Choire Sicha

Thursday, August 7

END OF ACT ONE

So listen up, both chronic haters and loyal fans. I understand absolutely everything now. I'd finally gone back to California where I grew up. There was a major heartbreak. Characters long-forgotten returned, the cast of my youth was revealed to be grown happily older, or dead -- or somewhere in between. There was even comedy: I came in through a side door while he left through the back. All the conventions one would expect before a much-needed intermission have been fully embraced and reinvented. Tension accrues while the cast dramatically swirls their cocktails and the lights begin to fade slowly over an intriguing tableaux.

I'm coming back today to be King of the 212. Strike that -- I'm the King of the 646: I'll be fucking everywhere, like cellular. What I learned on the West Coast is just like Lil Kim always said: you gotta cut down the grass to see the snakes. I get it. I'm coming back to kill the vampires that have a stranglehold on New York City, and to support the righteous bitches who make the City what it should be. If you wanna be in my posse, I'll be loyal and fair. We'll take over together. And I know some of you may think I'm just talking crazy, but you'll see. I learned that I'm the one who's actually won all my wars. And I'll help you win yours.

All the metaphorical guns produced in the first act will decidely be fired in the next. So while the house lights are up, head up the aisles for a smoke outside, motherfuckers. I don't regret a damn thing, and I'm taking what I earned. I'm unstoppable now.

To everyone both in Cali and back East who stood by me this summer, thank you. Some specific shots out: Jennie and Shane, Blaise and Jacob, Trevor and Dale, and the whole poker posse back home, thank you. On the West Coast, Dogpoet, and Lance and Leslie, and totally Josh and Kirk, and the Jewish Brothers of Oaktown, the whole Tonga Room posse, and the entire cast of super Frisco superfreaks, thank you. Everyone who emailed me, thanks, it meant a lot to me, and I learned from all of you. Finally, a million pounds of gratitude to Himself in Venice Beach (West Coast represent, our posses are one), and always to Philo, thank you more than I can say, and of course to my momma, you're the absolute best.

Intermission will last through August. Peace. I'm off for the airport. Let's do this thing. ⊕

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Wednesday, August 6

Mysteries, ©Beth Gibbons and Rustin Man, 4.2MB mp3. ⊕

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Tuesday, August 5

I've had the strangest dreams in California. Last week it was confrontations in flooding skyscrapers, and airplanes that sink lower and lower in the ocean, until the inevitable comes, stranded in the ocean, kicking at the blunt white noses of sharks. And last night I dreamt that my feet were disgusting. They were cracked and deeply peeling open and I had to begin a long therapeutic process of repairing them.

Uh huh.

But this weekend my dead friend Sande Mack came to visit me in my sleep. Sande was an oldschool San Francisco leatherman, constantly at paranoid and/or very real struggle with organizations and communities in San Francisco. He exhaustingly filmed everything and everyone, and put it on cable access TV twice a week. We always talked about how his phone was tapped, how much everyone hated him, what a thorn he was in the side of non-profits and local corruption, some of which was certainly true. I wish I could remember what we talked about in my dream but it's lost, but I like to think of his message as a warning, and it's really the only dream that stands out from my time here. ⊕

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Monday, August 4

Today is decision day. If you had a month with nothing to do, kind of a crappy attitude, and not very much money, where would you go? What would you do?

I feel like we should all be able to answer this question as we trudge through our insensate days, so please share if you have brilliant ideas. Today, after all, is decision day.

(To clarify: I'm trying to look at my life from a viewpoint of privilege, not a position of deprivation. Know what I mean?) ⊕