From my notebook journal:

Dubuque Iowa, Alte Glocke Restaurant, Julian Inn

I’m at the Alte Glocke Restaurant, in the basement of the Julien Inn, Dubuque, Iowa—it’s a German themed place—a cute little “U” shaped counter is where the regulars sit—old guys. I order “American Fries” with cheese and onions, and I ask if there is a choice of cheese, and the waitress says, “American, or cheddar cheese sauce, or sliced…” and then she pauses, not sure. Classic. It’s—let’s see how the food is… I’m staying at the Canfield Hotel—it’s great—it’s the place Andy and Karen recommended. It’s pretty amazing—like $32 a night (plus tax)—and it’s pretty spectacular, weird, and old—and just plain weird. I can’t write about it now—I’ll take some pictures and try to remember—and come back later, some day, hopefully.

Started out today by turning on the TV—big mistake! I saw on the scrolling TV guide, “Fox and Friends” and I thought, Fassbinder, cool!—but it’s Fox News right wing commentary—a woman talking about Colin Powell’s statement: “The world is beginning to doubt the moral basis of our fight against terrorism.” And this woman says, I know he’s a smart guy, but I don’t understand… doing her best Rush Limbaugh imitation, being totally flabbergasted, like somebody just said something completely bizarre. Why is “I don’t understand!”—the expression of total ignorance and relative stupidity—always used as a tactic of the extreme right wing’s expression of moral superiority?

The one way The Canfield Hotel could be better is to have no TV whatsoever, becaue I personally have a weakness when it comes to hotel rooms and TV—I turn them on. Last night I saw “20,000 Leagues Under the Sea” on the listing, and I said, that’s cool, I’m always jumping at any chance to see James Mason. I turned it on and it’s a TV SHOW! I mean, maybe it’s not that bad, but I wanted the movie—I couldn’t watch it.

I’m eavesdropping on the guys at the counter now. One guy’s talking about his friend who was really particular about keeping the books somewhere, I guess. “Keith died 20 years ago—looking for that dime…” I guess the guy was obsessed with perfection, and that’s what killed him. That makes me think of MY friend Keith, who died almost 20 years ago. Could it be that long already? I guess it is. When you start thinking about people who have died, you think about all that time, and what they have missed, the good and the bad. There’s been a lot of bad, that’s for sure. But a lot of good, too.

Canfield Hotel, Dubuque, Iowa

Donuts: The Motion Picture

Sandusky, Ohio. I’m at Markley’s, early, but the donut machine isn’t going, and there are no donuts. I’m afraid to ask about it and find out the donut machine is broken beyond all repair, retired, or gone, and make everyone there sad, myself included, just by bringing it up. What would REALLY make me sad, though, is to be able to eat donuts again and THEN find out they’re not making them anymore. It’s a weird kind of backwards, convoluted way of looking at things I have, I guess. Hey, I just thought of something! This is a great metaphor! A great metaphor, overall, for life or something. Well, maybe not for life. But for something.

Hunting For Hidden Gold (last part)

So I went down to investigate, this was about a month ago, while the workers were taking their dinner break and left the hole unguarded. I climbed down the ladder, and what I found there astounded me! I don't know if I should write about it here because no one will believe me. I'll just say that there was no gold, but there was an underground world that was as vast as an entire continent! There I discovered a utopian society and a community of people who worked together without conflict or self-interest. I was introduced to a new kind of sex with no reproduction or disease, a delicious but healthy diet, and music that is composed and played with the human mind.

When I returned to the surface, just this morning, I found out that I had missed the election (though fortunately I had voted by absentee ballot through the free but efficient and reliable underground mail system). I emerged from the earth to find the president gripping, Rumsfeld had gotten the axe, and the Wisconsin's love nazis had voted that gays and non-christians had no right to exist. I felt like the groundhog-- I didn't know whether to come out of the hole or stay down there. But like the groundhog, I realized that no matter what I did we'd still have an ungodly amount of bitter, miserable winter left.

Hunting For Hidden Gold Part II

I went to look at the excavation site, and this guy came out of the tent all aggressively and asked me what I was doing. "I'm just looking at what's going on here," I said, and then he told me to get lost. "You guys aren't digging for gold are you?" I said, taking a chance. His reaction told me that I had hit the nail on the head. He came at me with a large metal object that resembled the "Jaws of Life" and I had to run off. He wasn't really trying to catch me, but just scare me, I think. Anyway, when I said that about the gold, his eyes clouded over and he drooled a little. When it comes to gold, even when you bust someone, they are still in a state of being overcome by gold lust.

Hunting For Hidden Gold

They started digging a hole in the middle of this intersection outside of my office a few weeks ago. I can't remember when, exactly. Each day they bring in more equipment, some of it really strange. There are some big machines out there now, like nothing I've ever seen. Recently it came to me: They've found gold under the streets of Milwaukee! Once I realized that, I started to look at the workers as I walked by, and, sure enough, I could spot the gold lust in their eyes. You can just see it, you know? Men who are digging for gold look like no one else you've ever seen.

THE CONNECTION

Okay, this magazine I found at the laundromat says: "The Connection" on the cover, and then LAS VEGAS Leadership Summit 2005. It's dated November 2005. There is a table of contents with cryptic chapters like: New Ring Earners, New Platinum Jacket Earners, and Golden App Award Winners. And then there is one that says, Las Vegas Talent Show, which is the first thing I've seen that makes any sense, so I'll look at that chapter. There are pictures of people with microphones, they look like normal, dressed up people, more or less. They seem to be from all over the country, and the winners, a couple from California sang "Louisiana Woman Mississippi Man." Still no clue to what this business is all about. Maybe just having a good time. I page through the magazine. Most of it consists of lists of names, and the states they are from, under headings such as: "Top Producers," "Top Recruiters," "Executive Directors," and "Managers & Directors." Okay, the back of the magazine comes with an earnest portrait of a guy from Fayetteville, NC who is quoted under his photo: "My lifestyle has changed a lot because I have time and money freedom! I like the opportunity to help others become successful! That's my life mission!" Weird! It's so general! And then there is a kind of generic photo of a modern office building at night with brightly lit windows, and next to that it says" Profiles of Success." There is a phone number there where you can order "your" copy. Then there is the address of the person who this magazine was sent to, somewhere in Illinois. The name on the mailing label is simply "Lee." I'm thinking this thing is some kind of cult. It's pretty creepy. I wish now I hadn't even looked at it!

LAUNDRY DAY

It’s laundry day, but that’s okay, since it only comes once every six months or so, and it has to be done. It’s early Friday morning, and it’s apocalyptically windy outside, it’s going to thunderstorm, maybe hail, like the last two days. When it’s this warm the wind makes you think of tornadoes. No one is on the street. I am the only one walking, though about 700 cars pass me as I walk the six blocks or so to the laundromat. There was one guy out on the street, but actually walking ON the street, not the sidewalk, which is usually a bad sign. He had flipped out. He is holding one fist in the air and chanting in an otherworldly voice that kind of sounds like a Canadian goose.

“This is the world I live in,” I think, but it’s not. I’m just experiencing a small amount of pain as my heavy laundry bag cuts into my neck. Even a small amount of pain will make you have thoughts like, “this is the world I live in,” when it’s not, not at all. The world I live in is much, much more, and maybe less, even, but not so simple and not worth trying to summarize, or make a proclamation about, ever—it’s just a crybaby expression. I say crybaby because it’s just a small thing this carrying laundry—and anyway, I like doing laundry, and there is no time constraint, and the laundromat is empty—it’s all very pleasant except for the weight of the bag. People are walking around with REAL pain, intense pain—and it is affecting their thoughts, to say the least. The guy with his fist in the air isn’t just flipping out on a lark. There’s something bothering him, to say the least.

Having breakfast at the Brady Street Pharmacy while my laundry washes, I’m eavesdropping on the Italians as usual. It’s really easy because we’re all in the same spot and they’re loud enough. There are usually a dozen or so older Italian guys from the neighborhood, I assume. Usually all men—an occasional woman. Some guys never say a thing. Usually it’s a few guys doing all the talking. There’s a guy telling about his trip to Venice. The one woman says, “You’ve got to write all this down, or you’ll forget it.” I immediately notice that sentiment, I like this woman. Later, she says, “Why do guys always come back from Italy with chains?” I’m not sure exactly what she’s referring to, I wasn’t paying attention. I think they were talking about younger guys. Anyway, I think it’s not that often that people use metaphors at all anymore, is it? Maybe there are some common ones all the time? I’m going to think about it. I’m going to pay attention for metaphors for a couple of days and see if I hear any... then get back to you. I’m going to listen to conversations for a few days.

Back at the laundromat, I happy to get away from the smooth jazz of the pharmacy, only to be immediately depressed by the classic rock of the laundromat. I remember how Huck Haines was just saying that every time he’s been at this particular laundromat he’s had to suffer through “A Horse With No Name,” and it makes me realize that if I hear that terrible ode today, it will neutralize it, but now with that thought in mind I realize that I won’t hear it at all. Instead, it gets stuck in my head, worse than if I’d actually heard it. I keep trying to figure out what that one line is: “In the desert, you don’t remember your name, cuz there ain’t no one for to give you no pain.” I don’t care if it’s name or pain or rain or fame or Spain, it’s the “for to give you” part that drive me nuts, what the hell kind of language is that? It reminds me of that one song? What is it? NO! I don’t WANT to remember.

There is a guy in the laundromat with running shorts and a t-shirt and flip-flops. Men think going to the laundromat means that they can wear ANYTHING, the excuse being that it’s laundry day. But that’s not really true anymore, men think they can wear anything anytime anymore, and I’m not excepting myself from this criticism. And especially in the summer. I’m so happy when summer is over so you don’t see men wearing flip-flops out in public anymore. Anyway, this guy is okay, even though he’s wearing the kind of shorts men wear so their dicks will “accidentally” fall out at some point. But the worst thing is that he’s got on a t-shirt that says something on the front as well as the back. On the back there is simple text, two short sentences, the first says: “Juicy stories? Or Juicy steaks.” I can’t tell for sure which. Right after that it says, “Set to music.” Which is it, juicy stories, or juicy steaks? I’m trying to look closely to see, but the guy gets all self-conscious and looks over at me suspiciously, so I look away. Hey, if you’re going to wear a t-shirt that says something on it, you’ve got to expect people are going to try to read it, right?

Then I hear a Fleetwood Mac songs and I go into a depressive tailspin. This is the moment that Fleetwood Mac has finally put me over the edge. It’s not always the same song, but always one from the “Rumors” album, or the one before. I still own both of those, but I’m going to do something symbolically cleansing with them or something. I can’t take it anymore, hearing one of these songs again. But how many times in my life will I hear these songs again. Maybe I should count, keep track from this moment on, how many times I hear a song from one of these albums in public. Maybe I should do some heinous act every time I hear one. Not some bad, destructive, or hurtful thing. I don’t believe in that, but something else. It can’t be an act of good will or generosity, though, because that would be like rewarding Fleetwood Mac. Really, it’s nothing against them, it’s the people who keep playing the fucking things. Anyway, that’s a good question. What act could I commit, that had some significance, some good even, but be an act of protest and defiance? I’ll figure something out.

I’ve got all that going through my mind, well actually the angry version, as I push the buttons for the dryers, walk away, and then after going for a few seconds they inexplicably STOP. Is this planned into their operation? Is there a convention where laundromat owners go to buy dryers, and some sweaty leisure suited slimy dryer salesman explains how profits are increased by these dryers that sometimes just turn off for no reason and you have to go push the button again. It’s not just my imagination, either, because it happens EVERY TIME I’m at the laundromat, and with many of the dryers.

I’m seething with anger at this point, but still try to enjoy the experience at the laundromat, by reading whatever there is there to read, which I usually do. There is only ONE thing today, it’s a glossy magazine that says: “The Connection” on the cover, very strange. Okay this is a whole new subject, I’ll get to this later.

I’m carefully folding shit, when “Running On Empty” comes on through the inescapable ceiling speakers, and I flip out. I quickly shove all my laundry in my bag, wet still even, wrinkled, unsorted, maybe missing sock mates, and rush out the door, having been effectively pushed to the brink.

I'm Moving!

I spent the last week thinking that I was going to move, for sure. I haven’t moved for five years, and the longer you go without moving the worse it is when you finally do. More stuff, more stuff you didn’t even know you had, more stuff that someone apparently moved into your house when you were gone, or in the middle of the night, because you sure have never seen it.

The reason I’m thinking of moving is because the Landlord (not technically, but I’ll just use that word) came pounding on my door at midnight (I was asleep, but some lights were still on) and I didn't know who it was, so I didn't answer, I thought it was some drunk person. Then he came around to a window, and I saw it was him, so I went out and he said I was making noise and woke him up, but of course I wasn't. He looked totally insane, but I guess he had been sleeping. Maybe he was drunk. The next day I went out on my porch and noticed that the flower pots with plants were kicked off my porch, and I don’t know for sure who did that, but they were lying down in the weeds. That really kind of made me mad. Poor old spider plants, they’re always getting abused.

Anyway, I still haven’t talked to him. I was fully expecting some kind of apology letter the next day, or a note at least, or a phone call, or something. I’ve been afraid to sleep there, because I have my bed in my front room where there is the best breeze, but my head is right next to the screen, and anyone could look in. I normally feel safe, knowing the neighbors and all, but if one of the neighbors happens to be schitzing out, and has power tools, I don’t know. So I’ve been sleeping at the office, and only going home enough to visit the cat. He’s a little unhappy about that, but on the other hand he doesn’t want me there bugging him all day anyway.

I just went down to the corner...

for a pack of cigarettes, and now it's several months later. I'm just really tired of it all, to tell you the truth. Sometimes I just want to go back to when I had nine books and a typewriter, and I even used candles to type by on cold evenings. Maybe it's just that it's summer. What am I doing sitting at a computer in the summer? I should be camping or something. See you next fall!

Why am I doing this?

Many of you know that I am fond of fabrications, stretchings of the truth, exagerations, and outright lies, and I sometimes inhabit characters with names other than my own for these purposes. Sometimes I can't keep track of who knows what, or even what I've made up, or what I've written down, or even where I've written down what I'm trying to remember. So this is a place where I will make every effort to be straightforward, easy to understand, and honest. I realize that I have been skeptical about this trend of online journals, and the name they by which they are often referred. It is a name the implies violence, uncontrolable outbursts, guilt, and punishment. I have no use for those things, anymore. You can call it what you like, but from now 0n I am vowing to choose my words carefully and consider their implicatons.

This is a place for my closest personal friends, if they should choose, to get the straight, honest story. I am not pretending here, or attempting to hide behind anything, or make myself look better, or even admirable. I think it is important, occasionally, to simply say what you mean in the simplest way possible, and give other people the benefit of the doubt to judge you fairly. So here it is, if you think you can deal wth it. The truth.