Man with what appeared to be a bloody chain saw let into U.S.: “On April 25, Gregory Despres arrived at the U.S.-Canadian border crossing at Calais, Maine, carrying a homemade sword, a hatchet, a knife, brass knuckles and a chain saw stained with what appeared to be blood. U.S. customs agents confiscated the weapons and fingerprinted Despres.

Then they let him into the United States.”

Optical Illusions and Visual Phenomena Fun, fun, fun.

I mean, headache, headache, headache….

St. Petersburg Times: “Jillette, 50, and his wife Emily, 39, welcomed Moxie CrimeFighter Jillette on Friday, according to publicist Glenn Schwartz. It was the first child for the couple, who married last year.”

Spelled like the Brits would, because it’s a dry and black sense of humor that us colonials are apt to miss.

I’m reasonably certain that I’ve figured out a lot of things that I’ve been searching for the answers to over the last few weeks. It’s been odd, suddenly having all sorts of knowledge that I’ve sought for a long time — not the least reason being that I’m painfully aware that the knowledge has no immediate application. I don’t know that I expected anything different, but I guess at least some small part of me was hoping that knowledge gained would somehow make everything better.

Or at least make everything make sense. But that’s the furthest thing from the truth. At best, things are as murky as they always have been; at worst, things make even less sense, and are a little bleaker.

More bleak?

Grammar nazi is taking a nap right now.

The only natural conclusion that I can come to is that there is no miracle waiting around the corner for me; any change will have to be self-propelled. Not that I didn’t know this before — I did. It’s just another way of saying that a little more innocence has died; a little more realism has crept into the space I used to reserve for dreams.

Le sigh, as the French would say.

Those fuckers, with their berets and duck liver and wineries.

Speaking of wine, I’m on the wagon for a while. Well, maybe not on the wagon, straight up with a Coke back — more neat, I think. No more shots for a while, and no more pounding Red Bull and anything. And given that Woodchuck is turning my gut to a bloody pulp, and everything else I drink is utterly neutering to my already sad public image….

Yes, Saturday night into Sunday morning was a not-so-sober sobering experience. I learned that you should NOT cap off twenty four hours (11 1/2 hours behind the wheel, 3 hours asleep, and the rest mingling with long-lost family) with a session of heroic binge drinking. Not a good idea, if you value your dignity.

I used to, but I think I gave it all away this weekend.

Le sigh, part II: The Revenge.

Why do I work a billion jobsand never rest enough? Because it’s what I know.

And because I really want to be rich, as much as I wish I could be non-materialistic.

I’m standing outside the Pepper Place last night. It’s intermission time during the “Evening For Adults with Shel Silverstein” as put on by TNT. It’s a good collection of shorts — the easiest way to keep me entertained, by the way — with a good group of actors. Not brilliant, not mind-boggling, but certainly enjoyable. The main reason I’m there is also the exception to that last statement: Melissa, my ex-wife, is quite possibly one of the best actors I’ve ever known, and in many ways one of the best that I can think of outside of my personal contact sphere. The two scenes she’s in are show-stealers, and this is not an uncommon occurance — I’ve heard this from many people about many shows.

And I’m overcome with a little bit of sadness, because I had that and let it go (to objectify my ex for a moment). It’s something that a lot of my friends won’t let me forget, something my parents wouldn’t let go for a long time — something that I won’t let myself forget, too often. I will say that no matter what my frame of mind, I believe that she’s the best “significant other” I’ve ever had, the closest I’ve ever come to what I ultimately want. And there are times when I feel way too lonely, times that I’m convinced beyond a shadow of doubt that I made the worst mistake of my life by letting her go, that I pretty much committed (in my rather non-religious book, at least) the ultimate sin.

And then there are times like now, times that I regret that things didn’t work out, that we couldn’t make it work, that we had to work at it. But it’s for the best; a lot of good came out of it. I’ve been forced to examine myself more deeply, to dig toward the roots of myself, of my Self. I’ve gotten some good writing out of it. She’s returned to acting, which is quite possibly the best thing that she will ever do — and a gift to those who see her, as well.

I’m cycling really badly the past few days, from manic to depressive and back. Last night is a great example. Rapid cycling is a scary thing to me; it’s awfully close to hysterics, and the only time that I feel totally out of control of my bipolar disorder. It’s the only time I feel like my disorder has me, instead of vice versa.

Somehow this leads to thinking of Daniel. I had talked to Melissa two nights ago on the phone, one of those “we really should talk more often” conversations in which way too much is discussed in way too short a period. And I filled her in on the weird place losing her and Daniel in the same six months left me. She suggests that I practice opening up to people more, and it occurs to me that it’s not opening up that I have a problem with. It’s the futility of opening up to most people.

Why do we love who we love? Why do we trust who we trust? Why do we respect who we respect? Why are some people inescapable, and others you lose all too soon?

And so last night, outside the Pepper Place, I realize that one of the biggest draws about Daniel over fifteen or seventeen years was Big Ideas. Through all the bullshit, overcoming all of the traits that he has that I don’t like, beating out all the things that didn’t work about the friendship — what kept Daniel at the top of my most important people list was the fact that I could talk to him about all the billions of things that run through my head, the abstract ideas, the get-rich-one-day schemes, musical ideas, film ideas, story ideas, feelings, emotions — and he didn’t just listen. He didn’t just respond. He responded in such a way that — in agreement or not — my ideas were forced to evolve. He was a sounding board, but one that reflected the acoustics back in a new way. It was hearing from a fresh perspective. It was looking through a billion funhouse mirrors.

I don’t know if this is clear at all, or totally incomprehensible. But there was something unique about our interaction on so many things. It’s not based on agreement, or disagreement, or commonalities (maybe that last one, a little bit). The only thing that comes to mind in Analogy Land is a pace runner, someone who runs just a bit ahead of or behind a track runner to keep them moving forward all the time.

And that’s what’s missing from my life. A sounding board that reflects things in new ways to me, that forces me to keep moving forward. And to me, that’s a lot — because my mind is always racing, and if I don’t get these thoughts out, they fester in my head. And if they don’t move forward, evolve, then what good are they?

I have vivid pictures of my head exploding. Like SCANNERS, only less funny.

—–

A brief sidenote detour: my email horoscope just arrived. And it says this:

“You’re not used to grappling with someone who’s your intellectual equal, but admit it: It’s kind of exciting. Turning this competition to cooperation might be even more of a thrill.”

Somewhere out in Emailworld, there’s a really stupid person reading this exact same mail. And that amuses me.

—–

Something I realized in the shower this morning.

And stop that. I do more than soap up and self-gratify in the morning.

HAH! Did you throw up a little, in your mouth?

Something I realized in the shower this morning is that I’m a very fortunate person. I’ve known a lot of really talented people in my life — not just known, but come into close contact with and been liked or loved by them. I’m in a band with one of the most giftedly creative musical people I’ve ever known, and a really strong jack-of-all-trades with a good feel for networking. My friend David in Baltimore is a brilliant actor and one of the most charismatic front-person (musically) you’ll ever meet. Daniel’s got a brilliant ear and, often, an outside-the-box approach to music. Jessica’s a wonderfully creative visual artist. Melissa’s acting.

And it’s sad to have let so many of those people go. David’s in Baltimore and we rarely get a chance to speak, much less visit (we’re both of the starving artist variety). Jessica and Daniel have got personality traits that I just can’t cope with, and while that’s sad, my brain creates worlds in which they were able to overcome those issues and life is golden. Melissa and I are still friends, but you can’t ever go back comfortably once you do what I did, so we’ll never be as close as I’d hope in an ideal world.

But maybe that’s okay? I mean, of course it is, on some levels. It has to be okay, because that’s the way it is. Period.

So it goes.

But maybe it’s better than okay, too. There’s a song lyric: “Maybe departure’s good / makes room for more.”

Not sure where all this is going. Just trying to keep my head from fissuring.

Urban Legends Reference Pages: Liger: ”
As noted above (in text that seems to have been taken directly from a February 2005 Daily Mail article), Hercules was the result of an accident rather than deliberate breeding. He is three years old, stands 10 feet tall on his hind legs, and weighs about 1,000 lbs. (At maturity he is expected to reach 12 feet in length and weight about 1,250 lbs.) He eats about 20 lbs. of meat (beef or chicken) per day, and he can consume up to 100 lbs of food in one sitting. “

PowerPlay 5.1 Pro-Media Chair: “5 Phase-aligned Satellite Speakers
Powered 10� Subwoofer
505 Watt RMS 6 Channel Amplifier
5.1 Dolby Digital, DTS 96/24, Dolby Pro Logic II Decoding
THX Certification
6 Inputs, 2 Digital, 4 Analog
Headphone Output
Powered Tactile Transducer”

Not to sound bitter, but…

I’m looking at the City Stages lineup, and I’m noticing that a lot of the local folk that are slated to play this year are the same people that play year after year after year — not necessarily the biggest or most popular, either.

Let’s call them the best connected.

And this shouldn’t surprise me, and honestly doesn’t, but still…

Still.

I’ve played City Stages twice now — once with Full Moon Blanket, once with the Exhibit(s). And both times it was a blast, even if both times were the opening slots for the given day, meaning no crowd (no one shows up that early; just the way it goes), blistering heat, etc. And it’s great fun to play through a big sound system, and to have a huge stage upon which to run about and make Rawk Star Faces, but the main reason we played — we didn’t get paid, and I understand this to be the case with local acts in general — was exposure.

Not much of that happening at noon on Sunday. Or Saturday, for that matter.

Argh. Why am I bitching about this? It’s old news. It’s not changing anytime in my lifetime. It’s the way of the world, for that matter.

But it still sucks…

You know what’s fun?

Waking up every thirty minutes to vomit.

You know what’s more fun?

Spending the dawn hours vomiting blood.

I’m pretty sure that something is not well inside my guts.

But I feel fine now. So how ’bout them apples?

Oh, shit. Shouldn’t have thought of solid food…