Sunset Junction Street Fair

Last night I went to the Sunset Junction Street Fair in Silver Lake. It was a very cool way to say goodbye to Los Angeles. My brothers were there. JP was there! Jesse was there!!  We had fun eating hamburgers, watching the Cold War Kids, and riding the Gravitron. What more could I ask for?

JP is ready to kick it. 

Jesse's jacket is really pretty. I forgot to complement her. Paiman has "johnson pants". ; )

Before the Gravitron. 

Bonds at their best. 

After.

Ambercrombie model says: "I am a little famous."

Panauh wins chipmunk with dart mastery. There is talk of a reality series. Panauh offers wikipedia entires and life as high-low-roller in Vegas. 

"Dude, you're a hipster," he tells me. 

"What's a hipster?" I ask. 

"Old people trying to act young like us."

Panauh's response to seeing the Cold War Kids: "It was more fun to kick plastic cups in the street."

The reality series is now in the works. 

Los Angeles: Lunch with Aram

Yesterday, I got together with Aram in Los Angeles. At first, we were going to hit some Parisian place on Franklin, but it was way too hot. We decided to rock the 101 Diner instead. It was really nice to talk about our common friends from Bolinas, life as artists, and our favorite films and books. 

I will be having a few more dinner dates in L.A. before heading to South Korea on Sunday. I am excited to get back to So Gee, but I am also more excited to bring her here permanently in March of next year.  

READING: So the Wind Won't Blow It All Away

Still Going

Drew Gardner linked up to Giant Steps. It's a cool animated film, synchronized to a John Coltrane solo. I dug it. Especially the music. There is something so magical about Coltrane's horn. It always inspires.

What else?

Last night I went to the Dresden to meet up with members of my TESL class. Most were in attendance. We talked about where we were going, parking tickets, and how I needed to hook up with T. in Thailand, because he could show me a whole new frontier.

"Yesssss," went his drawl. "Thailand."

T. was everyone's favorite in class. He just didn't hold to any borders. If he felt like telling you his encounters with prostitutes in Bangkok, he would. If you encouraged him, he would lay it out for you.

"You have to watch out for nipples. Some girls put drugs on them to knock you out. Then they make out with your phone, wallet, clothes, everything."

"Has that ever happened to you?"

"No," Tyree smiled.

He is an amazing person. I'm sure if I visit him, it would be a trip I wouldn't ever forget.

_______________________

"The Trip"

I still haven't sold the car. I got the passport, packed 2 suitcases, and have given notice to my jobs. Now it's just the car. I've taken an ad out on craigslist. Hopefully, someone will respond after Christmas. In the meantime, I am running laps around Hollywood, watching bad movies, and procrastinating going to the post office to mail books. It's a great life.

_______________________

"Them Crazy Bitches"

Them crazy bitches keep
taking me for a ride.
They say it's a one way ticket.
They say it's fun.

I'm still waiting for the pinatas.
I haven't seen any clowns.
All I get are freak show accidents
with my head in the ground.

_______________________

Today

I helped P-man move into his new apartment. It has a beautiful view. You can see all of L.A..

"Isn't it great?" he asked. "You can see everything."

"Yeah," I agreed, and leaned on the balcony wall. "I can see Hollywood Boulevard."

"And look!" he pointed. "There's the Observatory!"

"Yeah," I smiled.

I enjoyed looking over the world of Los Angeles. I'm glad my brother has a beautiful apartment. I am also glad I get to argue about Jay Z's new album with my other brother, P-nauh, who thinks he knows everything.

"You hear how he used punctuation?"

"Poets have been doing that for years."

My brother clicked on another track, "This is the one with Beyonce. It's not that good."

"This is the best one so far."

"Nah, man. This sucks."

"I like love songs."

Pan makes a face.

"How about we do the Velociraptor Song?" I ask him, and dance with short arms like a T-rex. "Wouldn't that be a hit? The raptor! The raptor! The velociraptor!"

My brother laughs, then shakes his head.

"You don't want to make a video?" I ask, still dancing.

"This is a good song," he says, ignoring me. "I like the beat. Dre did it."

I listen. It doesn't do much for me. Maybe, I'm an idiot. I don't get why Jay Z came back from retirement anyway. It seems like a gip. Why didn't he just manage Def Jam and call it a day?

"You hear what he said? Kingdom Come! He's the King of Hip Hop!"

"I don't know about that," I rolled me eyes. "I'm just not feeling it."

I didn't press my brother though. If he likes the album, he likes it. I just prefer Cyndi Lauper anyway. Why not some Arrested Development? What ever happened to "Walk Like a Dinosaur?" I'm going to bring it back. I just needed an accomplice.

Luckily, Dacheux called at that very moment. I had her on speakerphone.

"Hey, little buddy," she says.

"Hey, big buddy," I say.

"How about an executive meeting?"

"Sounds good to me."

"Okay. I'll be over in a little bit."

We must have said some other stuff, or maybe it was just the way Stacy and I chit-chat, but Panauh was laughing his ass off.

"What's so funny?"

"You guys are so funny," he laughed, and covered his mouth.

I smiled. Then I got ready. It was time for an executive meeting. I walked down to the 7-11 and got a turkey sandwich. I ate it and sat on the rail outside. Pretty soon, I could see Stace making her way down Hollywood. That's when I stepped off to meet her.

"Hey, little bud," she said, and hugged me.

"Hey, blocky ock a too," I said.

"You ready for a little executive meeting?"

"Yeah," I said.

We walked all the way to the Arclight. We got tickets and sat at our favorite booth. That's when the meeting started.

"I want a cosmopolitan," Stacy told the waiter.

"What's in those?" I asked.

"Triple Sec, Grenadine, and Vodka."

"Sounds good."

"It is."

"I want the same thing," I told the waiter.

After we had our share of alcoholic beverages, we went into the theater for a little Holiday movie. It was pretty cute. We both liked Kate Winslet. We thought she was cute.

"She is," Stacy smiled.

"Yes," I agreed. "I like her."

We talked about other things. Special executive meeting stuff. Top secret, you know? About projects, dreams, and our special times seeing bad romantic comedies together.

"I love seeing these kinds of movies with you," Stacy said. "I wouldn't ever see them if it wasn't for you."

"Neither would I," I laughed.

We walked back down Hollywood. Stacy pointed out the hybrids in the car lot.

"Look! Field of hybrids!"

I smiled. She was right. A whole field of them. Then we kept walking. It was 4 more blocks until we got home. We hugged and she was off. I stepped inside, checked some emails, and then called Lotus Blossom 75. She was excited to meet me on Saturday.

"I want to kiss you," she said.

"That's how it starts," I said.

Lotus Blossom giggled.

Now I am going to bed. Jim has sent me poems. I will read them and sleep.

Tomorrow I will start again.

Today I went hiking with my dad. We heaaded up a trail in Griffith Park. About halfway he turns to me and says, "I have to use the bathroom."

"Number 1 or 2?" I ask.

"Number 4," he says.

***

We spend the rest of the hike philosophizing about life and spirituality.

"I want to make a connection with you," he says. "Remember this Star Wars?"

"Yeah."

"Why did Darth Vader become Darth Vader?"

"Because he was manipulated by the Emperor."

"You see? Life is like this. We are manipulated by the Emperor."

***

I am not sure what to do at this point. I am feeling like George Bailey. In fact, I just watched "It's a Wonderful Life" for the 36th time. It's my favorite movie. I get emotional every screening.

Tonight I got to the end where Clarence writes: "A man who has friends is not a failuire" - and I thought, "Maybe, I'm a failure. I don't have too many friends. Then I realized at least I have a few. I also got me. That's enough."

Then I thought about what life would be like if I'd never been born. What would be different? Have I maade a difference? Have I helped people enough? Have I been a good enough friend to my friends?

I hope so. If I haven't, I apoligize. I do my very best.

Sometimes I disappear. I have to be in solitude. I have to sit with myself. I don't know why this happens, but it does. I've grown to accept this about myself.

There really isn't any other choice.

_______________


meeting aliens is like meeting a bike for the first time.

The Los Angeles Project Flourishes

"Collectively, if geniuses were able to build something destructively unimaginable out of science, surely we can build something constructively unimaginable out of art. This is a creative issue, not a political issue. This is the beginning. This is where you and I hold hands & walk into the project."

- Stacy Elaine Dacheux

Just imagine a world where we can create something constructive with our artistic forces. Something that can counter the most destructive nature of the human species. This is truly a remarkable project. I thank Miss Dacheux for putting into the world such a beacon of light, and encourage all of you to spread the word, contribute, and unite our collective genius to make a difference heard louder than any atomic combustion.

Believe.
thelosangelesproject

Are We Controllers of Our Own Destiny?

The Secret talks about the possibility of manifestation. It came at just the right time for me. I would suggest it to anyone who is looking to make their dreams a reality.

I am grateful for palm trees, the Moon, secrets, breasts, nipples, Burt Kristbaum, noodles, McDonald's, my parents, my family, my friends, art, Basquiat, Keith Haring, Tomatoes, Whole Milk, Pudgy Pigeon, Dentyne Ice, Brandon Jackson, the woods, trampolines, Kate Mitchell, Vikram Bhagat, Neel Dhingra, Maghan Stat, John Forester, Swigsets, football, pencil cracking, Tommy Welling, Basketball, sewers, Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, Drama Club, Governor's School, cotillions, Violent Femmes, Soul Coughing, Sublime, Jane's Addiction, The Doors, Nirvana, The Beatles, John Lennon, Cat Stevens, U2, Foo Fighters, Nicole Norton, the number 19, soccr, Mr. Strobel, Mrs. McVaugh, Mr. Zippe, East End Cafe, Richie, Kevin, Sonny, Mark, Cecil's Water, drugs, heroin, cocaine, acid, mushrooms, crack, fliers, self-promotion, palm trees (again), University of Delaware, Michael Cotsell, Mr. Rewa, Ann Waldman, Bobbie, Bhanu, Steven, Teresa, Sean, Marlowe, Nikki, Dave, Maura, Shane, Santie, Dylan, Boxing, Habibe, Jesse, Garages, Ping Pong, Snow, Mountains, Buddy, walking, Whole Foods, Movies, Target, cigarettes, ashes, dust, Christmas, Buddha, Shamans, Tim, Dariusz, Sonny, envelopes, agents, Gary, books, writing, S.E. Hinton, J. D. Salinger, Nabakov, Kafka, heart, painting, water colors, gas fireplaces, Ramaya, Susan, teenagers, body odor, plays, musicals, soccer, The Shins, shinguards, competition, Los Angeles, homelessness, Trevor, Mars, Golden Ashtray, the New Moon, coyotes, skunks, cats, bears, fish, salmon, eggs, muli-grain oat bread, Apple Cinnamon Cheerios, cinnamon anything, waffles especially, Hollywood Boulevard, Mickey, Fitzy, BOB, DTH, WG, Lindsay, Kelsey, Brian, Screen Door, producers, television, money, unemployment, libraries, Gabriel, running, Thanksgiving, Valentine's Day, Birthdays, cupcakes, felatio, cunnilingus, sexual intercourse, fliring, eyebrows, arms, legs, toes, fingers, eyes, felings, coughs, sniffles, sickness, Big League Chew, softball game, tennis, Andre, Nike, Master Tsang Tsao, Sufis, Byron Katie, Milk, cookies, Cookie Monster, Big Bird, Sesame Street, Bill Cosby, Michael J. Fox, Back to the Future, Luke Skywalker, Iran, Havah, ob gusht, spoons, forks, knives, plates, kitchen, room, bed, sleep...

Please place answers before me so that I may see them with the utmost clarity.

1. I will sell The Whopper Strategies.
2. I am writing Mars or Bust.
3. I will finish writing this novel and sell it by Christmas.
3. I am grateful.
4. I am beautiful.

6. I am open, honest, and real.
8. I am in love with myself.
9. I will write THINGS I SAY TO THE MOON by June.
10. I will form a band to play out by April.

11. I will apply for grants to create income.
12. I tutor children and teach writing to create money.
13. I am a professor.
14. I read my work all over the world.
15. I love and honor my family and friends.
16. I love and honor myself.
17. I let go of old stories.
18. I enlightened.
19. I healthy.
20. I cool.
21. I ready.

Benji Hughes Is Good in the Future

Dacheaux and I saw Benji Hughes last week. He was incredible.

"This is so good," Dacheaux said.

"Yes."

"So good."

"Yes."

I really couldn't say anything else. I was mesmerized. I just swayed with Dacheux and watched Benji talk about the future.

"That is a good song in the future," Benji raises his arm. "Really good in the future."

Everyone laughs. Dacheux sways. I cross my arms.

"You know," I say. "We're a part of history right now."

"I know," Dacheux grins. "He's so good."

Benji doesn't have an album, but you can visit his myspace page to download 4 of his songs, including my favorite song of 2006, TIGHT T-SHIRT.

I've also found some wonderful gems of Benji live. Click on the pics below to view.

Benji on Mel Gibson...



Benji sings about love...



An acoustic song about Christian music being bad...



Think Leonard Cohen meets Lynyrd Skynyrd and Sublime...

I Love Ralph Macchio

Okay, I am almost done animating the new video for The Slipshod Swingers. Just a little more time and help (PAIMAN, YO!) to time out the sequence. Hopefully, I'll have it done soon. In the meantime, I am querying agents for books, editors for stories and poems, and sending out press packages to record labels.

It's little bits at a time.

If there are musicians or editors out there with contacts, hit me up. Tell me what you know. Give me some advice. What labels do you like? Do you know someone who knows someone? Whatever the link, pass it onto me.

In other news, I saw that I am now listed on IMDB. This filled me with a particular sense of glee. I wanted to rock the acting when I first started my career as an artist. Now it has come to fruition. Unbelievable. Thank you.

What else?

Last night, I went to Lucky Strike for a friend's birthday party. Right away I started mad hitting on this woman who has that bohemian-artist-centerfold-naughty flavor that will make this man grumble for various objects to fall from the sky in no particular order. Naturally, I grumbled and had an assortment of triangles and squares punch me dead in the nose. Of course, in the beginning it was roses. Plain and simple.

"What do you do?" I ask.

"I'm a producer."

"Oh, yeah," I say. "Me too."

"Really?"

"Yeah, you like it?"

"It's a lot of pressure."

"Yeah, it can be. But I got a secret. If anyone does me wrong, I'll send them a memo. It's the letter U. Capitol. Then DIE! That does the trick. Gets the message across."

She giggles. I take that as keep it coming big boy and shake your ass a little. Naturally, I am one to oblige. I shake my ass. I bowl some strikes. I am huffing in that nether world of mojo that slightly pulsates from the cosmos to the very sphere of my being - over and over like a breathing heart - alive and free.

She notices. She blushes. She points her toes together. Music is playing. The Power of Love. Huey lewis. I shake my ass. She talks 80's. I talk 80's back.

"So you like The Karate Kid?"

"I love The Karate Kid," she smiles. "I love Ralp Macchio."

"Oh, yeah. Me too. Except I was in love with Elizabeth Shue. I wanted to marry her and have her babies. Maybe, that can still happen. We can work that, you know? We could act scenes from the movie. I'll do crane kicks. We can even get some blonde guy to be the bully and they'll shout, Sweep his leg. Who knows what kind of wonderful sexual excitement we could create?"

"I left that movie behind a long time ago," she smiles.

"Lets bring it back."

She laughs. She blushes more.

"You smoke?"

"Yes," she says. "It's part of the job. The pressure. I haven't been able to quit."

"Well, come have a smoke with me."

She obliges. We're out on the veranda. It's like Gone With the Wind in Times Square, except we're on Hollywood Boulevard and there are breakdancers street peddling in the background.

"What's your house like?" I ask.

"Oh, it's nice. My roomate and I-"

"You're roommate?"

"Yes, my husband."

"Husband?"

"Yes, haven't you noticed?"

She holds her rock where I can see it.

"Oh, man. You're married. I had no idea."

"It's okay. You can still think I'm pretty and great and all. We can be friends."

"Yes, friends."

Awkward silence.

"Man," I say. "I am seriously verklempt right now. I think I might bust a few tears over this. I've been hitting on you all night and you're married. That's really kind of devestating."

"Oh, don't shed tears over me."

"I've got no choice. They're coming."

"Well, only 3 then."

"Okay, 3."

We hug. She goes off. I cry my 3 tears. Now it's 924pm. It's Sunday. Record heat in Los Angeles. 108 degrees. Haven't been able to do much of anything. I talk to Moksha. He tells me I'm doing good. I talk to the ex-wife. She tells me I'm doing good. I have dinner with T. She says I'm doing good. Now I got to see it myself.

I will have to consult Roshi. Benjamin Franklin. Einstein. Then the greatest of them all.



P.

Amadeus Saveus

This is what I will name my first born child. It's a good name. They don't even need a last name. Just Saveus. It's French, yo! I dig it too. I also dug the concert/play I went to tonight. It was AMADEUS with the Los Angeles Philharmonic Orchestra and Neil Patrick Harris.

In case you don't know Neil from his Doogie Howser days, he's the guy who ripped lines and did X in Harold and Kumar Go to White Castle. Neither were bad works, if you ask me. His version of Amadeus wasn't bad either. I mean, there were parts where you could tell he was pulling from the film version, but, overall, he did a good job with Peter Schaffer's extravaganza.

I, myself, could have done it better. I was born to play Mozart. Ha! Yes, Mozart or a Middle Eastern guy who is killed by Keifer Sutherland. Wouldn't that be grand? Well, it just might be on the horizon. Who knows?

I got a call today from a friend who wanted me to send in headshots to a casting agent.

"Oh, Pirooz! I know you write books and everything, but just send me your headshots."

"All I got are author pics."

"That's great. Send those."

"Really?"

"Yes! Send them!"

I sent them. I had no idea what it was for. I didn't even ask. I figured this is Hollywood, and just be open.

When I got an email about what it was for, I was pretty flabbergasted. I even thought, is Hollywood this easy? Maybe, I need to do acting. Who knows?

Not me. All I know is that in this town you meet people and these people meet people, and they throw ideas around, and your name comes up, and then they're like, lets put him in this. It's really fascinating. It's also really simple. Out here, if you hang in entertainment circles you're bound to have an opportunity show itself. I mean, I have done more acting here than writing.

Fascinating. Saddening. Okayening.

I haven't really talked to anyone about my views on Hollywood. Sometimes I say a few words about dreamers, how it's a good thing because everyone is dreaming and that creates an equal playing field because anyone could shoot up and be somebody. That's sort of accurate. At least until my run in with homeless slam poet. Now I realize it's a bit more than just having a dream in Hollywood. It's being in the right circles, being authentic, and socializing. That's Hollywood.

Like the other day, I go see Dacheux's Glu Gallery. She's doing her thing, kicking ass, hobnobbing, you know? I'm mingling in and around her because I don't know a soul, but then lo and behold there's Jason Schwartzman.

Strange.

Then I mingle with Dacheux's compadres and I realize most everyone at this scene is either a casting director or producer or some kind of big shot for major motion pictures.

They even give me a once over when I ask what they do.

Impolite?

I ask anyway. I want to know. Who is this human being? What do you do on this planet?

"I'm a casting director," she says.

Then I get the cold shoulder again. That's A-OK by me. She must think I'm an actor. She must think I want her to look at my headshots. I don't though. I'm just there for Dacheux. I'm her cheerleader, whether she needs it or not. And these days she might not need it at all. That girl is tearing it up in Hollywood. Man, oh, man, my droogs if you could see her fancy wag with those skully mucks. It was pure bright sight to see. I tell thee. Could make a man out of a plumber and piecemeal out of a dog. You know the expression.

Anyway, it looks like I'm back to producing in telelvision. I had an interview today, and I'm on at another production company doing a crafting show. Who would have guessed it? It looks like I am meant to do something in television.

"I'm proud of you little buddy," Dacheux tells me. "You done good for yourself."

"No, you, little Dacheux," I say. "You are the ass kicker."

"Well, hold on there eh - you are a doing well I tell ya."

Ay, I hear you Cap'n. That I am. I would have liked more time off. Maybe, not. 3 days was good. I got to run a few miles, query two agents, and sleep for about 18 hours. That's plenty good.

I will talk to you peeps tomorrow.

Best,

Pirooz

P.S. If you're wondering about these pics, you'll have to come back on Sunday to see what they're all about.

__________________________________________________

Someone at work just sent me this clip. It's fantastic.

I told her I liked it.

She made fun of me.

"What's with the nosebleeds?" I ask.

"If we make fun of you, we like you," she said.

I think I'm in love.



_________________________________________



Behrle found this for us. "...black juice..." It's a gem of a poem. I couldn't stop laughing. I couldn't even make it through the clip. I had to stop. Put it to rest.

Yeah, maybe, it's not for people to visit. Yeah, that could be right. In any case, I have linked up to Mr. Behrle. He has been writing some wonderful poetry. There was a chapbook on his site at one point last week. Very good.

I even went for a run the other day and thought about Behrle. I wondered why he was so violent. I wondered if he was afraid of his own success. Then I figured we're all something at some point. Then I thought it didn't really matter. Then I thought about that chapbook. I would like to have it. It is beautiful.

Anyway, still at work. The job is icing. So easy.

I'll tell you. Put an artist in television and they'll have plenty of time to live well and do their real work at the same time.

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.

____________________________________

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."

______________________________________

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.

______________________________________

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

Best,

Pirooz

I Would Give Him a Comic Book If I Could

Los Angeles is yellow today. Several of my colleagues joke about pollution, nuclear fission, a chemical experiment gone wrong.

I don't think it's that bad. It looks kind of nice actually.

"We're all going to die," Lady M says. "It's just a matter of time."

"That's the truth," I say.

***

"Just read the first sentence," I hear a man say. "Read it, and if you like it, then we can add it to the list."

I am now alone. It is yesterday. Thunder keeps sounding. There is no rain. It is still Los Angeles. The sky is almost yellow. It is only a matter of time.

"You have to read a full page in the middle," the father continues. "That way you get a real sense of the author's style."

"Okay," the boy says.

"Are you reading the full page?"

"Yes, I'm reading it."

"What do you think?"

"I don't like it."

"It's Vonnegut."

"You told me to read the full page. I don't like it."

"Well, we'll check some more books on the internet when we get home."

The father reaches for the pile on the table. He picks one towards the middle. He hands the book to his son.

"This is John Gardner," he smiles. "He wrote Grendel."

"What's it about?"

"A monster."

"A monster?"

"Yeah, read the first page."

"Oh, I like it," the boy says.

"Yeah, the author died young. He was only 30."

"30?" I ask. "John Gardner was only 30? You got that wrong. He was older than 30."

"He was?"

"30 is too young to die."

"I think it was 30."

"Oh," the father consults Grendel. "You're right. 45."

"Ah, see," I say. "A ripe old age."

"45?" the father asks. "A ripe old age?"

"It's better than 30."

"How'd he die?" a woman asks.

"Motorcycle accident," the father smacks his lips. "That's good."

"Good?" the woman asks.

"At least it was that."

***

Asked the Persian Girl Out

Yo, I did it. Balls to the wall. I decided I would go over to the Persian girl's house and just ask her out. I might be dead tomorrow, you know?

Oh, man, it was hilarious.

She lives with her Grams. I knock on the door and her grandmother comes to the door. She knows no English. Only Farsi. I do my best to convey that I'm looking for Gorgeous Girl. She is having trouble understanding me, because it comes out my mouth like, "Hi. How are you? Hi. Gorgeous girl. I Farsi. Hi."

She decides to call Gorgeous on the phone, who is at work.

So there I am with her Grandmother in her house asking her out.

"Hey," I say. "It's Pirooz."

"Who?"

"Pirooz, from next door."

"Oh, hi."

"I was just calling to see if you want to go get some coffee."

"Yeah, that sounds good. Today is bad though, because I have to work for another hour and then head over to Glendale. Then I head out of town on Thursday."

"Okay."

"But let me get your number."

"Okay. I already gave it to your grandmother."

"Oh, you're with my grandmother?"

"Yeah, she's really sweet."

I give her the digits. Then I bolt. The Grandmother follows me out. She says how she's so glad I'm Iranian, and wants to make sure Gorgeous has agreed to go out with me. At least that's what I think. I don't really know. I catch glimpses of a language that sounds like sandpaper to me - all underwater it's been so long. But I'm pretty sure she dug me. I figure that's a good in.

But what the hell am I going to do on this date?

Sprigs, help me. Dacheux?

Ah, forget it. I'm just going to have coffee and then take her to The Rainbow Room and a couple clubs. Who knows? I'll play it by ear.

So funny though.

I told the executives at the office about it, and one of them just railed me: "Pirooz," he said. "You're a good looking guy. You're all tatted up. You sing in a rock band. Why are you getting all bent out of shape about this girl?"

"Because she's hot," I say. "And such a dork. I dig that. It's so awkward."

The female executive is a lot more docile about the whole thing.

"Just put a note on the door, so the Grandmother doesn't know about it."

I might have gone overboard. It was just how it played out though. Who knows?

What makes it even funnier, is this same girl, Gorgeous, tried to front me 6 months ago and I just realized it today.

I was walking back from writing Golden Ashtray at the Sabe, when I see this girl tying her shoes or something on the sidewalk. Then when I walk up near her, she pops up and says, "Hey, how are you doing?"

I think she's in trouble or something because, mind you, I have just gotten out of a marriage and am kind of slow on the uptake, so I ask her if she needs help.

"Are you in trouble?" I ask. "Something wrong with your car?"

"No," she says, "I just wanted to say hi--and--well--"

Then she just turns and walks away. Real flustered and shit.

I didn't even realize she was trying to get up on my grill till I was halfway down the block and then it was too late to run after her.

Now 8 moths later. I live right next door to her. We'll go get coffee. Should be interesting. Exciting too. I am such a spaz, you know.

Anyway, that's how it's going down. (JP you asked to hear about my crazy love life.) I will let you know if I drool, or say some crazy shit only the poltergeist would do a 360 for.

Over and out, P to the G.

Painting, Etymology and Love: Audio and Text Interview with Alie Ward, March 2006

Curiology 101

Curiology is a little funky company founded by visual artist Alie Ward. Originally from San Francisco, Ms. Ward relunctantly relocated to Los Angeles five years ago, and has become known for both her apparel line and her paintings.

Working almost exclusively on wood, Ward's paintings show a passion for the exploration of words as labels, and the elasticity of such when applied to simple illustrative images, as seen in her ongoing "Dichotomy" series.

- Curiology Website

Audio Interview Part 1 Part 2

PK: What is a signologist? Is this your term?

AW: Did I call myself that? I'm such a dork. No, I'd say that, in a way, that's the fictional term for a field I'm passionately drawn to...(Technically, I would be a semiologist though...) One of my greatest attributes and downfalls is that there are so many -ologies I adore. Etymology, entomology, biology, curiology...

_______[ "dime / dozen" ]____________
PK: Are you more inclined to oogle over a billboard or a Picasso?

AW: Hahaha. Amusing query, sir. I suppose the nature of billboards and marketing lies in their accessibility, so by virtue of sheer interfacing, I'm spending more time looking at the billboards, as they are all around me. And I could be flayed for saying this, but I'm probably more interested in the mechanism at work on the billboard. I often can't help but think about the plotting and the sheer social science that went down in a board room at some corporate HQ to get me to look at the billboards for a new zesty taco. I think what's interesting about signs and billboards is their drive to communicate something very specific, and what I love about painting is the crude use of signage to communicate ideas that are merely for the sake of the concept itself. There's a certain authority in creating a sign, and it takes the pretentiousness that is so rampant in art, throws it away and makes room for function and simplicity. I love love love making paintings that are very simply trying to communicate a verbal idea, I guess. Wow, I'm rambling.

Would you classify yourself as a writer or painter?

Professionally, recreationally, physically and mentally I am both. But I "write" my paintings as thoughts or sentences before I make them, so perhaps writing trumps it? Curiology literally means writing with pictures, so there you go. Both.

Will you be exhibiting in any galleries in the near future?

I'll be showing with the collective project: for their C-note show, and most likely with Cannibal Flower again soon as well, the a group show in Paris which is scheduled for April. Meanwhile, still doing illos and articles for the Weekly, running the shirt business, and doing commissions for clients. It's matter of having enough work to show really. I just took down a solo show yesterday, and I've had two full solo shows this year, so right now I don't have any available new work. Ah, the very day after a show comes down, and I'm plotting the next. Thank god for yerba mate, nature's answer to meth. Without it, I'd have to sacrifice an -ology or two.

Alie Ward is a painter and journalist. She lives and works in Los Angeles. To purchase her paintings, check out her apparel line, or to experience her parched, dry wit with accompanying visuals, go to Curiology.

The Starving Artists: Live and in Charge at the Viper Room

A nice little taste from the night. Here are your favorite Starving Artists living large in Los Angeles. I got my head nodding somewhere in the background.

Click the photo to watch film.

Dating in Hollywood

Two girls tell it to me straight.

"We don't care about money."

"Oh, yeah?"

"Yeah," they say. "You just went down in our book."

I think about this for a minute. Mmmm, I think. Okay. They don't care about money. I think I do. I think I like making money. Money is not a bad thing.

"Okay," I say. "I hear you."

I wonder why some people don't like to talk about money.

I used to not like talking about money. Whenever my ex-wife brought it up, I would say, 'I have to concentrate on my art. I can't work and write novels at the same time.'

Now I know I was wrong.

I am glad about that. It would have been tough to carry that story around, and expect to take care of myself.

I learn though. 'Bit by bit,' as Dacheux says.

Speaking of which, Dacheux and I had a nice soda at the Sabe tonight.

I loved how she called me out on my interaction with these cool girls I met.

"The one girl said her dream guy was a Rated G comic," I told her.

"Oh, that's perfect," Dacheux says.

"Yeah," I say. "But I could be the bad boy too. I got that in me."

"Yeah, right," she laughs. "You could never be the bad boy."

"Yeah, I guess you're right. But, you know what I said to her after she told me she liked G rated comics, I was like, 'Fuck, that's great--I mean--excuse my language.' "

Alabaster, Dacheux's boyrfriend, cracks up at this. I am glad. He cracked me up with his whole penis puppet. He showed me a clip of Saturday's show at the UCB Theater. The skit was for the most foul sketch comedy show.

Alabaster (Allan) made a gigantic penis dance from his crotch and make lemonade. Hopefully he'll post it on his blog. Until then, you can read about it on JPosatko's blog.

Now I am going to draw the pictures that go with this text, as I saw it when I was writing.

Man, I'm like Jay-Z, what's up.

And on that note, one of the last interactions with the girls who don't like money.

"Oh, it's clear you love yourself," one says.

"Yes," I say. "That's true."

It will be nice to hang out with these new friends. The plan is Karaoke on Sunday. Maybe, we will talk about money. Who knows? If it does, I will tell you about it.

Bye,

P to the Z and not Q


p.s. i am

pss. so hum...

Matte Latte Has Got Me in a Death Grip

It is 3:06 AM. I cannot sleep at all. Why? Matte Latte. Everytime. They kill me. I had one at 4 PM yesterday. I only drank half of it. Now it's 3 AM. Damn you, Matte.

I am also filled with a bit of stress. It is tough balancing 2 jobs. I may have to make a decision to cut some ends at one of them. I am pretty sure what I need to do. It is difficult to see past the confusion though.

I am sure things will right themselves when the time is ripe. In the meantime, I didn't get to go to Melrose, and I didn't go to the Well (sorry N.) Instead I spent Friday night recording with Franky, and when we were getting ready to actually have an outing, he played me the DTH recordings, and then we had to talk about that. Of course, right? Naturally.

Well, I think it was about 11pm, when I just conked out. I slept until 12 noon, and then finally made it to the Sabe. When I got there, I got no writing done, because I ran into Gabriel, and shot the shit about the past month.

"You acted in a movie?" he asked.

"Yeah," I said.

"Man, by the time I see you next, you'll have some book done and published."

That got me laughing. Gabe cracks me up. I could talk to him for hours. I didn't though. I drew some comics about a pig and a bird, and then I took my brother and his girlfriend to a movie at the Grove. That was good fun. I finally got to see Glory Road, and yes, you guessed it. I was moved.

I just love sports films. I love them so much, that when I got home, I went out and rented Bad News Bears and watched that too.

That is the most television watching I have done in 7 months. Man, it felt good.

I even watched Annie Hall today after the Swingers got together.

"This is the best movie ever," I said.

"Genius," JP said.

Now I am not thinking about Annie Hall. I am simply trying to create methods for getting to bed. I am drinking water to flush my system. I ate a bowl of rice to make my eyes heavy. And now I am thinking about drinking a bowl of rice. Something will get this matte out of my system.

Yeah, you better believe it. Matte is the devil. It is now 3:19AM, and I have to get up in 4 hours.

Oh, well...this could be fun. I got this book at the bookstore the other day. IT's called Wonderland by Danny Sugarman. The girl at the store recommended it.

"What's your favorite book of all time?" I asked.

"Wonderland -----," she said. "By Danny Sugarman."

"The guy who managed the Doors?"

"Yeah."

"So is it about drugs?"

"Oh, it's the greatest book ever. I took it with me everywhere. I went backpacking and it came with me. I lost the cover, and it's all worn, but it goes with me everywhere."

It wasa helluva plug. I don't usually go for that type of book, but there was something about her love for it. I wanted to taste what was there.

So I got 3 hours to kill. I will tell you how it is in the morning.

Shikow TV: "The Great Fitzby"

Me holding the camera again. Not so bad. It was hard though. Again, the Great Fitz makes me laugh a bit too hard. This time I just let it out. That's the only way.

Now Fitz is in Philly. The end of an era. Hopefully we will be able to make more films in March when his tour comes back to Los Angeles.

This film is a little repoire that he and I would jump into when things got a bit slow at the office.

It goes out to L.O.U., Posatko, IndianaGirl, and all my wonderful friends at the WG. I will see you all soon. I love you, P.

Click here or on pic to see The Great Fitzby in action.

Fitz, the Logger

Hi. They call me Rooster at work.

Today Fitz made a good joke. He called my first novel, The Big Mac Chronicles. This made us all laugh. Especially me. I know the truth. Fitz is in love with his brain. This is the truth.

I have nothing else. That's it. I could make another movie on my lunch break. I could do this pretty easily. I don't though.

"What are you blogging?" Fitz asks.

I don't say anything. He sits in the chair next to me. Now he is talking again.

"What's that? What are you doing?"

He is talking about my typing. I am typing with two fingers. This is the way I type.

"You don't know how to type."

Now Fitz sings a song about how I can't type.

I am still typing with two fingers.

Tonight is Fitz's going away party. He and the rest of the band have had enough of their 500 square foot studio and Los Angeles. They are going back to Philly.

I will miss his songs. His impersonations of me. I will miss him terribly.

"What are you doing?" he says again. "That is not the way to type. You're a writer. Look how much faster I can type than you."

The office watches him type. He sings another song about my typing. I don't say anything and he gets self-conscious.

"I'm being an asshole," he says. "I'll stop."

"That's okay," I say.

"Okay," he says and then sings, "I'm Pirooz. I write books. They are about value meals. I can't type. I have a family. They are nice. I am Pirooz. I am nice."

It is amazing how much more true this song is than any bio or description has ever come.

I hope Fitz survives me. He would be great at funerals. If I ever get married, I want him to do the toast. In fact, I need to record him making fun of me tonight at the party. I will post it at around 430 AM tonight. Have a good Friday, Bloggers.

Los Angeles Calling: Bring Our Troops Home!

Dear Mr. President,

Tonight I watch kids bum rush out of the club. Girls are screaming down the street. Chili shouts for me to get inside.

"It's getting hot," he says.

I stick out a bit longer. I watch people jumping out the windows of the club. A hundred people or so running down the block. Then it starts. Pops. Screams. People are running faster now. I look at one of the door guys.

He grabs me by the collar: "Get your ass inside!"

I watch them pull in the potted plants, the velvet rope, even the mat outside the door.

My heart leaps out of my chest. It runs down the block. It screams like a cannon. A thunderous great thump. Loud enough to numb the pain. Loud enough to calm the dead.

Dear Mr. President,

Last week a kid got carjacked outside my apartment.

"You're probably not used to this," my neighbor tells me. "This is all probably new to you."

"Yeah," I say. "I'm just glad they didn't pull a shotgun on me."

"Gang wars," he shrugs. "It's a lot better now."

Atomic bomb. A thunderous great thump. Loud enough to hear war in our midst. Loud enough to make fire.

Dear Mr. President,

Yesterday I go to the Sabe. The Christian is indoors. He won't go outside.

"I don't like those helicopters," he says. "I feel like they're after me."

I watch my heart leap out of my chest. It speaks about mercy. It presses helicopters to the ground. It burns an atomic riot. My fist in the air. Loud enough to calm the dead. Loud enough to hear war in our midst. Loud enough for your thoughts to shudder. Loud enough for a miracle.

Dear Mr. President,

I can't keep this city safe on my own.

The Desert Rose