Saturday, October 29, 2005

And don't let that computer hit you in the ass on your way out!

The Dodgers have completed one of the most awesome double firings in their storied existence today. General Manager Paul "dispossesed" Depodesta was sent packing, along with his flow charts, out of his Chavez Ravine office and onto Sunset Blvd., looking for the 2 Bus south to the Greyhound station and out of this city and it's hair forever. This coming on the heels of the relocation of hillbilly Jim Tracy back to the coal mining vistas of Pennsylvania where he can single handedly ruin "We are Family" for the rest of their lives. Owner Frank McCourt (and his one-eyed concubine) have finally come to their proverbial senses after a five hour dinner with legends Tommy Lasorda and Bulldog Oral Hersheisher. No doubt the absurdity of the last two years had finally caused more agida than McCourt cares for. This also puts the Kabosh on any notions of the hideous names being bandied about for possible managerial money-ball manure. Terry Collins, Ron Wotus, Terry Lovullo, Jerry Royster and Marvin Hackleberry can now go back to whatever the hell they were doing before and not get any closer to that uniform than a noodling dream in their noggins. Hope has been partially restored and a clean slate has been had. The options are numerous:
Theo Epstein of the Red Sox, far apart in contract talks with Boston, may very well have been the AL East source we read about last week getting these rumours started. Other names I'm hearing are John Hart (Texas, Cleveland), Pat Gillick (Seattle) and possibly Bulldog himself to GM. Bobby Valentine is my dream for manager (Pinella wouldn't be so badk either) as he has been the true heir apparent after Lasorda and is a natural for this position. The $30 million available can now be expected to be used and we can imagine at least a $100 Mil. payroll, an absolute must for this market.
How bout Todd Helton at first, getting Hideki Matsui for left, getting Sheffield back. Bengie Molina is a free agent and would be a perfect fit. Resign Weaver, or go after Burnett or Zito. It's all possible now. Now that the granny and spock the screen writer are gone. Thank you Dodger Gods. Thank you for not forgetting about us.
Hallelujah and Happy Hannukah.

Tony's beard Posted by Picasa

Thursday, October 27, 2005

this is an audio post - click to play

Al Dimeola: my favorite guitarist Posted by Picasa

this is an audio post - click to play

Wednesday, October 26, 2005

Michael Pascoe, David Demattia and I, Simi Valley, 1977. I was a disco-boy. Posted by Picasa

Forkush Posted by Picasa

Tuesday, October 25, 2005

Win or lose (your cool)/games and LOST

We take for granted the pernicious effects of our games. All civilizations created games. As far back as the prehistoric humans, evidence of games abound. The Incans had a form of baseball. The dradle is a cosmic pinwheel designed to help us see multidimensions. Dice has followed the evolution of our species. When, then, did our games become so deeply relective of our greed induced culture? Or did our games influence our cultures?

Looking at all levels of our society, games are a critical part of our identity. Sports is a multi-zillion dollar business and trickles down into the youngest members of our culture. Test scores can be construed as games in disguise, an attempt to trick one so that the arbiters of our world can determine rank and value.

Games are invaluable. Life is a game. Our games are endemic of our health. A culture that values imbalance in gamesmanship is a lost culture. Competition should serve the deeper levels of our soul and lead us towards evolution. We should learn the differences in winning and losing and, like the Japanese game "Go", recognize the supreme value in "how" we lose.

But, alas, that is not to be the case with modern America. Every single strand of our being is encrusted with the miasma and soot of winning at all costs. Every single value that we cherish is embellished with the out-of-balance dance of competition that literally dismisses human life in favor of a system that crushes human spirits. It matters not how this came to be, what matters is the total destructiveness of this truth and the utter pervasiveness and blindness humans within this system owe allegiance to. It is the glue that holds together the anti-life substance of the United States. It is the machine that consumes and spits out and truncates and impermanates and defecates life out of life. It is histories most vile and cruel joke that man has played on himself, or allowed to happen to himself by his belief in the structure and permanence of this way of life. It is in the hateful and murderous looks that we give each other for no other reason but that "that motherfucker might win"!

It is killing us. It is destroying our cell tissue. Only absolute love and forgiveness can stop the inevitable self-immolation that is resulting from this massacre of our beloved games. And yes, this is indeed another theme in LOST

Monday, October 24, 2005


A small green boweevil type of creature was just crawling on my glasses. I admired the little critter. He slithered and slided up and down my lens. How old must this beast be? A day? A minute? I set my glasses on my car hood and then came back to them. Where was she? Aha! Crawling on the outside metal frame. Crawling, along the edge of a straight razor...well, not really. I just can't get over the thought...what could be the meaning of this little varmants life? This fragile form that may live for a day, an hour. I couldn't help but twisting my brain around that one. That's one that I can't shake. Never have been able to shake it. What could be the purpose of such a life? To be born and die instantly? To be eaten and then run over. I have been asking these questions forever. The older I get, the more I ask the question. And now, and for the first time, I have an answer.

The existence of life and it's purpose is never meant to be the answer to any question. Life IS. It slithers and slides and eats and evacuates and is born and dies. It thinks and persists and mythologizes and asks questions and answers questions and wonders and is numb and is sick and helps others and gets high and gets sober and leans on and off itself and makes money and envies and cries and hopes and dreams. What possible purpose is greater than these things? What singular answer to a question "why" could possibly touch the penultimate dance that is existence and non-existence-duality. God is non-dual. Brahman. God renders and presto-digitates and reveals and consumes and rebirths and remakes and slithers and slides. The only true and lasting answer to these inquiries is God is. And if that is not enough, then hearken to the words of the late great Ramana Maharshi when he says "who is asking the question". Why questions no longer suffice when we look at a boweevil or a sea monster. Or our own majesty and decay.

Saturday, October 22, 2005

Alcoholism and "Lost"

Among the multitude of resonant themes being presented on LOST is the overarching recognition that we have reached a period of crisis in relationship to our addictions. Each episode subtly, or not so subtly, suggests the depth to which our souls have been affected by our addictions and, to an equal extent, our ISM'S.

As I have mentioned in prior blogs, the nature of the invisible beasts on the Island, the hallucinations, the miracles, our collective Id, is filtered through the crisis of Western humanities dependence on substances and fearful thinking. Psychology's mass acceptance, at least at the "pop" level, has allowed us to "broadcast", as it were, our secrets. Each episode of LOST hearkens to our collective need to hear each others stories, huddled around a fire, insecure in our human ego's need to control and our unconcious's need to be in mystery. Surrender is at the very heart of the show and the quintessence of our one-ness is made public. This process can only come from one place at this time in our history: the Twelve Steps. Recovery, and the language of it, is our new religion. Who would have guessed that in 1939, the same year as the ascendence of Adolf Hitler and the beginning of the final solution, that a drunk stock speculator from Akron, Ohio would have been given divine guidance to write a book to save drunks? And that this book would eventually find it's way into the heart and minds of the twenty first century affecting the lives of millions and millions of people, addicted and not, opening up a new paradigm and a new level of conciousness which may be the ONLY thing that can save us. I use the word religion very loosely. Spirituality is the new religion. LOST quantifies these insights, presents them to us in tele-novella form (the MOST popular form of drama in the world) and hearkens us to sit around the fire every week with these people IN REAL TIME. This is unheard of in this day and age of DVR cable, video-and DVD recording devices and our inability to bond and be present with our families, or what is left of it. It's not that we want to find out what's going on next week, which we do. It's that we are compelled to BE TOGETHER for one night each week, to cathect each other and experience a change.

Bill Wilson would be amazed indeed.

Thursday, October 20, 2005

Ruminations on Jacques Vallee and "Lost"

Here are some cogent thoughts from one of this centuries most
resonant voices, scientist/sociologist Jacques Vallee. Those familiar
with Mr. Vallee know that his ideology regarding UFO phenomena breaks
with conventional notions of extraterrestrial causes inherent in the
UFO experience. He sees mythological extrapolations, paranormal and
potentially unknowable using Aristotelean logic and current
scientific paradigms. He rather suggests finding meaning
ontologically as opposed to fundamentally.

"When the underlying archetypes are extracted, the saucer myth is
seen to coincide to a remarkable degree with the fairy-faith of
Celtic countries...religious miracles...and the widespread belief
among all peoples concerning entities whose physical and
psychological descriptions place them in the same category as the
present-day ufonauts. A control system, the means which man's
concepts are being rearranged, may be at work. Their ultimate source
may be unknowable, at least at this stage of human development; what
we do know is that we are being presented with continually recurring
absurd messages and appearances which defy rational analysis but
which nonetheless address human beings on the level of myth and

By 1969, when he published Passage to Magonia, Vallee's assessment of
the UFO phenomenon had undergone a significant shift. Much to the
consternation of the "scientific ufologists" who had seen him as one
of their champions, Vallee now seemed to be backing away from the
extraterrestrial hypothesis and advancing the radical view that UFO's
are paranormal in nature and a modern space age manifestation of a
phenomenon which assumes different guises in different historical
contexts. He posits that they may in fact be part of a great, more
subtle "control system" which may be a factor in human evolution and
is indeed influencing humanity, perhaps aggressively and with
hostility. It may in fact be part of the earth itself leading us to
recognize the limits of our own conciousness in perceiving the
existence of other dimensional realms that exist where we reside.

Vallee in distillation is significant in the essential recognition of
a quasi-sociological implication of paranormality and it's ongoing
role in human conciousness. To focus on these aspects yields an
existential/ontological relationship with our inherent confrontation
with animal/divine/evolutionary roles of human life. These mysteries,
which clearly lie at the core of "Lost", are expressing themselves
with volume at this point in our epoch, rearranging old and renewing
vital components of efficacy to ourselves and each other. Meaning is
sought first over all other explanations. This message has
transcendental implications for our survival and reparation as a
fundamentally broken species. "Lost" is guiding us, using the over-
used anachronism "phoenix from the ashes", to a perception of hope,
vitally necessary in refueling the emptiness of human life on this

Monday, October 17, 2005

Tomorrow-land murders

It was supposed to be an age of leisure. "A great big beautiful tomorrow" said the moustachioed animatronic robot at the Carousel of Progress. He was such a figure of hope. That's right. And the wonderful music as we slowly rotated as an audience, together, moving rhythmically clapping our hands to the transcendent future of technology and evolution. Then, as the carousel came to it's last stop, you disembarked and rode up an escalator to the city of tomorrow. The gigantic miniature marvel encased in glass with the street lights and the motor cars. We were the behemoth's that looked at the city below, terrifying it's inhabitants no doubt that had been abducted from another space/time portal and shrunk to the size of a peanut. I'm sure there were shrieks of absolute diarreahic horror at seeing the gigantic retarded boy peering through the glass dome, leering down on a shrunken populace.

then we left the building. I don't know about you, but that big giant Carousel of Progress eventually changed forever. I think it became "America Sings" with birds and other aviary creatures, not to be confused with "the Tiki room". Unfortunately, America Sings was a pale imitation of it's previous tenant. But things were not so beautiful for that carousel. No siree. If you remember, as I surely do, the appalling tragedy that befell a young disney employee as she pressed the button to turn the giant swiveling room. Her dress was caught in the space between the wall and the turnstyle. Hopelessly trapped, she was crushed alive as the canned music played at ear splitting volumes. The sounds of banjoo and washboard mixed with blood curdling shrieks. Matted hair and brain tissue splattering venomously on the elderly guests from Ohio or Toledo (Ohio). This future, the future that looked so bright, was colored with the brightness of blood. Our future covered in blood and embryonic fluids, seeping mashed and degraded eye socket, emptied of viscous mucous fluid and lens. She was young, I would think. The whole thing was amplified over the state of the art electro-alcephenous disney microphonology. You recall, I think I do. The microphones were the kind that looked like a walkie talkie with the button on the side, black. You depressed the button and the sound came through other means. Ocassionally it was an oldstyle silver mike, you recall. I do.

This particular strain of slaughter left quite an empty, lasting impression on me. I wonder, about the girl, was she jewish? I think she might have been. I don't really know why. Was she from Florida, originally and came out to California to live at the multitudinous array of motels with pools and slides across the street. Did she ride the Matterwheel and the peoplehorn around the park, happy, gleeful with child perhaps, something her family knew nothing about, hence her trip to California. She could have been a contender, instead of a corpse, which is what she was, and is. Our future, so robotic and perfect, rife with blood and embalming fluid.

Wednesday, October 12, 2005

Where's my post toasties?

I have left several audio transmissions during the Yankee defeat to the Angels and they have not seemingly found their way onto my blog site. I am terribly disappointed. I was calling the end to the affair from this perch on the phone lines and it hasn't appeared. Drat! Double drat in that it was the nadir of the Yankee dynsasty. How marvelous for you and I both. The remainder is irrelevant. The defeat of the empire is far more significant than who actually wins a hideously stupid trophy. The world can go on. Star wars music plays. Fanfare. Trumpets and jesus returning. The Yankees have melted. Oh...what a world!

Friday, October 07, 2005


I have the second episode of the season on my DVR, on tape, waiting to be watched. I just finished the first two parts of the Pilot. I need to go through the first season in order to solidify my concept, which continues to gestate. Here is my take of the show today, which may change tomorrow.

The show is functioning on multiple levels. In the Soviet Union, in the sixties, when Tarkovsky made his remarkable allegory "Stalker", he admitted in the press, that the impact of facism had to be expressed covertly. Thus the images and portraiture were cinematic protestations and revelations. What is most remarkable about "Lost" is that we have arrived, in totem, to the same implication in 2005 United States. This is where we are at the present time. This is where anxiety has taken us. And so I begin to understand the nature of where we have arrived. The invisible creatures are our ID, and we are it's food.

Where are we? Who are we? Really.

What if Hell is real?

I write that in the form of a question, not as a statement. I'm really asking this question, legitimately. What if there is a real place, bathed in flame, where our bodies, which we carry with us, burns in eternity. Where we are ripped apart and reassembled, and ripped apart, again and again and again, in perpetuity, with no choice or freedom to disconnect or detach, perfectly aware of the pain, unable to hope or dream or breathe. Epic torment. FOREVER!
I have been thinking a great deal more on this topic as I am about to finish Corinthians in the New Testament. Paul's mighty sermon in Corinth, filled to the brim with the Christ, has further fueled the speculation, and the strange but rather nagging reminders I keep giving myself, that the light and the dark are indeed in confrontation. This is no "different sides of the same coin" Buddhist, off-the-hook, new age "It's all good" philosophy for an age of anxiety. This is about salvation baby. This is about fornication. This is about love one another or die motherfucker. And not in the "moral" sense but in the spiritual sense. In terms of the "spirit" of the law and not the letter. It is not enough to abstain from lusting in the flesh, I must abstain "in the mind". Lusting in the mind is the same as debasing the kindgdom in the flesh. Murdering the flesh of another's wife. This is bloody business I suspect. But as I look around me, hell, INSIDE me, I see vile and repugnant nature. Diseased and wretched, sinful waste within me. But in Jesus Christ, in the word made flesh, in the resurrection and the light, in the disemination of HIS word, there is rebirth and life eternal. A rescue party to take me off this damned Island. Which is why I now want to talk about...

Thursday, October 06, 2005

MLB post season audio takes

Howdy folks. I will be leaving audio blogs during this baseball postseason, most likely during games. If the unthinkable happens, and the Yankees win it all, you will probably hear some expletive moments. However, if the Halo's win the trophy, happiness and joy will prevail, along with pretty musical interludes. Thank you and enjoy the fun.
The Management

Wednesday, October 05, 2005

this is an audio post - click to play

Those Damn Yankees

October, routinely, is the most hateful month of the year for me. From the earliest part of the month to around Halloween (how ironic) I experience some of the most pure hatred I can muster. Who, you say, could be the recipient of my ire? No one else fits the bill but those dreaded New York Yankees. Satan's brood.

From my earliest memories of childhood to today, the Yankees have ellicited such animus from me that I often wonder why it is so strong. True, the Dodgers are my favorite team, I bleed Dodger blue, but this kind of venom is pretty much reserved for those who have done things unseemly and vile. I can only tell you that my villification of them is quite irrational. I can't seem to find one thing that they have done over and over that makes me despise them so. Everything And even so, they went through a period of wretchedness that defies that explanation. They haven't won coming on four years, even though they have been there. No, it must be something else. Something...within me.

Yes, the Yankees have nothing to do with it, really. It's what they do tome. They remind me of something deeply insufficient about myself. The part of myself that finds nothing but fault with me. The part of me that has yet to get that which I deem mine. The part of me that has lost and will always lose, no matter what the perception is. The part that believes in my own inadequacy. There is a perfection to the Yankees. They have attained the world. They are on top of it. The rest of us pleebs are down here. Money is certainly a major issue, but it's more about power. It's more about the real aspect that kills me...New York itself.

No matter how hard I try, I will never be a New Yorker. Even though I have lived in New York and my father's family is from there. To be a New Yorker is a state of mind. My father has it. My uncle has it. I don't got it. It's a form of street spirituality that respects guts and moxy, along with brains and brawn. To be a New Yorker means your particular form of humanity costs more, is worth more, than the regular flock of sheep. It is the heighth of civic arrogance and they let you know it. it is about the world. Making one's way in it and communicating to you from the perch of its primacy. And it is earned.

But, the truth is, I know that I have not earned that right. I haven't joined that club, or been admitted. New Yorkers, or rather Yankee fans, inhabit this illustrious place. Met fans simply take the double R. Dodger fans take the 101. Angels fans, the 405. This is an outgrowth of arriving in the world. It is this same chutzpah that shocks and awes Hollywood agents into the very real and correct belief that New York actors are worth more than others. They are. It's just the shakes of being toughened up by the Darwinian process of failing in the Apple.

I know that loss. I tried it for five minutes over twenty five years ago and wasn't made of that kind of skin. I came back to Los Angeles. The only place that has an allure greater than New York, which New Yorker's daren't admit. It's the one place that scares the Yankees, really. There's no there there. That freaks an apple dweller more than the Yankees losing.

So this hatred is quite sublime. It is quite hot. It stems from knowing that I am a second class citizen under the heel of those who have been anointed the great metropolitan nobility of Manhattan. Forget about it.