Wednesday, March 30, 2005

Old Time Avatar

Expectations surely flow,
When you know youre getting old.
New generations come and go;
Walk the walk; do what youre told.

Bloody knuckles,
Learn your creeds,
Hey motherfuckers:
get ready for Phase three.

Thursday, March 24, 2005

Good Christ, where did this all come from? The heads descended upon my little bungalow with a vengence, with something to prove... They are the new batch. And I put them all to sleep. Take care, little ones. And don't dilute yourselves in the thought that you can stand up to the Original O.G. D-Boys. It will happen this way each and every time you get too big for your britches.

Tuesday, March 22, 2005

Did we really...?

Did we really drink that much? Did we really smoke that much? We did too much, too much.

We've been doing it for years.

I must be getting wiser...

Tuesday, March 15, 2005

The Anatomy of Melancholy part 2

Friend or Foe,
You never know.
Conditional Friends;
Make no amends.
"I will always be there,"
They like to say:
When in all actuallity
They will abandon you one day.

Monday, March 14, 2005

journal entry, 3-14, late

The Albuquerque International Sunport (with the snow falling outside in chunks from the grey sky) is where the revelations hit me: I need to step into the 21st Century. A cell phone is no longer enough. I need a lap top – preferably an Apple. I also need an IPod or an MP3 player or a small device that holds a million songs. I also need a PDA or a "hand held" or an organizer that will double as my second brain to keep all my little appointments and meetings in one electronic drawer, safe and sound and accessible when I need it. Pencil and paper are no longer enough. Paperback books for entertainment are passé. The internet has replaced the glossies. Earbuds are the new payphones. If the folks at the Albuquerque International Sunport are wired in, then by God, what the fuck am I doing using a damn chisel and stone?

I am a caveman. At least I’m a caveman trying to look cool.

I’m standing there in the B line, wearing my cool black sneakers, my red conversation t-shirt, my new black dinner jacket that Dad scored second hand, and my new briefcase courtesy of Mom. I’ve got my messy LA hair and my cell phone. I’m important. I feel important. I AM IMPORTANT.

I’m no longer from this LAND. This Land of Enchantment. I’m too “West Coast” for all this. This is just a novelty for me.

“I’ve going to the office once I land and then I have a dinner meeting in Orange County.”

There. Was that important enough for you?

That feels better. That little validation. That little self assurance that when this big fish lands on the west coast, he’ll be just another cod hitting the walls of his private, wheeled fish tank on the 405 – stopping and going, stopping and going.

It’s no matter, I think, that when I’m here, I’m really there, or that when I’m there I’m really here. The world has shrunk so that it doesn’t even matter where your eyes opened and where your eyes will close. Times zones mean nothing. Weather systems and climates mean nothing. Hell, smiles and frowns are the same when you’re out there, trying to fell important.

What really is important is that love that you can’t put on paper or in your paperback or in your IPod or you laptop or your cell phone or your cool new jacket. No. None of that fits anywhere in your life because it is too big for you. Too immense for you to measure or hold or grasp. All of it is too much, too much.

But go ahead and be a man. Go ahead and conquer the world while you can. Nothing is stopping you but you.

If you could just bottle all that up and drink it. How good you would feel. …How very good you would feel...

These are the Mondays of our Lives...

Right back into the grind we go, hearts afflutter and minds veiled in thickly hung draperies. Wake up, take a shower, eat some breakfast, get in the car and drive, drive, drive just to sit, sit, sit; staring at tail lights in the cool morning air with the promise of yet another standard week in a standard month in a standard year of mounting disappointments. Then it's back into the flow on the way home, with more tail lights now, thicker, denser traffic as everyone makes their way back from whence they came so they can get loaded, pass out, wake up, take a shower, eat some breakfast, get in the car and drive, drive, drive. Yes, these are the Mondays of our lives and each one passes much like any other. Wake up and smell the oil burning, mister. You're but a tiny, tiny cog in a magnificent gigantic machine.

exegesis \ek-suh-JEE-sis\ (noun)

: exposition, explanation; especially : an explanation or critical interpretation of a text

Friday, March 11, 2005

Comfortably Rum

Work on Friday passes slow,
Get your paycheck save your dough
Putting out fires; waiting for a rest
Your ability for sanity is put to the test

Ones chores and tasks seem trivial and petty
Well slap my ass and call me Betty
A bag o weed, a quart of rum
Pink Floyd laser light show here I come

Thursday, March 10, 2005

Conversation Piece

"Goddamn, it's a hot motherfucker today."
"I hear that. It hasn't been this hot since three summers ago, and it's only March."
"I hear that it may rain again soon."
"It'll give us a break from the heat at least, but I hate the rain."
"I hate the rain and the heat. Why did I move here in the first place?"
"I thought you wanted to become a superstar actor."
"Fuck that."
"Yeah. Fuck that."
"Really I just wanted to get away, to find a new spot, to carve out my own little niche in the world."
"You picked an expensive-ass place for a niche. Why don't you try some place cheaper, like Boise?"
"Cause Boise sucks, that's why. The weather is shit, the people are ugly, the grass is high grade dirt weed at best. Fuck Boise."
"How about some place foreign? It's supposed to be super cheap in Prague."
"I hear they have great beer there, too. And all those Scandinavian bitches are crazy in the sack. I've seen videos."
"Well there you go, then."
"Yeah. Prague it is. What's the weather like there?"

Wednesday, March 09, 2005

journal entry - 2/26/2005

My place feels like that time Brian and I got shit faced drunk and passed out with Jill on my bed after having done cocaine until 10 AM at Steve’s. It has that silent, hollow and dirty feeling.

My colleagues think I’m an angel. They have a “husband” checklist where they evaluate all my good qualities. They think that I’m ripe for the picking. I suppose I am. I suppose that I am ready for what’s next. But they don’t know. They don’t know the me that sits here and writes. They don’t know the me that smoked mad amounts of marijuana last week and Mexico. They don’t know that right now I’m all twisted up inside because I don’t know what I want next. They don’t know that. They think I’m an angel. They think that I’m a little saint – good looking and precious, just precious. They don’t know that I sit there and think about sex and underwear and drugs and fucking and more drugs and traveling and leaving and escaping and writing. … Well maybe I don’t think about all those things in that order to those degrees.. but I do think. I do have naughty thoughts. I do have sick thoughts. Like when someone is talking and I think what if I just threw a glass of ice cold water on them or spit in their face or punched them real hard. Or what if I just went psycho on somebody and screamed and yelled and cursed and kicked and punched. What if I did that? They do not know that. They do not know that person, that sick, sick individual. They don’t know that guy. That weird, lonely tortured, shut in, introverted, perverted, psychotic, egomaniacal, narcissistic, sick fucker of a fuck. They do not know that devil. That handsome devil who wears angels wings most of the day, but hangs them up from time to time. Those times when he needs to be a twisted weirdo.

I’ve got a full belly right now. Full of shit. Full of bowel movements that are hours and hours away from pushing out. When I was shoving that last bit of deep fried banana cinnamon drizzled shit in my mouth and bragging to my colleagues that “I have a bottomless stomach,” I knew that my wanna be skinny ass could not handle it. I knew that I would be uncomfortable and want to puke or shit or fart or burp and that I would be puking, shitting, or farting, or burping if I wasn’t careful. Instead I just continued to stuff, stuff, stuff. Maybe I was doing it because I felt comfortable and I was around comfortable people and it felt like family and I felt like I could do that around people who made me feel like that. Just stuff that shit down your throat so twelve to fourteen hours later you can shit it out and start eating your salads and soy all over again. So you can shove all that granola shit in your mouth one more time to think that what you are eating is healthy, healthy, healthy. Then you can turn around the next day and have a piece of bloody meat or drink a tall glass of cold draft beer or drink some cocktail and then brag about how fit, fit, fit you are and how much running and cycling you do. You can talk and smile and boast and be witty and charming and talk about everything and nothing. You can do that thing where you sound eloquent and there are words coming out of your mouth but you really do not know where they are going and you think, Shit, these people are waiting for my next word and I have no fucking idea what I’m going to say, and then you say and it kind of sounds good so they just agree with you because you’re such a swell guy, a loveable sweet guy who knows how to act. You can do that really good when you want to. You’re really crazy, but you get the job done.

Tuesday, March 08, 2005

evince \ih-VINSS\ verb

1 : to constitute outward evidence of
2 : to display clearly : reveal


Chapter 1
The sun slowly rose over the hills bathing the old house with a warm orange tint. House number 7456 stood two stories high; an off white structure with neatly trimmed square hedges and perfectly cut green grass, it stood completely uniform with its neighbors. The inner mechanism of the house sparked to life producing an almost unperceivable humm.
Making its periodic melodic ting, house 7456 woke up its inhabitants. Suddenly small armies of triangular mechanical beings flung out into the yard from small passageways at the base of the house. These little “creatures” happily re trimmed, fertilized and watered the fairwayesque grass and perfectly symmetrical bushes in a joyful frenzy. The inside of the house was also invaded by these small battalions, devouring dust and eliminating small insects along their path

Simultaneously, August woke to his inevitable daily destiny and got out of the empty bed, which stood at body temperature. The floor, made of tile (also temperature controlled) reflected the rising sun through the large windows, as he headed for the bathroom. The shutters on the windows along his path blinked open, illuminating his way.
The shower blasted on, at the preset temperature, anticipating his weary body as a mother would embrace a new born baby.
August showered and continued with his routine, precisely on time.

As he entered the eating room, a monitor on the top left corner of the room blinked to life.
“Oh great” more air transport crashes, worsening droughts and a colorful variety of urban violence littered the news.
Breakfast was all ready, squarely set on the large white table, mhhh his favorite: cinnamon/apple tea, toast, and one of those orange gel capsules.
His cup (which came with the house) read “Life is Joy and All Things Show it.”
In stylized white letters, they seemed to glow against the brown cup surface.
. August sipped on his tea, quietly facing the screen but not looking; he was focusing somewhere else somewhere beyond.

After breakfast August headed towards the work room, which was windowless and empty except for a right angled desk that ran clear across two adjacent walls with a fat leather bound book, and an ergonomical sitting apparatus. The volume on the desk was an antique, and it looked completely out of place in the house due to its worn look,
The walls and ceiling were a soft calm pastel grey which seemed to emanate perfect fluorescent light, not too warm nor cool.
August sat down and set to work. He opened the tome, studied the index and started to concentrate. Using merely the power of though, August made the walls in front of the desk become intricately adorned with flashing colorful characters, figures, tables and equations: flashing too fast for any observer to comprehend. August interpreted, analyzed and processed this information in his mind. This was something he could do with tremendous ease. Meeps and bleeps flooded the room every now and again, providing important yet unnecessary warnings.
August; systematically checked his messages, even though he knew that the house would automatically alert him if one of these would arrive.
August did not know many people, especially met them physically, but he had a strange feeling that he was going to be contacted, contacted by some one special, someone he might love. “Absurd” he thought realizing that there were no new messages.

After a couple of hours, the figures on the screens froze in an instant, August sat up and consulted his book again, he was one of the few people that still used books: considered barbaric and completely inefficient, August was content as he was. He worked hard through the afternoon, only pausing to reference the thick volume.
Around five in the afternoon, the house conceded him his compulsive recess. August stood up and opened a window (another thing that was completely unnecessary for him to physically do), the house immediately regulated the temperature.
A figure on the window caught his eye. There was a snail slithering on the window frame. Behind this snail, the slightly overgrown bush somehow seemed to breathe, to humm with life. The snail continued slowly down the pane; a form of life so simple and monopsychic that it mesmerized August, who just stood there staring. August shifted his attention to the hedge; analyzing the minute textures and colors of the leafs and stems,. Suddenly August noticed that the hedge moved, just beyond his field of vision. He felt silly every time he looked though, for even contemplating the thought. It was as if the plants were taunting, somehow calling him.

Monday, March 07, 2005

From a Hollywood Holiday Inn – March 2, 2005 – late

Misery loves company…. I’m in demand right now. They’re all tugging at me. They all want a little piece. And they’re all telling me what I should or should not do. Don’t kick yourself later. Don’t do something that you can’t take back. No regrets. No worries.

They all have a vested interest in this particular joven. This jovencito. This man-kid. This guy who is not quite a man yet. This man who cannot commit to anything. This guy who, even though he’s got it all figured out, is a pretty bad planner, fairly irresponsible, and worst of all, a dreamer. That, I said, was the first thing that I’ll admit – that I’m just a dreamer A day dreamer. I have delusions of something. I’m an idealist. A romantic. OK, so now I’m that again? A hopeless romantic? No, I don’t think that anymore. Romantic yes, hopeless no.

Misery loves company.

They are all campaigning for me. Do this. I would do that. What do you really want? That’s what you really need to ask yourself.

Thank you for these options. They actually get better. I’m so fortunate to have these. What are these? What are these things that keep coming my way? These chances, these signs, these people, these energies? Why? What are they doing? What are they trying to tell me? That when you are being challenged, that is when you grow. That is when you really get to show what the fuck it’s all about. …

And then, you ask, what is it really all about? There’s just so many little rules. So many ways and means. So many made up conditions and clauses and prices and codes and all these little made up things. They don’t mean anything. They don’t mean anything at all.

Misery loves company loves misery.

He chortled in his joy

"The future is quite grim" he snapped;
"why doestn anybody understand these important things?"

Friday, March 04, 2005

life is
illness is
love is
heartbreak is
hatred is
pain is
fate is
whimsy is
struggle is
hardship is
success is
fear is
power is
luck is
renown is
honor is
rain is
space is
death is
substance is
loss is
grief is
denial is
brutality is
torture is
everything is


EPHEMERAL (adj.) quickly disappearing, transient, brief, momentary, temporary

BT's Dream Recall - 1/9/05

I came back to my apartment around 6:30 this morning. Instead of getting into bed which I should have done, I took the couch, put in a movie and dozed off into the early morning gray.

I had the strangest dreams. In one of them, I was in a city that was a mix between Albuquerque and maybe a coastal town in Orange County. It didn’t feel like San Diego. It was nighttime, and I was meeting my mom and dad at a restaurant – a fast food place like Jack in the Box.

I saw my mom first and she was about to tell me something about my dad and their opinion about my potential move to New Mexico. She was going to say something very secretive, or so it seemed.

“Tell me, mom, tell me!” I pleaded. I felt on the verge of tears. She was too. She was holding something back from me. My dad was not actually in the dream yet, but his presence was. Like he was in the restaurant and on his way out.

I then somehow landed up with a Subway sandwich and was in my truck driving around. I guess I left mom and dad at the other restaurant. I was taking a bite of the sandwich as I drove and bit into a wire like substance. I pulled it out of my mouth and it looked like long hair that clogs the drain or stringy twine. It was disgusting. I spit the part that was in my mouth into the wrapper, turned right around and headed back to Subway to show them.

But as I drove back, I was no longer in the truck. I was on a small bike. It was not even a good bike, but more of a child’s tricycle. All the bolts were very loose and the thing was completely unsteady. I struggled to peddle, my legs straddling the small seat and my shoes hitting the street as I made a revolution. I was wearing my suit pants, a nice shirt, and my nice dress shoes. I was very uncomfortable trying to make that bike go forward as it was hard to peddle and brake. I made the most of it and continued on, determined to get back to the restaurant.

I then found myself on dark, empty streets, but still in that city and in close proximity to civilization. There were people around me, but not near me. I was going down a one lane alley that was a steep decline. I had to press the little handle bars down to brake as opposed to back peddling. I then came up to a steep incline and so I simply jumped off the bike and ran it up the hill.

I didn’t have the sandwich anymore and my focus seemed now more to just get back to where those restaurants were, maybe to meet my parents again.

I then landed up in dark driveway. A dead end. There was a dark house and I could not see anyone. As I turned out of there and headed the other direction, a woman came out from the dark house and turned on the lights. She said something to me, asking where I was going.

I answered her, in Spanish: “Puedo pasar por allá?” Pointing behind her, as though I needed to just get behind her little house.

Another person stood there, saying something to me that it was alright to go past.

Just then, the dark little house became illuminated and I saw that it was a store. It was a strange little shop that had Halloween type items, ghosts, ghouls and goblins. I then saw another woman who worked in the little shop. She was dressed like a witch, following in the theme of store. Then, fade….

Thursday, March 03, 2005

Jack and Suzie found themselves rapidly aproaching reality


There was a time not too long ago when things weren't so complicated. I don't know when it happened, when things spiraled so far from my control, but it has certifiably occurred, and now I'm adrift on the tides with no rudder, with no oar. I have found that it is entirely possible to be shipwrecked on dry land, that it is entirely possible to be stranded in the middle of everywhere. I woke up there this morning, and I'll be waking up there every day for the next seven years. If you sell your soul, can you take out a mortgage?


Decisions are not taken lightly:
When ones honor is at stake.
Pandemonuium is banausic,
Its the easiest choice to make.

One wanders across life,
Seemingly with nothing to loose.
Options, concessions and resolutions;
Its always up to you to choose.

Wednesday, March 02, 2005


And oh, to the days of carelessness, or irration, or irresponsibility to the degree of excellence. When it was so nice to be a popular teenager in one of the worlds richest hamlets. To hear the leaves change with the seasons, to have mint juleps in the afternoon with the beautiful mother of your best friend who just happened to be away at Outward Bound.

I remember that day, cloudy as it was, with a clarity that pairs with few other of my recollections. It was a cool September day at the base of the Adirondack Mountains. I lived next door to my best friend Adrien. His father was a sleek investor, a genuine savvy businessman whose wealth exceeded even the grand wealth of my own father who was very wealthy and powerful in his own right.

I went next door because I was bored. I knew Adrien was out of town. I knew it. But his mother had been looking at me differently. I'm sure there were thousands of factors involved... Her subsequent dis-interest in everything her husband said or did with the exception of bringing home loads of revenue, the loss of control of her only son who was also her only child, the loneliness of a life of absolutely everything and absolutely, terrifyingly nothing. She was so different from my own mother.

I knocked on the door innocent, but it opened and I was immediately guilty.

"Hi there," she said.

"Hello," I said, "Is Adrien Home?"

"No. He won't be back until... the fourteenth. Would you like to come in?"

She smelled of what I would later learn was scotch, and she wore a sheer thin linen shirt that outlined her breasts in a way that made me feel weak. So I agreed. There was a strange feeling in my stomach, a feeling I still get just before lovemaking today. A feeling that I was going to hurt her somehow by doing this, doing what she wanted me to do. That was the first time I had felt it, that feeling of dulled dread that hides behind muscle and skin; the feeling that tends more often than not to be right foreshadowing that someone will eventually be very, very hurt, if not then than very soon thereafter.

I told Adrien about it one night when we had gotten drunk out on the golf course. I shouldn't have told him about his mother and I. I should have known better than to let the liquor speak so freely. But I didn't.

So when Adrien was eating dinner several weeks later with his neglected, emotionless mother and his rich and powerful father who never seemed to have the time or the desire to pay his wife or his son even courteous attention, it was time to put the story out on the table in front of his parents, and Blossom the cleaning lady and Mr. Lewis, the man-servant.

"Father dear, I bet you didn't know that my mother, your wife is the neighborhood whore. She fucks my friends. Did you know that, father?"

Adrien's dad took another swig of gin and said, "Son, I did not as a matter of fact know that. But she fucks my friends too, so at least now we have something in common..."

Adrien's mom left that night, and no one has heard from her since.

dream·y ( P )
adj. dream·i·er, dream·i·est 1.
Abounding in dreams or given to dreaming; appropriate to, or like, dreams; visionary.
Informal. Inspiring delight; wonderful.

Tuesday, March 01, 2005

Hermanos por Vida

Today the Van Steenbergh Express will roar across the Pacific sky, making his way to la Ciudad de los Angeles to catch a visit with his old brothers. To describe what we've been so fortunate to be involved in can be said as nothing less than remarkable, the fact that we are able to maintain what is so difficult for so many; a connection, an inherent relationship that transcends miles and pasts and futures. This is what it means to be a brother--when the paths once again cross and it is as if not a day has passed since sitting on the balcony of Crockett, or standing in front of a fire in a deserted field somewhere as cries of, "Sir I wanna be a Drake, Sir!" echo through the blackness as the next generation battles to make it to the other side of the table. And here we are at phase three, the real proving ground. Where being a man means something entirely different than what it meant when we were but young screaming bleeding hopefuls ourselves, waist deep in frigid waters somewhere near the Texas-Oklahoma border. Now we are Drakes in body, mind and spirit, and our legacy shall perpetuate beyond the edge of our incarnate walking shells.

And the magic word for the day is: Ultimatum

All People have agendas, if they want to admit it or not,
People will judge you, and judge you hard;
Being apolitical is a policy in itself.
Tell me right now if you can count:
Or else, do not count with me.

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