be surel; but I’d already watched Face the Nation and Meet the Press that morning. On a sunny Sunday, after the Dodgers had tied it when I parked my car, I didn’t need to be reminded that we’re basically screwed.

Between Jerry Garcia and the Hot Pink was a well-toned, bespectacled, thirtysomething man who had already mildly frightened me with his light blue T-shirt tucked into elastic gym shorts which left lots of space between their end and the top of his black socks. He looked like a survivalist on vacation. He introduced his poem as being from his book, a stapled pamphlet of which he had many in a clear plastic bag. I have no idea what his poem was about, but the intensity of his delivery made me even happier I was sitting several rows behind him. Before and after his reading, Intensity Man constantly seemed on the watch, whipping his head from left to right, like a squirrel. He enthusiastically applauded every presenter, cupping his hands for volume. After one women finished a tale of running from an abusive husband, Intensity Man shouted, “Yeah, let’s kick domestic violence in the nuts!” I was careful to avoid eye contact with him.

Amongst these Ginsburg wannabees was a fellow I took to be the first “prose poet” of the day. He began saying “Batwoman is gay,” and then proceeded to make several salient points why this fact is irrevelant to effective crime fighting. But why was this not an essay?

The hostess and Jack took turns MC-ing. A couple more poets did the usual not-much-for-me, and I started to feel I was being punished. And it was voluntary. I was plotting my escape route when I noticed, not far from the stage and clearly in view of all, Jack, perusing a newspaper—while a woman was poeticizing. How rude, I thought. I wondered how he’d feel if positions were reversed, and I considered asking him on my way out. But then one of the most attractive women in the crowd took the stage. I was mildly disappointed to learn she was a happily married mom. But I liked her reading, an entertaining piece on a high-school crush, and most definitely prose. Because she said so.

Then Jack took the stage and introduced himself. He was the best, in that he was the worst. Again, I have no idea what the poem was about, because the delivery was so intense. I couldn’t see what he was reading from, but it sounded like a literal line reading, one at a time, no matter if it was the middle of a sentence. A word, a pause; three words, a pause. And ever so dramatic! It was the very vision of Shatneresque, the Captain Kirk years.

There was a lesbian poet (isn’t there always?), and then Jack gave a gushing intro to a tall, youngish fellow who looked like he’d just gotten up. He hosts a poetry night in a bar, “which is where I think all poems should be written, in bars,” declared Jack, making me like him for the first time. Even better was the accuracy of Jack’s intro. This bar-host poet drew me in with words of sex, drugs and rock-and-roll. He even told a poem about a blunt. I went up to him after the show and got the address of the bar.

Another lesbian poet, then “the dean of the L.A. poetry scene”—who knew?—and then it was over. I wasn’t sorry, because it had been two hours, after all. But I also wasn’t sorry I’d come.

Though alarmed was I, en route to my home; as my rhythms internal beat much like a poem; that I’d heard; recently.

Dodgers won in the bottom of the ninth on Nomar’s grand slam. I saw it on the news.

One of the great pleasures of being me is being pleasantly conscious at 1:30 in the morning and suddenly finding that TCM is just starting Paddy Chayefsky’s Network (not having to work in the morning helps). And I marvel at the story’s disturbing divination. Robert Osborne even calls it prophetic in his intro. And here we are.

There are occasional flashes of hope against hear-less leaders Bush, Cheney and Rumsfield, the 666 triumvirate; but I think only Klaatu can save us now. And we didn’t listen the first time. I wonder what the triumvirate’s goals really are. How much food, clothing and shelter do they need? My American Dream has become surviving until the Apocalypse, which, scientists say, may be a mere decade away, nature-wise. And I blame those three. And me. It probably doesn’t help that I sit here and watch Bonanza on TV Land. But I don’t send kids to die for…what? I recently saw a documentary making a case that the U.S. government was behind 9/11 (loosechange911.com). I’m not saying the case is strong or weak; but it’s provocative.

Sunday I’m at the West Hollywood Book Fair, performing with Story Salon at The Robertson Scene at 2 pm and in the Story Salon booth (#41) from 3 on, and certainly some before. For now, it’s another glorious 4:00 am on my 54th birthday, and I’m going to Tommy’s to celebrate. Oprah has my book and my cel…for eight months now. Still, I’m declaring today an “Anything Can Happen” day!

Yes, I’m 54, and caressing an E-ticket.

In need (of?), I visited my therapist from some years past. She said my life is right on track…if I were a college sophomore…in 1983. As I actually was a college sophomore in 1971, I can’t help but see progress.

And tonight I was called “The Best Ex-Boyfriend Ever” by a woman who I believe meant it. Couple that with my concurrent title of “Best Ex-Husband Ever” (by a woman who has four) and I think that tells us something, also positive (mostly).

It is a glorious time. There’s a full moon; it’s warm enough for a t-shirt and shorts; it’s quarter to three; there’s no one in the place except you and me. Almost. I am on my second-floor balcony between two luxuriously symbolic (West) Hollywood palm trees enjoying a smoke, some Jack and the moon. And I am thinking how thoroughly comfortable I am in this moment–because I have unchecked Lotto numbers, so I can still dream the dream–when a clearly intoxicated (can one be clearly intoxicated?) man staggers my way, muttering to himself, sometimes loudly. He does not see me as he passes under me. He stops for a few seconds where I can’t see him, because of the new growing palms; fortunately I do not hear any telltale sounds as he is stopped. He moves into the middle of the street, spreads his legs and bends over, like he’s mooning east. Fearing he’s a danger to himself, if not others, I call the sheriff. By the time they arrive, he’s staggered on (which I’d dutifully reported in a follow-up call, one of the oh-so-rare times I’ve followed up lately). In the meantime, there was this brief but highly audible exchange between two single males, one walking maybe 30 feet in front of the other:

“Well why don’t you just go on home?”

“Shut up. Is that because you want to follow me to my room?”

This is unusual only in that it’s mid-week.

So the fall TV season looms, and it is the first autumn in the last 25 that I am have no professional connection to it. OhMiGawd, I’ve seen none of the pilots! How ever shall I live? Actually, it feels great, apart from the unemployed aspect. Speaking of which,…well, let’s not. It doesn’t please the college sophomore in me.

Despite much good feedback from solid sources, I still have trouble accepting, let alone treating, myself as a writer. What’s up with that? I asked the therapist, whom I love dearly. But she said I was supposed to provide the answer. How unfair is that? All I wanted was the answers to all my problems in 50 minutes (or less, because I’d skipped breakfast). The college sophomore wouldn’t commit to a return visit, claiming he could find a/the responsible adult within me to take charge, possibly through self-hypnosis.

“Yeahhhhhhhhh,” said the therapist, whom I love dearly.

Well, there has been a smattering of progress. My apartment hasn’t been this neat since I was married. The e-bay, in addition to netting a month’s rent plus, cleared out a lot of space. And I threw away my 80-or-so pounds of customized pornography, practically without looking. Take that, college boy! Not that I’ve ever paid attention, but Virgos (I’ll turn 54 on the 15th; send money[orders]) are supposed to crave organization. I’ve craved but seldom achieved. With every newly ordered countertop and bookcase space, I’m that much closer. Could it be that all I’ve ever needed was simply to make sure that every pen and pencil is in its place, and those that no longer work are thrown out, no matter how cool they once appeared to be (like the pen with George Jetson on it; hmmm…e-bay?)? With order established, I will be better able to pursue my lifelong dream of being an over-50 Oscar nominee. Oooh, I feel The Responsible Adult at work; don’t you (rhetorical)?  

Time to check that ol’ devil moon. It is a glorious time.

It’s taking me some time to understand just whom I’m here to please; both in this blog and on this planet.

Oregon was great. I saw my good friend Miss Lewin, to whom I owe a giant public apology. In my contribution to The Story Salon Big Book of Stories, I mention she has a bachelor’s degree and a teaching credential. In fact, Miss Lewin has her Masters in education. She also is a master at the e-bay and helped turn my trash into treasures for others. After two solid days of sorting and photographing show-biz ephemera, I headed north to Portland, where I had a reunion with a man I’d met 36 summers ago as I hitchhiked from Tahoe to NYC. I was 17; he was eight. His stepfather picked me up in Fallon, Nevada and ended up putting me, and a family of four strangers, up for the night at his ranch at remote Eastgate, Nev. The story is in the book (”Steve’s Great America” pg. 25). However in writing it, memory didn’t serve well, in that I remembered the kind man with his stepsons’ last name (Fortay) rather than his own. So another giant public apology to the late Lee Raphun. I tracked down Lee’s son Rick through the Fallon newspaper. I’d really appreciate your taking a look at the second of two articles, as it gives a bigger and better picture of a man who appears to have been as good a man in his life as he was to me for the less than 24 hours that I knew him. I met Rick at a truckstop in a suburb east of Portland. I followed him to his home and met his wife and two kids and his childhood buddy Kirk, who is still a close friend. I had a great time as Rick and Kirk told stories about growing up in and around Fallon and Eastgate. I am hoping to hook up with Rick again when he visits Fallon in a month or so.

Driving through Oregon, I saw three deer by the roadside…one of them alive.

The e-bay has gone moderately well, but not enough to where I won’t soon need to make a decision regarding my “future.” My favorite hotel in Laughlin was literally giving away rooms ($22 for a room, two buffets, a Colorado River cruise and two free nights in December. Literally giving them away!), so I got my Route 66 fix last week. Saw my good friend Charmaine the bartender (also featured in Why Stevie Can’t Date!) and picked up some local information about jobs, rents, living; and the catalog for Mojave Community College, where they teach poker dealing, conveniently at the Bullhead City campus. Much like Homer Simpson, poker dealing has been my lifelong dream.

Some words about TV: I watched the Emmys mostly out of habit, though I did skip the aggravating (save for Kathy Griffin) red-carpet shows, which I found hilariously covered at the Ent. Wkly. site. I liked the show as a whole, Conan, the tributes, half the awards (hooray Daily Show, 24, Andre Braugher; boo repeats of Mullally, Danner and Shaloub). Since getting laid off from my “industry job,” I’ve found I care much less about TV. And I like it. I don’t want to care. I think that’s why I’m hesitant to start job hunting here. Because TV is what I know. And what I did. And I don’ wanna do it anymore.

Or much of anything else, it seems.

I’m rethinking my partial cablectomy; like I should have gone total.

Gee, I wonder how often that will fit here?

Thanks to the comment from reader Mike (do I know you?), my cable-ectomy was a partial instead of a full. Though now devoid of F/X, Comedy Central and Bravo (God luv ya Kathy Griffin!), $12/mo. “broadcast only” still gives me enough to detour my life—including six-count-em-six Spanish-language channels. I’d like to report a decline in my TV sets’ time of operation (yeah, two; three with the 5-in. b&w in the bathroom); but I don’t think it’s true.

Which is another reason why today I’m off to Oregon, where, in addition to escaping my apartment, I am going to see, for the first time, its storied coast (and possibly camp! I have a tent!); and I am going to get E-bay counsel and tutoring from my old friend Miss Lewin, a Salem-suburb resident who’s still the holder of the world record for how long a woman has lived with me (11 weeks). My car is packed with such priceless items as a leather-bound, autographed copy of the Seinfeld script “The Contest”; and a large plastic driving/coffee cup surrounded by Paris and Nicole. For years I’ve thought, “I can’t sell this stuff. It might be worth something.” Well, the time has come. Wish me luck. Better yet, buy something. Who doesn’t need a set of King of the Hill coasters?

On to the road.

It suddenly occurs to me that could be construed in a variety of ways. But this is not about that, or that (though in all honesty, it very well could be).

Last week, I shaved my head and ended–mutually–a one-year relationship (apparently we both forgot to read my book). Today I’m canceling my cable. I think something’s going on with me. Finally.

The idea (re: cable) came from my ex-wife, a Navy Reservist who recently returned from a 10-month deployment to Kuwait. Before she left, she canceled her satellite TV and now finds no reason to reconnect. Now, she was never a regular TV viewer to begin with and had the satellite mainly for her kids, now grown and gone. I, however, have been more closely connected to the “vast wasteland” (anybody remember that quote? Wow, you’re old!). My father worked on TV; my mother worked in TV; and so did I, in a sense, for 24 years.

The idea of going without cable initially seemed as preposterous as not finishing everything on my restaurant plate, a concept advocated by the now-ex girlfriend (not a reason we split). But the truth is–as women (especially my exes) will so often admit–they’re right. My stomach hurts from too much food. My head hurts from too much TV. The closer (oh, crap, there’s another show I’ll miss!) has been the past week’s extraordinary analysis of The Life and Times of Mel Gibson. I don’t need this. What I do need is online. Jon Stewart. Keith Olbermann. Stephen Colbert. CNN. And on radio. Al Franken. Stephanie Miller. NPR.

As I type this, I am fighting the urge to see which episode of The Dick Van Dyke Show is airing right now on TV Land. I Love Lucy follows. I know this because I’m unemployed. And undisciplined. But in a couple of clicks, I can find out (”Pink Pills and Purple Parents”: “Pills cause chaos in the Petrie household.” Zippity do dah).

I’ll still have TV. I’m going to have to search some boxes for rabbit ears, in the hope that I didn’t toss ‘em. I’m not thinking about Rescue Me or The Shield or Saved, which is produced by my friend Joseph Dougherty http://handwrittentheatre.blogspot.com/. I’m thinking TV has been like a needle in my arm for much too long. Please wax rhapsodic on your own with the metaphors. I have to walk down to the cable office because their ”system is currently overloaded” with customer-service calls.   

This will be a mighty experience. But it feels good. Well, the decision. Pardon me while I carry it out.

Welcome to my blog;
Built with me in mind.

In order to save time, before my initial visits to the four therapists I’ve seen over the years, I brought in an Opening Statement, in the hope that he/she could essentially cut to the chase, fix whatever and get me on my way in, I was thinking, two or three visits. At the end of my first-ever session, the doctor said, “We’ll need more time.”

And here we have it.

Nevertheless, as a potential reader, you should know Where I Stand. As I attempt to do so—after years of sitting—I shall give you updates.

“Who am I? Why am I here?” – Ret. Vice Admiral James Stockdale (1923-2005)

Here’s what I have so far:
When I was four, all my friends were five. They all got to go to kindergarten. I did not, so I made up invisible/imaginary friends to talk to. My mistake was in telling my real friends about them.

I still talk to myself, often when I’m outside on my balcony (truly once sat upon by Rebecca DeMornay and Tom Cruise back in that day). I try to keep the lip movement to a minimum out there, because it is a second-floor balcony, so I can easily be seen by neighbors if not heard by passers-by below. It is a peaceful, residential street with a fair amount of foot traffic. Many dog owners and attractive women, often both.

I am optimistic about my own immediate future, but pessimistic about the future of the planet as a whole. I don’t know if George Bush is stupid or evil or both, but I believe underhandedness put him where he is today (both times, and probably in Texas too). I believe his mother is smart and evil, and that this is the most abominable administration in history. I believe that because of these abominable people, what Bob Costas says about major-league baseball now applies to the United States of America: “It’s not the game we grew up with.” I’m starting to give consideration to the crackpots who believe that all will end within the next 10 years. I’m just hoping to stay around long enough to see it (hence the plea for health insurance on the Home page).

I believe America’s fascination with celebrity is also contributing to the impending Apocalypse. But I do subscribe to Entertainment Weekly and often read more than half of it. Other than that, I am “too hip to care.” I will be 54 years old in September, and find great solace in the fact that Jack Benny was 56 when he made his TV-series debut.
I like the idea of The Golden Rule, but I don’t give money to every homeless person I see, and I’m not really inclined to take one in.

I believe in Al Gore, Michael Moore and Shirley MacLaine, even if they don’t believe in each other. I believe in Jon Stewart, Al Franken and the Dixie Chicks. And Toby Keith (it’s possible). I believe women are just about as crazy as you can get. But I believe men are worse. I believe in UFOs and that if I ever get to Stonehenge, it will be a personal Magical Mystery Tour.

These are a few of my favorite things:

Long ribbons of lonely two-lane blacktop in the desert
Long ribbons of lonely two-lane blacktop in the mountains
Long ribbons of lonelier graded-but-unpaved roads in the desert and mountains
Poker
Bull riding (as a fan)
Earth women
Cheap buffets
Nevada, which has all of the above
Blue states
Altered states
The fact I can stay up as late as I want, and eat ice cream if I choose

So, I’ve been out of work since January, writing some and enjoying unemployment. That’s now run out, and I’m running low on dough. Can’t wait to see what happens next. I sent a copy of the book to Oprah; she’ll probably call tomorrow.

Thank you for getting this far. Go now and write complimentary things and live your life well and check back here periodically and spread the word about this site and my book so I can eventually get health insurance.

Check back here for more helpful tips for better living.