CNN.com - 'The Blob' director, 'Shorty' Yeaworth,�dead at 78 - Jul 29, 2004

At midnight tonight, I do a phone interview with the director Lech Kowalski, known for punk documentaries like D.O.A.: A Right of Passage and Hey, Is Dee Dee Home? But there's more ... he's been working on a trilogy of films called "My Wild Wild East," and the first two installments are great. The Boot Factory is about Polish anarchist punks who turn their squat into a successful hand-made boot factory, and On Hitler's Highway covers the people who live and work along a road that was built by Nazis during WWII.

Kowalski lives in Paris, so this will be my first ever intercontinental phone call (well, technically I did that this afternoon ... I looked up the number for a hotel in Paris and called just to make sure the phone card worked). Pretty heady stuff for someone who is nearly pathological about answering a ringing phone ... fuck, you never know who it could be, why open yourself up to potential misery and embarrassment? Anyhow, the only time I could talk to him was 9:00am Paris time, which with the time difference makes it midnight here. I'm treasuring the chance to drink coffee after six, but I'll be hurting tomorrow for sure.

I have just discovered Judee Sill. If you hate the whole singer/songwriter archetype, then don't bother to check this out.

Preview: 9/11 The Great Illusion by George Humphrey

Dig Deming.

Dig Ramirez.

Dig the Three Wise Men.

Fucking miserable hot, the kind of heat I thought I had left behind in the Mudwest ... so much for the cool Northwest. It's been a stifling week, and I haven't the energy to face urgent matters like the rapidly charging Resonance deadline, overdue thank-yous to friends for their matrimonial generosity, not to mention an average week's worth of laundry. I've spent the afternoon sitting in front of a fan reading a fairly pointless biography of Keith Richards (didja know he took dope?). My lethargy has led to the need for a quick shot of coffee and ritalin, which has roused me, but the air is too thick for any real activity.

A new temp gig has surfaced in the purchasing division of a company called Westward Seafoods . The best I can say is that it could be worse. The office is relaxed and friendly, the work is dull but plentiful and time flies. That's a genuine concern to me, however ... each day I spend praying for the clock to burn through the hours so I can return to my freedom, but as a human, my hours on earth are limited and precious and should never be squandered. This has always gnawed at me at every job I've ever endured. I suppose I have no right to demand a living from the world, even if some are lucky enough to have it handed to them. Still, a satisfied mind and relaxed body ought to be human rights, impossible as that is.

Oh yeah, the wedding ... for anyone who wasn't there, we had a fine time, and Mike Rodriguez threw us a classy (but drunken) party afterward that was one of the best I've ever attended. The Steve toasted us with a brilliant, rambling, philosophical speech that referenced Pink Floyd. I reconnected with many old, dear friends in meaningful ways that give me hope as our advancing ages continue to lengthen the spans between meetings. The entire time we spent in the Capital City was stressful and there wasn't much sleep, bouncing as we were between family and crowds of pals that we strove to give equal attention. I was touched by the outpouring of support, however, and proud to declare my love for Lori Tschirhart, a declaration that no one needed to hear to believe. I haven't much interest in visiting Michigan any time soon (finances forbid it no matter how I feel) but I sincerely wish I could convince everyone at Mike's party to move to the Left Coast and dig everything I'm currently digging ... won't happen.

With the new job and all, my discipline will be sorely tested. Hopefully I can persevere against malaise, sleeplessness and eternal frustration. In three months (the purported length of my assignment) I need to have a new plan that will put meat in the larder and allow me to extend this tentative self-respect as I march proudly toward age 40, at which point I've been told that life begins.

We're back in Seattle. Or rather, I am. Lori rather ironically had to fly back to Michigan mere days after our return home due to a family emergency, so I've been spending what was to pass as our honeymoon alone, watching Paul Naschy films and drinking Rebel Yell bourbon in the dark.



I have lots of writing to catch up on, here and abroad, so a compact travelogue will follow within the next twenty four.