I did see the movie, not because I had to, but because I wanted to see if it moved me.

It moved me to think about how fast I would probably kill Jesus Christ.

See, I am very spiritual and Jesus is pretty much the man to me, and yet leaving the theater, I was not inspired in the least. I agree with most critics that it was an excercise in sado-masochism. There was no glory in Gibson's dipiction.

I went in not knowing the ending, which helps . . . very Sixth-Sense. Really, I suppose that I was looking to be inspired, but what simply happened was that I was left empty and unfulfilled, akin to going to Lundy's Lane to see the ballet. Does it need to be seen? Sure. It was interesting, and as the Pope said, "It is as it was." Because obviously he was there.

You'd do better to see Jesus Christ Superstar, because at least there is glory in that. You empathize (as if it's possible) with Christ. When the cross is lifted, the music takes your breath away, and you understand. When it is lifted in Gibson's version, the thought was, "Die already . . . for Christ's sake."

Besides, he changed lines in the Bible, which isn't a big deal, and yet, I prefer, "It is finished," as compared to, "It is accomplished."

It just doesn't have the same ring to it.

okay this is really bothering me so I have to make amends. I must have been really off my rocker last night, to commit a blunder such as this. It might not matter to any of you, and to be honest, I hope it doesn't affect you in the least. But I am disgraced, and would have to attempt a literary equivalent of seppuku if I didn't clear this up.

I spelled Hunter S. Thompson's name wrong and I apologize for being an idiot.

God I feel better.

And Ajay, one of these days, if you could let me know how to download TAL shows, because as sad as you think it is to have 24 shows, I am incredibly envious and want to be like you. Thanks. I don't know how to do it because, well, see above about being an idiot.

I might or might not be at the Pink tonight. You'll recognize me as a stick-like person. That's a comlete metaphor.

What isn't . . .

rock on . . .

I want nothing more than to have the energy to walk my ass to the Pink, but no, it's just not gonna happen tonight. How does tomorrow look? I'm feeling good about tomorrow.
This, by the way, is because of Car Talk and This American Life, both on tomorrow on 88.7 (at various times, 10 and 4 I believe), or on the web. I can't be the only guy around here who really looks forward to these radio shows, right? There are others out there, right?

By the way, is any one a big fan of David Sedaris, David Foster Wallace, and/or Hunter S. Thomson? (there is a reason I ask, but like Hitchcock said, there's no suspense in a fired gun)

Though it be madness, there's method to it . . .

What makes me tick . . . huh . . . very good question my dear Rachel.

Could it be the desire to find a connection, knowing only that it has been done before?
Perhaps.
Could it be that there has to be a reason for something somewhere and quite possibly I'll find out tomorrow?
Perhaps.
Could it be seeing a sunset from the seat of a motorcycle listening to "Where the Streets Have No Name."
Perhaps.
Or it could be that for all the absurdity, all the times I mess up, lose it, lose someone, give up, stop working, stop giving chances, stop taking chances, start riding fast, stop going slow, stop sleeping, quit reading Thomas at the Pink, stop writing about my day, my year, my decisions, my, my, this person, that person, that one over there with her head in her hands, me over here, face in a notepad, on the cusp of something, figuring out what someone else knows, thinking about what you know, or I know, or what Woody Guthrie knew and tried to tell, what I know and am trying to tell, or trying to listen, trying to keep my mouth shut for once, or open my mouth for once, for being honest, for saying sorry, or thanks or let's have a drink, or let's live, now, here, not tomorrow, today, the moment is gone as soon as you think it, but the clock still goes on and the apathy is enviable, especially when you stand on the rocks at the marina on a hot August evening when the storm clouds frame the sun over the water, a raindrop hits my book and the next line reads "and the rain began to fall," and makes me think, yes, this is where I am at, that is why I'm here, and I will see that again, and I can show this, regardless if you see what I do, I can show you this, and you can say what time is it, and I can say, "God knows," this is all worth it.
Bob Dylan said the answer to everything can be found at the Grand Canyon at Sundown. I'm not sure because I haven't been, but I can go and I will, and I'll see what he saw. That is beauty. That you can, I can, and yet those who can't, never will. That is all ye know on earth, and all ye need to know. Or in my own words, it's that simple.

Perhaps.

tick

thanks Rachel.

"Get some sleep."

I probably hear that at least once a day from random people. Actually, one time I did get, "You look sad," from a girl at a bar, which made me laugh hysterically, because of course, I couldn't have been happier.

Sleep, in my eyes is overrated. But then again, my eyes are tired, so go figure. But here is my question: why are people so concerned about my sleeping habits? I know the gut reaction is, well they just simply care about you, but if that's the case, wouldn't it make more sense to work with someone on his lifestyle? I mean if a man is a Christian, do people, in all seriousness come up to him and say, you should really get some buddha in your life? Well sure, possibly, but the point is that I like staying up at night, so why is it that people who sleep a lot, need to force their habits upon me? I don't cal my friends up in the middle of the night and say, "GOD, you are missing SO much. You should wake up."

No, of course I don't. I do have an answer to why I stay up, writing the night away on existentially absurd Camus induced plays and chapters of a book about a misguided elf. Actually Dylan Thomas has the answer. He just says it so much better than I ever will. I'm no poet, I know it.

In my craft or sullen art
Exercised in the still night
When only the moon rages
And the lovers lie abed
With all their griefs in their arms
I labour by singing light
Not for ambition or bread
Or the strut and trade of charms
On the ivory stages
But for the common wages
Of their most secret heart.

Not for the proud man apart
From the raging moon I write
On these spindrift pages
Nor for the towering dead
With their nightingales and psalms
But for the lovers, their arms
Round the griefs of the ages,
Who pay no praise or wages
Nor heed my craft or art.

yeah, take THAT.

Incidentially, has any seen the movie Chelsea Walls?

eh . . . y'all are probably sleeping. I suppose it is that time of the month.