Stories about Paper

Dacheux and I celebrated my unemployment with a trip to the theater. We saw You, Me, and Dupree.

I loved the movie. Owen Wilson makes me laugh and laugh.

I swear afterwards I felt like I had run a couple miles. That's how good Owen Wilson was.

Dacheux was glad I liked the movie.

"I'm glad," she said.

Then we walked to Home Depot. She got polyuerathane. I got this soda called Vault. It was a hybrid energy drink. That's what the bottle said.

I had four sips. Then I tossed it in a plastic bag that was hanging from a guard rail by the potted plants outside the Depot.

Dacheux talked about money.

"I like thinking about how it started," she says. "Here, take this paper to see a movie. Take this paper to do this. It's really funny all this over paper."

"Yes, it's funny," I say.

"Well, not funny," she says. "We kill ourselves over paper."

"True," I say. "We die writing over paper too."

"This is also true," Dacheux agrees.

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JP and I run into this slam poet. He tells us he's bipolar. He can't hold down a job. He just moved from Ohio to Hollywood to be a slam poet. He came here for poetry.com's convention. He has been here 8 weeks. He is performing on the street. He thinks someone will see him.

"Dude, go back to Ohio," I say. "What the fuck are you thinking? A slam poet in Hollywood? Why Hollywood?"

"This is where dreams happen," he says.

"What dream?" I ask.

"To make it."

"Make what? A living doing poetry? You got to be kidding. There's no living doing poetry. Not unless your a professor."

"What about Saul Williams?"

"Saul Williams?"

"Yeah, he makes a living."

"On his poetry? Maybe, a bit. Not much. The guy has got a Master's in Acting from NYU. He's doing spots on the WB. That's what's keeping him straight. He's an actor. This is what put him into that position. But there isn't that kind of living for all slam poets. You don't even have a home."

"I don't know, man. I just want to do my thing, you know. I want to be a street performer. Maybe, someone will see me. Maybe, they will hire me to be a writer."

"A writer? On what?"

"For a screenplay."

"Why? How can you go from homeless, slam poet to screenplay writer? How is that going to happen?"

"I don't know, man. I'm just doing my best."

I stop talking. I can't say another word. JP gives him a spot he could perform at. I give him some cash to eat.

"God bless you," he says.

"Yeah," I say. "You too."

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Today I talk with Moksha about ways to raise paper. He comes up with some good ideas.

"Sell the music," he says. "Get an advance from a label. Then you can publish books or do whatever you want."

It's not a bad idea. I may try it. Who knows?

I have 23 books about Mars on my bed. I have an Excel spreadsheet set-up to query agents. I am waiting in my shell, waiting to erupt.

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There is a new song from The Slipshod Swingers: U Drive, Me Shift. It is mixed down and ready for a listen.

Best,

Pirooz