Saturday 14 March 1998 — Hollywood Burger Bar

Moving into my new house—well, everything's moved in, but in a shambles—in boxes—a state that usually takes months for me to get out of—if ever. Of course I hadn't moved for three and a half years, but it seems like yesterday. I'm still, at this point, determined to get everything in the room, and the house—all my stuff, in absolute working order and complete organization! I can do it too, but I'll have to be clever, and it won't happen over night. I need some good solid weekend days all day—and right now the NCAA Tournament is on, so that will either be a hindrance or a good thing—to keep me from being depressed. I like to have basketball on when I'm working on stuff—but those first two days are really intense—my favorite two days of the tournament—the first round—32 games in two days!

Heather and I went over to Cinema 21 on Thursday and saw an old Frank Capra movie from 1933—The Bitter Tea of General Yen—probably one of the more obscure and weird Capra movies, but also one of the more complex and best. Things really haven't changed in Hollywood since, say the beginning of sound in 1927 or so—in 70 years! Things haven't really changed very much at all. It's a diabolically in-place system—I guess anything that is so immensely successful creates an enormous monolith of itself that contains the blueprint and the rules, the ten commandments and the holy grail. You know all that. The actual, appropriate metaphor eludes me. Better movies being made from popular but not very good books of the day. The really good movies being ignored.

I like that monolith—like the one in 2001: A Space Odyssey. As a symbol for whatever—it almost doesn't matter. I guess if the monolith is in a movie it should represent the cinema. Or Hollywood (not the same thing). I know—I'll put that damn monolith in everything I do—from now on! It'll represent whatever stupid system that's currently in place that I have to work against, chip away just so I can piss on it. In writing, in movies, in art—the monolith will appear. But not always in black rectangular form, of course—I'm not sure in what form—but that will be dictated by the art form (as in visual art—painting, etc.—the monolith is the four-sided, rectangular frame of the visual piece). (This is all very much coffee thinking!) This is a milestone ***** make a note, mark it here.

Wednesday 4 March 1998

I'm at Holman's for breakfast, for the special steak—which I'm sure won't compare to my special steak yesterday at the Sandy Hut. I declare war on the kind of easy listening music that is on the radio and is supposed to evoke some kind of emotion but is totally phony. The kind of song Whitney Houston used to do. This one was Vanessa Williams. Probably written by Baby Face. Not necessarily a young, good-looking singer, but most likely. I don't know what I mean by “declare war”—it's not like I'm going to do anything. It's just that I'm violently opposed to it—but my reaction is not going to be violent, or even writing an editorial about it (though if I was a newspaper columnist I very well might). But it's just a way of saying I have to take action the only way I feel I is positive—and write my own songs. Because the world doesn't need any more songs—but if somebody doesn't do something, that kind of mediocre crap will take over.

“Did you see the Titanic?” is the question of the day. Certainly more people are talking about Titanic the movie than were talking about the boat Titanic when it sunk. Insane numbers. “I don't like movies,” says the waitress—but you know, if she ends up going to one movie all year long... “It's going to make the most money of any movie ever made.” Everyone knows this. “It was the most expensive movie ever made.” It's a pure triumph of capitalism and the USA—the big way of doing things. It's kind of excellent in a way—in a purely artistic standpoint. From a social standpoint, it's terrible—grotesque and ugly—but in keeping alive the big movie—which helps the small movie be small, and its own thing—it's good—it's funny. It's comforting, even. (My expression for everything lately—comforting—I must need a lot of comfort.) Last year, “The Year of the Independent Movie”—that was disconcerting—disturbing. But this puts things back where they were. I suppose I'll have to go to it—add $6.75 to their gross—to see if I can find something else good to say about it—or criticize it as artificial, digitized entertainment—we'll see.

Tuesday 3 March 1998

I'm at the Sandy Hut for breakfast—is this the date?—March 3 already—boy, half of March could slip by if I'm not careful. It's cold and rainy out, so it feels like winter still, which is kind of comforting. It's taken me over a month to move all my stuff to my new house—this is a record for ridiculous slowness for me. But I guess most of the month was dominated by the film festival—which turned out to be disappointing compared to the past three—but still we saw some really good movies. The best of all, probably, was the Wong Kar-wai movie—Fallen Angels—and lately it has felt like Wong Kar-wai is the real hope for the cinema. 

I moved the last of my stuff out of our old apartment this morning—now my new room is so completely full I can't walk into it. It will be the ultimate challenge making it into a functional room. It's the kind of challenge I like—as long as I can keep from being depressed. I'm going to be late for work, but I had to get some coffee and something to eat before work—so I stopped at the Sandy Hut—just the same as the last time I was here. And it's been awhile. Got a big steak and eggs and potatoes for $4.75. CNN Headline News on the TV—on the several TV's—you can't avoid it—so I watch it. I guarantee that anyone who sits around and watches CNN Headline News all day will go completely insane. Without all the TVs in here, and the Oregon Lottery bullshit all around, this would be the most pleasant place in the world. It's a little disturbing, people drinking while I'm eating breakfast—but that's kind of comforting, too. The guy at the counter next to me is getting breakfast but no coffee—the hard liquor has caught his eye. He was probably working all night—now off work, breakfast—a drink sounds perfectly appropriate.

Friday 27 February 1998

Boy, what an example why this journal stuff never works and writing about the movies never works and working doesn't work and nothing works. I'm really tired and kind of stressed out from being near the day of moving. How many trips have I made to my new house in the car already, and how many more to go? What movies have we seen and were any really that good? I'm just burnt out on everything, and sick of everything. Oh—I talked to Mark Keffer on the phone the other night—he lives in NYC—Brooklyn—talked about painting. He's going to take a year and just paint. Go into debt, etc., it's inspiring. I have to think about that, and not all these little things that depress me. Big things—painting, don't worry about money. Think about that.

Tuesday 17 February 1998

Well, the film festival started and we're already completely immersed in it, with no time left over for anything else. You wouldn't think that going to a couple of movies a day would be that time-consuming, but it is. I guess partly it's just having to be somewhere at a certain time—and the film festival is massively popular as usual, so you have to be there early.

Sometimes it seems like it makes more sense for a couple (as in husband and wife) to not have similar interests—so like when the husband is out going to all these movies the wife can be washing dishes and cleaning. Just because that sounds so bad, I might add, and when the wife is out at painting class, yoga, tinkering with the 1966 Mustang in the garage, at band practice, etc., the husband can be taking care of the kids and knitting. Many families are like this. But to me it sounds no fun. So what if the dishes don't get done for a week.

Okay—the movies defy easy and concise reviews in this particular context, so instead I'll just run a continuous montage of observations, details, and feelings. Thursday night was the opening party, to which we were lucky enough to get tickets for (Heather and Elissa, for working on film notes—Heather as well for working on the film festival trailer). Aside from the gross smelling cheese table and the cheesy organic local microbrew and the lame-o Tazo tea table, the party offered little except for a crowded room in a pseudo art museum with—it offered nothing. I smoked a cigarette outside. The movie that evening was Almodovar's new movie, Live Flesh. As with all Almodovar movies, I liked it, but I didn't like it as much as most of his other movies—I didn't like the story that much. Also, I felt like I was watching it with one eye, for some reason. I had to pee at one point, which always bugs me. But I don't know if I was experiencing a lack of Almodovar or a lack of me, but something didn't connect.

Friday night I saw Wake Up Love, from Argentina (I'm not going to put directors names in here for the most part—too much spelling involved)—surprisingly good—I expected it to be bad, or at least “Canadian.” (For an explanation of “Canadian Film Theory” see... well, we'll wait until later, or someday.) Then a Bosnian movie, Perfect Circle—maybe the best movie about war I've ever seen. One doesn't really need to say “anti-war movie” I don't think. Probably will be the best movie of the festival by the time it's over.

Saturday, we got ready early and headed downtown for a noon show of Little Dieter Needs to Fly—Herzog's new movie, a documentary about a German guy who was a POW in Vietnam and escaped. There were rumors that Herzog would be there, but he wasn't. I met John Campbell, then, who Heather knows—he is a cinematographer who worked with Gus Van Sant on several movies. Then we stayed downtown, Heather, Elissa, and I—finally ate at Cafe Sol, and then went to Jour de Fete, an old Jacques Tati movie—his first movie, actually. It was about Tati as a postman in a small village—it was excellent. Just inspiring. Then the second show of the postman double feature, Junk Mail, from Norway, which was okay, but also lacking some major thing to make me like it.

Sunday was the Czech double-feature—Forgotten Light, a movie about a priest in a small village—and An Ambiguous Report About the End of the World—about a really far off outpost of civilization—with just crazy editing and one sordid event after another—an endless succession of births and death. Then last night was Wong Kar-wai's Fallen Angels—really a couple of years old, but never played in Portland, I don't think. It was really great and inspiring—and really, if I had to pick a favorite director making movies it would probably be Wong Kar-wai.

Tonight? I don't know yet. So far there have been several themes pop up—and coincidences—trivial, really, but still somehow shocking in the way things connect and resonate with each other. There were crossing-gate jokes both in Wake Up Love and Jour de Fete. Not a big thing, but how long do you think it'll be before I see another crossing-gate joke? Both Perfect Circle and Forgotten Light had appearances by a German Shepherd—and in both movies it was shot and killed. That wouldn't be nearly so extraordinary except that also both movies had a brief appearance by a mackerel tabby kitten. I'm sure it means nothing.

Now that I think of it, the circle thing in Perfect Circle was interesting—the main character would draw flawless circles, he said, when his hand cramped up. I guess these circles were symbolic. How did it go now—I already forgot, I'll ask someone—it was interesting—anyway, in a movie we saw a couple of years ago from Macedonia—by a Macedonian American guy—who?—called Before the Rain—there was also a circle theme, I recall—maybe just a circular structure. Really, an interesting structure.

Thursday 12 February 1998

I've gone all day thinking today is Wednesday, but it's Thursday. I'm so tired and tried of being at my job, I can't say I mind too much.

Anyway, the biggest events, to say the least, lately, have been breaking up with Heather and moving to a new place. I found a room in a house to move into about the beginning of this month. I paid rent but haven't moved yet, and it's already the 12^th. But I'm taking my time, and also am reluctant to leave our apartment on Glisan Street, which I love. I want to do a few projects there first, before leaving—such as videotaping myself reading the first part of my novel, Middlebury, and also finishing the first part of the video movie I'm working on called Seafood.

Now, the next biggest thing has come up—the annual Portland International Film Festival. This is the major event of the year, and it completely disrupts everything for the next 18 days or so. The past three we've attended have been excellent, overall, and I usually see a couple of the best films I see all year within the festival, and usually have some type of transcendent, great experience—finding out about a new director or something. I hope this year is the same.

In the past I've tried to write about the films, as I've seen them, like on 3X5 or 4X6 or whatever index cards. This has always been pretty much of a failure, but I still like the idea. I like using index cards, but maybe for writing about films, it's not the greatest thing. After all, I'm not out to be a reference library or encyclopedia, so it doesn't matter if I can alphabetize and remember everything and have facts, dates, etc. at my fingertips.

My idea this year is to try to write about the films here as I see them, since films are a part of life and this is my life. Some will remain a big part of my life, and some will be forgotten. But at least it might be something I read later, and it would add clarity to my memory. We'll see if it happens!

I still want to use index cards for some things—like my restaurant index—I'm going to try to start/continue that soon after moving.

Wednesday 11 February 1998

Tony was visiting for the last couple of days, so our evenings were full—it was nice to see him—hadn't since moving out here, four years ago. Okay—the next big question about this project is: Do I use real names or fake ones? Is it fiction or non? Well, I've thought about it and I've decided to not change the names. That simplifies things, for one thing, plus I don't want to call it fiction. I don't want to call it non-fiction, either—or memoir, or autobiography or diary or journal. I don't know what to call it—I suppose anything that would sell. It seems like no one's interested in reading fiction anymore—or maybe there's just already enough—anyway, it's next to impossible to get fiction published, and then distributed, and then read. Tony said he knows a National Book Award winner who can't get her novel published. So I'm thinking, in this current blight, where people want to read dirt on the celebrities, but no novels, I'll just write dirt and then become a celebrity somehow. I still feel that it's all a load of shit, but I'm just writing—and it's going to be so much true and so much fiction, etc. etc. no matter how much I try to do either one or the other—so I may as well just declare the form that I think will sell easiest—because the writing is going to be more or less the same either way. It's style, it's lies, it's the truth.

Also, I'm really interested in filmmaking with the line between documentary and fiction narrative blurred. So this is an experiment along those lines, as well—and I also think it will be the future of the art form. So there!

The early versions of this project were in fictional form—so I don't know how that's going to fit all together—if it is. But anyway, what a mess. Some is written, rewritten (though not published)—and then there's scrawled notes for years after that, and then there's blank spaces. Maybe I should just succinctly outline the past several years—since the start of this project—and then we can just use that for reference, and get on with the present. Here it goes:

Fall 1988—moved to Cleveland.

January 1989 to December 1989—wrote project called Everyday—includes trip out West and then return to Cleveland.

January 1990—started “The Mauve Decade”—ideally a continuation of Everyday that would continue throughout the decade, century, and millennium. (Not sure when writing for The Mauve Decade was abandoned—will figure that out later.)

August 1990—moved to Iowa City with Elissa. Job at Zacson Corporation.

March 1992—quit eating wheat. Opened store: “The Secret Goldfish.”

Summer 1993—break up with Elissa.

Fall 1993—start going out with Heather. Quit drinking.

Fall 1993—work on American Job movie with Chris Smith.

Winter 1993—move to Seattle with Heather.

Summer 1994—move to Portland with Heather.

Fall 1994—move to Glisan Street apartment.

Summer 1995—work at Check Central.

Fall 1995—to NYC, American Job premier at MOMA.

January 1996—go to Sundance Film Festival with American Job.

March 1996—visit Chris in San Francisco to attempt new projects.

April 1996—visit Los Angeles, stay with Peter Rashkin—American Job at LAIFF.

Summer 1996—hired at SSBLS (on July 4^th).

October 1997—Fuel Tour.

January 1998—break up with Heather.

February 1998—move to Beech Street house, basement room.

February 1998—start this project.

Monday 9 February 1998

EVERYDAY  (Mauve Decade) 

Today I suddenly feel like getting this monumental project off the ground, or digging it up, so to speak—starting over, starting a-new—or continuing—I don't know. It's the kind of day that makes me feel like beginning something, though it's hard to tell why. It's not the kind of day that usually brings up these feelings. It's kind of wintery, but well above freezing, but overcast, and kind of depressing. But still, it feels like the beginning—and it never seems to at the right times. Like, January 1st—terrible time to start anything, except maybe abstinence. Today is like one month and one week and one day or two into the new year—and thinking back, it always seems like right about now, this relative time, is the new year for me, so here it goes, though it may be one another of a thousand false starts, who knows? If I was to worry about that too much, I just wouldn't start at all. Looking back, I think why couldn't I just keep writing a page or so a day—all through these past years with all the ups and downs? Just continue on as I did in 1989, and 1990—and how long? But I didn't and I can't get back now, and now I have to try to piece the pieces together and figure out what approach to take to—not make it all make sense—but to make something out if it. The question, I guess, is: Is there a book in this, and is it called The Mauve Decade? We shall see, I guess, or maybe not. Anyway, let's get on with it.

A little earlier today I had the strong sensations that I often have that seem to be related to or triggered by a smell—more than likely a smell than anything else—and then evoke some kind of memory. It's almost nostalgia, and almost sentimental, and pretty ephemeral, and damn near of no substance at all, yet I'd have to say it's the single most powerful thing I can think of—this ability to enhance and alter moods, conjure something huge up out of nothing. I can't control it—not at all, and often I think that it must mark the descent into insanity. But at this point it all feels pretty good and I'm not going to worry about it. I'm only thankful for these times and days that are enhanced by this fleeting rush of feelings, or glimpses of something at the edge of consciousness. I'm at its mercy, but not a slave to it.

If I am to continue on with this project, I must soon tackle the big question—how to fill in all the spaces since we last touched down. And there's a lot of spaces there, filled with a lot of events and people. The project, if I decide to attack it, is to simply write each day abut everyday things. There is no big ambition except for consistency and longevity. Originally the idea was to type a page a day, and at the end of a year I'd have 365 typed pages. Soon I found that that was not going to happen, and the best I could hope for was to write in a notebook each day, or on scraps of folded paper I keep in my back pocket. Type it up later. And then I found that, really, every day is not going to happen. And some days there would be a lot, some a little. So I certainly wasn't going to cut myself off at one page on a day when the words come pouring out—particularly if I feel at all inspired. There would be plenty of flat and impossible days to make up for later.

24 January 1998 - from Dream Notebook No. 1

I'm at a theater with many movies playing—in the lobby, deciding which to see. There are two submarine movies apparently playing next to each other—in the same theater, like split-screen! Anyway, each movie is represented by a different vat of popcorn, all in the lobby, and what you do is buy the popcorn for the movie you want to see. I realize sometime later that the movies are encoded in the popcorn, not even projected at all. I wonder what would happen if you mixed up the popcorn, what kind of experience you would have!

Thursday, 25 December 1997 - Portland, OR

Sunday Project – for Seafood – “The Christmas Story”

Christmas Day in the Multnomah Hotel, the lower level reception room where there is breakfast for the guests. I'm a guest, I guess... at least it's not Sunday, but then it is Christmas Day, which only comes one a week. Once upon a time it was the most special day of them all, Sunday. Everything was closed, yet everyone had to work anyway, the busses weren't running, and our cars wouldn't start. We had to walk, in the cold, unplowed streets, miles and miles and miles to the factory, and glue together those soccer balls.

You're either a guest, or you're a host. Typically, there's a reciprocal thing going on. But in this unique situation, I've managed to become both the guest and the host, thanks to Mr. Ray Wheat, who left his credit card in the room that I rented, so easy to find. In fact, he must have wanted me to find it, or he would have at least put it under a loose floorboard or something. So there you are. Wheat, on Christmas Day, for being my host, and also allowing me to be the host—no, wait—I'm not a host. I'm only a guest. A host is—fuck that—you don't want to be a host. You might get a couple dollars, but no, don't be a host!

Sunday, 30 November 1997 - Holman's, Portland, OR

Sunday Project

Special drinks: Peaches and Cream—undrinkable—Absolute or Stoli Martini—stupid. There were classic drinks, like the Martini, and Manhattan, and Jack Rose, and Side Car. Those are good, enduring names. Turning point in drink names: Bloody Mary, which has achieved a genuineness that makes it okay. Harvey Wallbanger—a real turning point, that in itself is dated enough to be interesting and amusing. But newer ones like Kamikaze—bad, but not as bad as these new (to me) ones on the “Specials” wall—the “Dirty Mother,” which, I don't know, considering it's short for “Dirty Motherfucker” kind of warms my heart. But then, the “Panty Dropper”—no way you look at that as a good drink name.

I order the “Special Steak” again—which at $4.95 is the same price as sausage, cheaper than pork chops, and half as much as T-bone, filet, or NY steak. $2 cheaper than chicken fried streak. It's not that this is the cheapest place in town—it's average—but this special steak is a real bargain. How can it be so cheap? Why is it so special? One wonders if the meat involved is of dubious origin. But we won't consider that, OK? In fact, it's very good. And if it does happen to turn out to be a human cut or something, it's a very good cut, and I couldn't exactly say I'm resorting to cannibalism—I would have to consider it a choice. Once again, I hold on to my membership of the CPC (Clean Plate Club).

The Chocolate Martini is the stupidest idea for a drink I've ever heard—hopefully they don't serve them here. No matter how idiotic any prepared formulation of liquor and sugar and flavor—I mean, factory made and bottled, just so it's 42 proof and up, I could enjoy it. Most of the choices in front of me, here at the bar, look delightful. Were I to be drinking, and owned any of these bottles at home, I would finish it off in no time—and it wouldn't be an ordeal. It would be better if I sat somewhere else, not at the bar, so I might think about people more than liquor. The guys next to me have drinks—one of them looks like cranberry juice and vodka—a healthy choice for 10 AM. The other guy has a little snifter of what is likely some brandy-like thing, plus his coffee. Also, reasonable. Down the bar a guy is drinking Wild Turkey and ice, along with Coke and ice—decidedly unhealthy. I didn't go home and read my Bible last time I was here. I probably won't today. But now I'm thinking about becoming a Buddhist, anyway, because I know, seriously, I'll never be able to resolve the elements of Jehovah's Witnesses or all Christianity that I don't agree with. I'd like to study all religions, but not just the elements that have oppressed people forever, which is interesting, but too depressing and obvious. I want to find out about things I've never heard about before.

17 November 1997 - from Dream Notebook No. 1

I'm going up towards the Terwilliger Hot Springs at Cougar Reservoir, and it looks very different—all very open—I'm walking through the dry lakebed of the lake below. I walk straight up to it and all the trees are cut down and there's a paved, cemented over area—I think it's cemented over, but there's still hot springs, close up. The rest is presented like a news story: Some people started bringing snakes in the hot springs, some of which thrived and reproduced. Many of the snakes were poisonous and bit people. Three people died. But many of the regulars became immune to the snake poison and were bit regularly. The government tried to get rid of the snakes, but they were protected under the Freedom of Religion Act, as the regulars had made it into a religion. Looks like I wasn't going in the hot springs anymore!

Saturday, 15 November 1997 - Portland, OR

Then it was the Emeryville train station for several hours, waiting for the late Coast Starlight. The last game of the World Series was on—Indians and Marlins—and I had to listen to it there in that very nice train station—on my little transistor radio that thankfully Mom had given me before I left Sandusky. It went into extra innings—a great game, but then the Indians lost, and all the redneck Marlins fans were all happy, but not really happy because they didn't give a fuck about baseball, and just were happy because the Marlins are from the South and so are they, and no stock car racing was occurring at the moment.

Then the train was the most annoying train ride ever—it started out OK, but—the romance of train travel is starting to wear off—and Heather and I were unfortunate enough to get the dreaded “snoring coach.”

Friday, 14 November 1997 - Portland, OR

So we were enjoying our stay in San Francisco—the next AM we had our continental breakfast by the pool, and Heather and I also swam before we checked out. We tried to get a room for the next night, to no avail. Full. But that turned out well, since we were able to then stay in the Triton Hotel the next night which I liked a little better—fancier, bu I liked the old building it was in, and that it was on the edge of Chinatown, nice lobby and stairways. Real nice bathtub.

I don't remember the logistics of all this activity. Some talk at the Film Arts Foundation that night, plus American Job screening—at another personality-less cineplex—Chris was at the talk, with Hannah and Suzanne, so I did a Q&A after the screening. Tom was there, and also Denise. Diana came, with Jerry Miller.

Later we're hanging out in front of the theater—and I take migraine pills and start to feel better. Then we see Greg Lynziki, and he goes with us back to the hotel, and we all walked to a bar in Chinatown. This is a constantly shifting group, actually. Then we sleep and next day Chris and Sarah leave for the airport, but we get to stay in the hotel in the morning and store our stuff there. Stephanie, Heather, and I walk around all day, go to to North Beach, etc. Meet up with Rachel and friend for Chinese restaurant. Later, back to the hotel. Stephanie takes a cab to the airport, and Heather and I take a cab to the train station.

Sunday, 9 November 1997 - Holman's, Portland, OR

Sunday Project

The coffee is helping with my current headache; it's about 10:30 on Sunday morning, the second Sunday in November, and it's been about 16 hours since I drank any caffeine, which is too long. I took a couple migraine pills before I went to bed, and I slept very well; woke up in the middle of the night, high. Very happy.

Smooth jazz, non-music. I want to play music that when you ask someone about it later, they don't remember that any music was playing. There is an excellent bar here at Holman's. I'm sitting at the bar. If this was a diner, it would be the counter. It's technically a counter, but since we're in a bar, and there is a bar behind the counter, this counter is also a bar. (Look this up in the dictionary.) Being here makes me mourn the loss of drinking liquor. I never could afford it, and still can't, but that's little consolation. Right now my choice would be a small glass of Maker's Mark Whisky. I like how they call it whisky—it's bourbon, but in their mind, bourbon is the only whisky, and it's spelled Whisky, not whiskey. I will sit and meditate for hours, repeating the work “Whisky” over and over until I can taste the taste of bourbon, and smell the smell. The smell of the remains inside my Dad's Beam's Choice bottles, the fancy ones I saved.

Neat. All I need is a small glass—the only way to drink liquor is in a glass, neat. One would think that a person could drink a small glass of liquor on occasion and have only beneficial, medicinal effects. Or like dessert, on occasion. But I know it's not true, and that's so sad. It has nothing to do with quantity, unfortunately. There are those, perhaps, in chaste way, who limit themselves to one glass, maybe one glass a day, or week, or whatever. This seems just as sad, in a way—enforced self-discipline, and why? It is because of fear, maybe not of one's own alcoholism, but of what they have seen in others, in the alcoholics. They don't believe it's the alcohol; they believe it's Satan; though they know, instinctively, or in their own heart, that it's alcohol. They say it's a tool of Satan, but I know there is no Satan, and there is only alcohol, and man. Back to the small neat glass—I want the small heavy shot glass. It's all I need. I can rule the world from a small heavy shot glass, one at a time. It's the color of the liquid in the glass, and its clarity; the glycerin climbing the sides. The smell is the most important, the most important thing of all. The sight of the glass, the color of the liquid, and the smell in the air. The complex relationship of the smell, then, mixing with taste, and then the burning sensation, especially on the tongue. It's all down-hill from there. I can do without the rest.

“What's the dishwasher's name?”—from the waitress, one of many—a bad sound coming from a waitress's mouth. I can guarantee she's not asking him for a date. Scotch is next in line of things I miss. After bourbon. Especially Pinch, in the crazy, three-sided bottle. And then Drambuie, the king of all liqueurs. There's gin, not my favorite, but think of the complex flavors in that Bombay Gin, and the cool persona of Tanqueray. The weird effects of ouzo, and the mythology of tequila, and whatever it is about cognac. I've got to get out of here—home, and read my Bible.

Thursday, 6 Novermber 1997 - Portland, OR

I was really happy to see Heather at the Phoenix Hotel—it turned out to be a nice place with an outdoor pool in the courtyard and a bar that was quite popular. The rooms were painted very well, and the walls were wood slats painted yellow. Nice art on the walls—good ceilings. Kind of old and thriftstore-ish. We ate at a Vietnamese place a block away. Then waited for Stephanie.

Monday, 3 November 1997 – Portland, OR

Listened to two baseball games on the radio on the train—first, in Cleveland, then in Miami—Cleveland lost the first, won the second. Most annoying train ride I ever had, but still have a good feeling about the train, overall—really beautiful scenery, especially in Colorado in the daytime, and then Nevada and California the next day. Train arrived in San Francisco an hour late, in the evening, and I walked to the hotel. Actually, the train arrived in Emeryville and people going to SF take a bus to SF, Ferry Terminal. People were calling cabs, but cabs coming said it would be an hour! Saturday night, I guess. So I walked instead. It turned out not to be so hard, walking up Market Street—my stuff was heavy, but not unbearable. Then I turned on Eddy Street, where the hotel is—and that street turned into kind of a scary urban environment, kind of poor and run down, people hanging out everywhere, and I felt kind of vulnerable carrying such big bags. Some guy asked me if I wanted to buy some Ensure. Finally I got there, to the hotel, a welcome sight.

Thursday, 23 October 1997

Long drive to Philadelphia—stayed in a Holiday Inn. Pretty nice, but no pool. First morning there I walked around for about two hours, which was fun, and later we walked around putting up flyers, which was fun.

I called Sue Harvey—she had already seen the American Job movie. I had her pick me up and visited at her house. She's married now and owns a house—huge row house, with a nice back yard and garden. She has a big dog and about five cats.

Later, second day there, we did a talk at Temple University. Then Suzanne and Margot left on a train for NYC. Oh, also, the party after the first show was at The Balcony—pretty nice place—and the bands were good! Sue and Scott (I think her husband's name is) came to the bar, talked some more. Sue knows that guy T.J. who I met in Athens once and had breakfast with.

We left early on the drive for Columbus from Philly. It was an easy drive, really. Checked into the Ramada in Columbus, and it had a pool! Pretty nice big pool with a really hot hot tub and a really hot sauna. Drove downtown to campus late and ate at Garcia's, which was weird. Next day we picked up Hannah at the airport and went to the theater. They put on a big show/block party, with IFC execs there, including Mark Lipsky. I met Jeff Frank, owner of the theater (Drexel). Here I experienced stress. Who should I call? Mom and Dad came down. It seemed hectic, but it all worked out. Ate with Mom and Dad and Aunt Mary Alice at the Kahiki, and then went to the movie. Had to talk a bit before the show with Steve and Hannah and Jeff Frank and Mark Lipsky. Then answered questions after the show. Then saw Gilmore—talked awhile, also Misun, and Loren Lazarony, and Ron House and Trina, and talked to Brian on the phone. Scrawl played. Called Beth and left a message. Took parents back to hotel, returned for the end of the big party, then back to the Ramada, the picked up my stuff, then drove to parents' Radison, slept, up early, tried to swim in cold pool, but also hot tub and sauna were cold. It sucked. Drove back to Sandusky, ate at Millie's Diner in Galion, and then came back to Columbus with the Buick, for the end of the American Job show, answered questions. Aunt Mary Alice and Gilmore were at that show. Relaxed the rest of the day—talked to Gilmore for awhile—missed rest of the World Series game, then swam some more as Hannah videotaped us, and some young girls, and interviewed them. Got up early and swam. Sarah called the hotel in Cleveland, and they had no reservations or rooms. So we changed plans and drove to Sandusky, they followed me, and found a hotel room at the new Comfort Inn on Milan Road with a pool and good hot tub and sauna. Next day I drove with them (Steve and Sarah) to Cleveland and to WCPN for an interview (me and Steve). Then we went to the Ramada to check in, and meanwhile the Omni called, found reservations and gave them free rooms and dinner. So we checked out of the Ramada, picked Chris up at the airport and drove to the Omni. It's a really fancy place, in a lot of fake ways, but some nice, like phones in the toilet. Then we went to our free dinner and then we went down to the Cedar Lee Theater where IFC exec was again (a nice woman from Milwaukee) and American Job showed at 7pm. Jeff and Robin came for it, and also Karen and Chris Nottage, and Tim and Carolyn, and Bill and Craig and Mike Baker. So that was fun. During the movie I called Heather, and Jeff Curtis. Also went the restaurant for a ginger ale which was free—“On the house.” Went to the party briefly at the Grog Shop. Talked to Mike Baker. Left before bands played. Said bye to Steve, then, as he won't be going to the West Coast. Hopefully Chris and Sarah will.

Had a good day in Sandusky on Tuesday, watched baseball Tuesday night. Left Wednesday morning, 7am. Chicago around noon, then big train for the West. It's now Thursday, in Colorado.

Saturday, 18 October 1997

In Columbus for the second day—oh—what did I miss? In Philadelphia—called Sue Harvey, and went to visit her at her house—she owns it, is married to a guy named Scott (?), has a big dog and many, many cats. Later she and her husband came to the club—the Balcony, where some OK bands played.

The other high point was going to Temple U. to give a talk to film students.

Wait, to continue Boston—on the night of the show I called Nancy, met with her on a street corner, drove around, met her friend and 3½ year old daughter, Veronica! She said she was going through a bad divorce. And her mother died last summer. And Pete died last summer.

Later I had dinner with Revolution John and talked. Then the movie—met with John's wife Roz, and then just before the movie, Claire and Karen and their friends. Talked to them all after the movie. Skipped the party.

Now in Columbus,

Now on the train—

Wednesday, October 15 1997

Philadelphia

As expected, I'm getting more and more lax about writing everything down. But perhaps it can be salvaged. What are the high points?

We stayed, instead of at the shithole Susse Chalet in Boston, at the home of Esther's grandmother, Ms. Nadia Williams, in Rockport, Mass, or more specifically, Pigeon Cove, Mass, which is a cape or something, jutting out into the Atlantic on the north coast of the state, near New Hampshire. Her house is an aging old house in the woods—the main part was built in 1660, and then additions were built a hundred years later, and then eventually more additions were added. We couldn't remember exactly how many rooms there were, or how many total beds there were in the house—attics and back stairways, etc.

The next night we stayed by the ocean in “The Studio”—an A-frame, kinda, by the ocean, and at night and in the morning we walked by the Ocean, the Atlantic.

Sunday, 12 October 1997

Pigeon Cove, Mass

I've been falling asleep writing lately, quite a bit, really tired, drinking way too much coffee, too. Yesterday was a weird day, checked into the hotel south of Boston, then went to the theater, Kendall Square in Cambridge—kind of a weird, modern, mall complex type of place. We set up there, then met up with Suzanne, Christie, and Esther. I tried calling people, only talked to Revolution John. Then we started making plans. Plans, plans, plans, plans, plans, more plans than I can keep straight in my mind at once, more plans than can exist together at one time together with or without the help of experts who collaborate to plan to make plans together and with each other and among and with.

Friday, 10 October 1997

Providence, RI

Spending more time in the Motel 6 lobby. I am feeling rather relaxed and comfortable here, like a ______. [illegible] I'm just about as tired as I can be after a good night's sleep. Yesterday, after the barber shop, drug store, walking around, we waited at the theater for the New York contingent from about 2pm until 6pm or so, when, oh, stayed there—ate dinner at the theater. Then we went down to the RISD auditorium, met with John Terry, the head of the film department. We set up in the RISD auditorium, which was quite nice—and big, and had a pretty good video projection system. Steve and I noticed a squirrel in the auditorium, a squirrel that would otherwise have gone unnoticed. They put a table and chairs on stage and Margot, Suzanne, Steve and I sat there and one by one showed respective clips and talked about them and the movies. I don't really remember what I said—just rambled on a little bit about its origins and the script and lack of a script. It all went pretty well, answered questions, and then we went back to the theater (Cable Car Cinema) and to a club (AS220) and here and there, in between I introduced American Job screening, then talked to like three people afterwards, who were very nice. Went to the club, it was a drag by then, but downtown Providence was excellent.

At least three people interviewed me yesterday—two from local school newspapers, and one guy on the phone from Ohio—Cleveland, or Lorain. I went to check out Carberry House, as Heather asked—it's abandoned now. Today I called Jonathan, and me and Steve and Sarah drove out there and visited—his wife, Cindy, wasn't around but their new baby, Emma, was, and their cat and two new dogs. It was really nice to see him—high point of the trip so far. Now we're at the theater on a Friday night. I'm really quite tired.

Thursday, 9 October 1997

Providence, RI

Sarah and Steve and I are at a barber shop in Providence, and Steve's getting a haircut. He's done, and described it as “outstanding.” Joseph's Barber Shop. We went around to a few stores, found a tobacco store, and went to a really great Portuguese general store that had all these records—Fado records, etc.—no way in hell to know what's good and what's not. This store has everything, all kinds of weird misc. products. I will return here, I hope, each day I remain in Providence.

Wednesday, 8 October 1997

Providence, RI

Yesterday morning we left Sarah's mother's house—oh, earlier, she got up and took Chris to the train station to catch a train to the airport. Then Sarah and Steve and I drove to Providence—which took all day, but not a bad drive, really, except when we got to Rhode Island and a huge traffic jam for road construction. Then we got to the Motel 6 and the trouble began. The corporate Fuel Tour American Express card wouldn't go through, the motel was full (fortunately Sarah had called ahead) and it took us two hours to get checked in. Meanwhile, we ate at the hotel Country Restaurant—breakfast all day, at least. I had greasy corned beef hash. The hotel was OK, then, and I called Heather, and Elissa, too.

This morning we drove into Providence—found the theater—which is really nice, with couch seats and a full cafe, some of which Steve spilled on my notebook. Then we went to Louis Diner, which Heather recommended, and it was great—really cheap—$2.65 breakfast with good hash browns, a good waitress, and old Louis himself, a great old weirdo talking to us, telling us the waitress likes to “listen” too much!

Then we walked around Brown and RISD and looked for papers and flyers, and looked at the waterfront and found the theater where the talk is tomorrow, and then found the faculty member at RISD who was coordinating it. We were in his office and I looked out the door and there was Jonathan Highfield, who I knew from Iowa City—I had no idea he was in Providence—he's teaching English at RISD and is remarried and has a little girl named Emma. It was really nice to see him. Me and Jonathan and Steve went walking around and he gave us somewhat of a tour, and then bought us coffee and nachos. We met back up with Sarah and back to the hotel and then ate at a Thai restaurant. Then to the theater, and watched both Alchemy and Arresting Gina. Now back at the motel watching a Janis Joplin special on VH1. Good nite!

Monday, 6 October 1997

Washington Plaza Hotel - Washington DC

Chris and I are sitting at the pool at the Washington Plaza Hotel in downtown Washington DC—it's a pretty outdoor pool facing a modern, curved, 9 story hotel, and it's plenty warm to swim, an unseasonably warm Indian summer day in the 90s. The hotel is filling up with a huge, unmanageable group of Germans—I don't know of what affiliation. There's a Peace Corps group meeting on the pool deck, and the Germans want to swim, presenting the hotel authorities with non-existent problems. Chris and I are invisible, anonymous guests—Stephen is staying here just tonight, and we're waiting for Sarah.

Our first night in DC was really good, a decent crowd for American Job at the Key Theatre, at the late, 9:30 show—I answered questions afterwards in the lobby and we sold T-shirts and posters. Sarah and Chris and I are staying at Sarah's mother's house, and it's quite comfortable—she and her husband just moved in—not too far into suburbs—and I even have my own room. We picked Chris up yesterday at the airport, he's mostly tired from working on his documentary and he's burnt out. I've been feeling good, but tired, too, from lack of exercise. Went out to eat at a nice Thai restaurant, really good, with Sarah's mom and her husband, they took us out, really nice of them. Last night we ate at [illegible] Restaurant, quite good, near the theater—and today we had lunch at a good place, I had chili and a spinach salad. Plus, brunch on Sunday at Sarah's house—I'm eating well. Not going crazy.

Yesterday, everyone got into town, including Suzanne, Esther, one of the coordinators, and others, including Adam, the guy who does stuff with the Sundance Channel website, and who interviewed us in LA. So everything was very festive and exciting—we went to a party at a shithole called The Black Cat. I was very tired, all in all.

Today we got up, met up with Suzanne, Steve, and Dante and went to the NPR studio and did an interview with Pat Dowell. The studio was extremely high tech and fancy. Then we went to a restaurant and I went to a payphone and called Kristen in Portland, and she interviewed me. Then we went to Steve's hotel and sat by the pool. Later, Sarah picked us up and we went to George Washington University and I parked the van in the parking garage while Sarah and Chris and Suzanne went in to a conference hall with a setup for making a TV show. I had to sit off to the side in the front of the audience with a huge name-tag in front of me. The presentation, which included clips, which were kind of bad on the faulty technology, went on for quite awhile—like over two hours—with lots of questions afterwards. I talked to a whole bunch of students afterwards. Chris and Suzanne had to rush back to introduce movies, so I stayed at dinner at TGI Friday's—oh, where we went for dinner afterwards, courtesy of the department. I talked to a bunch of students about various things, then Steve and Chris came back to pick me up. We gave a girl a ride back to Georgetown and she told us about her plastic surgeon, breast reduction surgery, rich doctor father, etc. Then we went to the theater—oh, on the way we stopped at a place where this woman said there was a club. It was closed, but we got to hear from a homeless guy from Alabama, how he needed money to buy some Pepto-Bismol because he had eaten some bad seafood.

After the American Job show, we had a short Q&A, but the theater manager was clearing us out, but then I noticed suddenly, Calvin Johnson! He was there with his band, Dub Narcotic—and didn't even know I was in this movie. Also along was Ian MacKaye, which I realized later, who said (Sarah said) something about “Stipe” telling them to go.

Saturday, 4 October 1997

En Route

We're in the Plymouth Voyager, me, Sarah, Stephen, and Dante, on our way from Raleigh to Washington DC. Said goodbye to Jim and Joyce this morning, by 9:30 or 10:00 we're on our way.

Yesterday, shows went a little better—a handful of people at American Job—a small but good audience. I answered a few questions afterwards. Talked to some nice people in the lobby. In the meantime, as well, we've spent a lot of time hanging out in the theater lobby. This is a two screen theater on a particularly deserted strip-mall in the middle of seemingly nowhere—but no less nowhere than anywhere else in suburban sprawl. The best part about hanging out was talking to, or mostly listening to, Wes, the theater manager and head projectionist. Wes is a very funny, talkative, outgoing, young, southern gay gentleman who says he works at six theaters and has been doing so all his life. He has opinions about everything, is very smart, looks like he's only about 20, says he moved out of home when he was in 6th grade. I can't remember half of what he was talking about now. If we would have had the proposed video camera we would have several hours of Wes at this point, talking about everything, and very little else.

We did a little exploring of Raleigh in the past couple of days, and found some cool stuff. Sarah and Joyce and I ate lunch at The Mecca one day, an old lunch counter downtown. And then Sarah and I ate lunch the next day at Big Ed's City Market Restaurant—the famous downtown Raleigh place, and it is very, very good. I had barbecue pork, coleslaw, potatoes, and collard greens, and chocolate pudding for dessert.

I'm jerked out of my country cooking reverie by our arrival in downtown Washington DC, smack in the middle of a giant Promise Keepers rally in the Mall, under the Washington Monument, or wherever the hell we are. There's a giant rock concert like stage set up with a huge screen hanging under it with the speaker at the moment projected on the thousands gathered here. He's talking about taking our cities back in the name of Jesus. It's about the most bizarre sight I've ever seen. Now they're all singing a hymn. It's all men, that's the first thing you notice. I've got to read something about this organization when we get in—it's fascinating.

Thursday, 2 October 1997

Raleigh, NC

Caught in a whirlwind of activity since I got off the train in Raleigh. I didn't carry my notebook with me, have time to jot anything down, or have a chance to read Moby-Dick in what seems like several weeks, but in fact is just a day or two. I changed trains in Washington DC, and had a couple hours to walk around. Their station is huge, very fancy, and full of activity. It's right in the middle of everything, it seems. I went walking down the street and was within sight of several huge monuments that are overly familiar, but which, of course, I've never been very interested in. It was all very creepy in person—and overly quiet, very weird—the sound of a guy playing Jimi Hendrix songs near the strain station was very welcome. I sat by a reflecting pool—I almost always like fountains—and smoked a cigarette, taking care to not even leave my matches on the ground when I left, for fear of arrest.

The train down to Raleigh, then, was a bit of a drag, being a smaller, less spacious variety, and after being on the train a full three days I had about had enough. The smoking lounge here was really funny, being part of the cafe car with certain, designated smoking TIMES—like half hour periods every two or three hours—so I sat in for a couple of smoking times and listened to everyone talk—about smoking, of course, and also various tragedies, maladies, revenge, and hospitalization.

When I reached Raleigh, at least seven cab drivers descended on me, and wouldn't leave me alone until I explained, to each of them, that I was waiting for someone to pick me up, and if I had them drive me to where I was going, even if I knew where that was, when the person came to pick me up I wouldn't be there. This explanation seemed to satisfy none of them—they must have thought money was an issue and I was bidding for the lowest offer, or perhaps I was waiting for some regular, favorite cab driver—some despised rival of theirs.

Jim arrived before too long—we had never met, but we were the only two there besides cab drivers, so we had no mix-up. We went back to his apartment and talked—Joyce was meeting Sarah at the airport—Sarah had missed her first plane. Finally, they showed up. Sarah had picked up the mini-van at the airport. There was some kind of mix-up, naturally.

The next day, Sarah, Joyce, and I went to breakfast at Watkins Grill, a good ole' country diner, and a good way to start off any stay somewhere new. I got a good feeling, and a cheap breakfast steak, and some fine grits. I strained myself from making any jokes about “Does Dale Earnhardt drink coffee here,” etc. as Joyce said it was a NASCAR hangout. I didn't want anyone to misinterpret my sense of humor, me being a yankee and all.

Later we met Steve from the CLC film group—he's going on the tour, and we had to drive out to the airport car rental place to get his and my personal information recorded on the database. Naturally it was a hassle. Then we started countless journeys back and forth from the theater where the films would be, then to the bar in Chapel Hill, 30 minutes away, making arrangements for the opening night party. In the meantime, we kept ourselves occupied speculating, wondering, and talking about people behind their backs. It would prove to be one of the primary diversions of a shindig such as this.

The preparations consisted mostly of putting up a huge banner in the theater, and one in the bar. The banners announce the “Fuel Film Tour” and some of the sponsors. Later, there promised to be more banners with more sponsors. Putting up banners is harder and more time-consuming than it would seem. Later, a representative from Conde Nast, one of the sponsors, a pleasant woman named Despina, showed up to make sure things were running smoothly. She got to see that the banner in the theater was up, and also see two of the three people who attended with opening showing of American Job leave the theater after about a half hour. Two nice southern ladies in their eighties. They saw me and recognized me and said, “You're beautiful—but that movie is terrible.” I guess if I was taking the role of the traditional actor, hearing that they thought I was beautiful would probably be enough—but as it is, I'm not that concerned with my beauty. I was considering giving them a pep talk, but I thought there is no reason they shouldn't hate the movie—me being here to encourage them shouldn't change their minds. I hate the art business. Anyway, once you start getting into the habit of trying to explain everything, the next thing you know, you're old.

Later we saw Delicate Art of the Rifle, the CLC movie, and I met the rest of their core group: Dante, Todd, and Alicia. I guess Alicia had designed the T-shirts and posters we will be taking with us to sell in each city, and I must say, as a not-fan of posters and T-shirts, these are quite nice. If there is anything left of them by the time we get to Portland, I'll probably have developed some kind of uncontrollable fondness for them and choose to own a few. As far as the movie goes, I liked it quite a bit—it's very unusual in pacing and style—I won't go into it now, but I think we'll all have a lot of explaining to do. I don't want to come off as pretentious, but when I consider this whole thing, it could appear that what we are doing is taking difficult art to the strip-malls of America, and it could turn out to be a folly of the highest order. We'll see.

Tuesday, 30 September 1997

On the Train – Cumberland, MD

Now on the 2^nd train of my trip – the “Capitol Limited” – it's another big “Superliner” train, but I had to sit next to someone, so less room to sleep. Cumberland looks like a nice town from the train. I'm always attracted to these old, brick, small towns where the church steeples are the tallest structures. It makes you think about how arrogant and un-Godlike it is to build skyscrapers. It's like just coming out and saying, “Business and money is more important than God.” You would think the Christians would have put up a good fight—maybe they did—but I guess they got rolled over on that one. Now it's to the point that when someone builds a skyscraper, Christians don't even twinge. Hell, they're the ones building them!

I imagine living in Cumberland—it's easy to imagine living places you see from the train, and most likely everything you think is wrong. It looks like a place where I could get around without a car pretty well—live and work downtown. Could I find a job—maybe at a department store? Are there any department stores left? I bet there's some good breakfast places, somewhere I could find a bearable job, and a cheap place to live, above a store or something. Not cheap enough, but with some distinguishing aspect like a good window or a large bathtub or a skylight.

I guess I could go to anywhere in the country on the Amtrak train since it stops here. Three hours to DC, 15 to Chicago—I could get anywhere in the country I wanted to go without flying or even getting in a car. I guess the first big drawback I can think of about living in a place like Cumberland is no movies. Not the ones I want to see. Jim Carrey, Mel Gibson, Bruce Willis, Harrison Ford. Then start the cycle over. “We show four kinds of movies here—Jim Carrey...” That is always the big thing—movies—that decides where I can and can't live. I'm sure other small factors—such as people—could possibly come into play, but we needn't ever even think that far.

Somehow things like skyscrapers never bother me in New York, but I guess in general New York is a place where very few rules hold true. It seems like it could be the one place I move back to. Plenty of reasons not to, but plenty of reasons TO. It's the city of plenty. The fact that it's hard to despise an enormous shrine to an automobile like the Chrysler Building is a good example of the contradictions of NYC. It's a Godless place, but then it's not either. Not that I care one way or another about a place being Godless or not, it's just that New York can be so many things at once.

Chicago, however, never should try to compete with New York—they should never have built anything taller than a church, and just let it be a rambling, dense, old-fashioned brick metropolis. Skyscrapers don't have anything to do with wise use of space and density—not when so much space on the ground goes dilapidated and unused within such a short distance to the skyscraper. Skyscrapers are about power, only, and that's it. In Chicago they built a skyscraper church—an interesting though misguided idea. Would it be something God would approve of? And anyway, it's still lorded over by the cheesy, ugly Sears Tower.

The train got into Chicago just around after work rush hour—especially for offices downtown—5 PM on a Monday. No worse time can you imagine to step into the hub of downtown—people leaving their offices with lifeless faces of death. They're like zombies, but never have you seen zombies, or people, move so fast. From the elevator to the revolving door to the choice of transit—single-minded, every day, it's the most horrible sight I've ever seen. And those are the good jobs! Certainly it's better to work downtown than in some horrible office park somewhere, but I guess the commute is the thing that makes either one what they are. It looks like Chicago is putting in high-priced downtown residences like every other city, but still, this would be no place to live. I walked around looking for the old-time, slightly run-down restaurant I ate in before, but I can't find it. I don't know if it's gone, but I see nothing but fast-food places and expensive restaurants—nothing in between. I'm sure if you lived or worked down here, you'd discover something—and I've known from visiting other times there are really good neighborhoods in Chicago. And almost every big city has a lifeless, cold downtown hub—but this has got to be the worst. By 6 PM the streets are empty. The only one left is me and a guy trying to ask me for money—for a bus back to his home—and he even shows me the note from his loved one. It's as windy as any place I've ever been. People think that Chicago was named “The Windy City” because of its wind, but it was named that by some New Yorker making fun of Chicago's constantly trying to compete with New York, and talking itself up. Part of that included trying to beat out New York in the skyscraper derby. So they cut down all the trees and built concrete wind tunnels on the edge of Lake Michigan. Anyone will tell you that's a bad idea. Now, “Windy City” had a duel meaning, but they are connected.

The only other person on the street now, as it gets dark—besides me and another guy with a handful of dimes who needs 40 more cents for bus fare—is a woman who is leaning out of her car door—her “Club” firmly in place on the steering wheel—a white, middle-aged, middle class woman—what's she doing? Oh, she's tying on roller blades, and now locks her car, and with a big smile she's off down the street. Who would pick the downtown business district of Chicago just after dark to go roller blading? HER—I guess—and, oh, now it occurs to me what she's doing. She rules Chicago.

Monday, 29 September 1997

On the Train - Minnesota

Two short trains leave each Portland and Seattle at about the same time and meet up in Spokane in the middle of the night to form one long train. The dining car is on the Seattle train, so I guess they might get dinner while the Portland train gets the snack bar/observation car. It used to be that you could smoke in the observation car (though not in your coach seat—even though most trains are old enough to still have ashtrays built into the arm rests—but it's really hard to imagine people smoking in a coach car, in their seats!) Now smoking is completely forbidden on most trains—though on overnight ones, I guess they have provided "smoking lounges." I'm not sure on how many trains, or what they're all like—maybe on some of the fancy Eastern trains that have bars and VIP lounges they now have "cigar bars" with fine cigars, cognac, regional wines, single malt scotch, whatever other once decent things are ruined by idiotic trends.

But not on this western train—no—here our smoking lounge is functional, clinical, even, with absolutely no effort to be nice. Actually, the smoking car wasn't on the Portland section, but on the Seattle section—so between Portland and Spokane they made several "smoking stops"—about five minutes in each place—just about enough time to hot-box  a GPC. The peckerwoods behind me, for awhile, discussed nothing but smoking. "They better have a smoking car on this train," the man said, "because I will smoke." After they exhausted their smoking line of conversation, I didn't hear them talk the whole trip, but for a while it was a hot topic. Smoking has become so unpopular in some circles, yet if you're at certain places like outside a courthouse while the jury take a break, or in the break areas of certain workplaces, you'd think that everyone smokes still. Probably not that many people actually quit—it's just that everyone is supposed to feel  bad about it. And then there are the people who are defiantly proud, who make smoking too much a badge of honor, like alcoholics—people who wear their scarred lungs on the outside of their Hard Rock Cafe sweatshirts.

I checked out the smoking car once they got it hooked on—it was in the downstairs part of a coach car (these are double-decker cars) a rectangular room opposite the bathrooms, and it was very sparse indeed. It looks like the decision making person in charge of designing this smoking lounge was definitely not a smoker and in fact probably despises smoking and smokers. No doubt an ex-smoker. This room has an industrial strength air-conditioner/blower and eight hard plastic seats on each side with nothing else adorning the room except for a big trash can and many, many ash trays. Seeing how the rest of the train is lit very pleasantly, the bright fluorescent lights in the smoking lounge seems to be an extra slap in the face of the smokers. You can imagine what a "smoking lounge" must have looked like in the ancient days of the railroad of yore—a wood lined den with ornate standing ashtrays, marble and brass, plush red comfortable seating, warm lamps and cocktails sipped from crystal. People would be smoking pipes and cigars mostly—it might be smoky—maybe someone would have to crack a window occasionally, or open a rooftop vent—but it would be a fine aroma.

The smoking lounge has a few rules—no standing, you must limit your stay to 15 minutes at a time, and no cigars or pipes. As if the smell of cigars and pipes are going to offend the people who are sucking down the stale fumes of burning shit rolled in paper! No—you want to smoke—you must treat it as the addiction it is—smoke the sanctioned, segmented portion, sitting in the hard seats, directly facing the other smokers, in a room that could be an emergency waiting room or a police station—a prison—a holding area where you sit just prior to interrogation, torture, or execution.

Sunday, 28 September 1997

On The Train - Montana

Saying goodbye to Heather on Saturday at the train station, I'm about as sad as I ever was, at least it seems like—I haven't got enough sleep in a long time, and the mounting stress of trying to get everything done I wanted to do before leaving has finally overwhelmed me and left me defeated. I'm starting to think about wanting a normal life again—something that pops into my mind every so often—you know, just work and have a decent place to live and a person you love that you are happy to dedicate yourself to, and maybe kids that are central to your existence. To hell with all this art crap—at the very center of your participation in any kind of "art life" is the realization that it's all an illusion, a lie. You want to trick yourself, saying it's a necessary part of your existence, but as time goes on you see that it's  not—and all the promises it held out like a carrot turn out to be rotten, and whatever solace it has provided in the past can't be repeated as you move forward into the future where you have to reinvent yourself continually anyway—so why not without art as a crutch, a diversion, an empty promise?

Maybe it's because a month seems so long that makes it so sad to leave—even though one knows a month is such a short time. Take the month of September for instance—it's like it was not existent—I got only a fraction of the things done I wanted to get done, and now it's too late. But unlike a short period such as a weekend, when you stand at one end of a month you can't see the other end. Nothing is more scary than the unknown. It seems somehow final, even though we know there is no reason to believe that. There's really very little difference in a month's time, relative to eternity, than the five minutes it takes to go down to the corner store for a pack of cigarettes. You can be hit by the phantom bus, or run into a person who changes your life, anytime, anyplace.

I guess it's so sad because Heather and I always have unresolved issues, and day to day they are easy to push aside, but at the point you aren't going to see each other for a month, these issues loom larger. I feel bad about rushing around for days, totally self-obsessed—and worse that I failed to get done a fraction of what I wanted to get done—and at the same time was not someone nice to be around. I feel guilty because Heather has to go to work today, and nothing seems more depressing than working on a Sunday, in a windowless room, while the person closest to you glides through the Rocky Mountains of Montana. And I feel sad, especially, knowing how much I miss the cats when Heather and I leave for just a couple of days—and missing a person makes you even forget about the cats, but then you don't forget, and it all becomes a lot of missing, and sadness—and I feel like I'm going off to summer camp—away from home for the first time—I haven't felt like this for awhile.

Stupidly, I brought all sad music. I brought ten tapes and a walkman, but I brought almost all unbearably sad music—melancholy, slow, beautiful, and sentimental. The only thing I can bear to listen to is Public Enemy, so I listen to nothing but Public Enemy, and Chuck D. is my friend. The movement of the train always cheers me up, or something. It is certainly therapeutic, this movement. It makes me feel content, while the train is moving, but every time it stops it's unbearable. The endless plants growing in Montana, and the rocks strewn about—and branches, debris—if this was clutter and mess, it would be some job to clean it up. No nation or generation could ever do it. "Your job is to clean up Montana, cut all the weeds and wildly grown vegetation, pick up all the rocks and branches strewn around. The pay is $6.00 an hour, the dress casual, and this job may go on indefinitely."

You can't argue with Montana, and the train moving, and Public Enemy, so I'm starting to feel better—but also because I'm writing, and that's one of the reasons I wanted to go on this trip, is to write—because I needed to change my relationship to writing. Relationships will always change, whether you do anything about them or not, so it's up to you to take control of things and change them for the better if you want them to be better, because they will necessarily deteriorate if you don't.

My relationship to time has been really sucking lately—as there became more and more things I had to do before leaving and less and less time to do them, time seemed to accelerate, and one could almost imagine it spinning out of control, like falling out of an airplane—as you get close to the ground it approaches increasingly faster, even though you fall at a constant speed. One good thing about the train—maybe the best thing about the train—is how it changes your relationship to time. It slows time down like nothing else. People think about three days on the train as torture—but it's hard to explain to them that three days on the train does not equal three days anywhere else. It's not like the time goes fast or slow—it's like it doesn't exist—even though you're always aware of the time and your location—it becomes meaningless in that it's not connected to time in the world outside the train.

Monday, 11 August 1997 - Thai Deli

Last night I had the weirdest dreams I've ever had EVER, no doubt, no exception! (It's the last time I'll consume, on a single day: artificial Irish cream and white chocolate ice cream, meat and cheese platter leftover from work, beans with chipotle pepper and artichoke, two yerba mate colas, one Golly guarana soda—no wonder!) Actually, the first dreams were totally disturbing and bad, scary and insane—and I can't remember them, and I'm glad. The later dreams were classic sick dreams with unsolvable mathematical-like problems repeating endlessly. It's also the hottest day and night of the year—wonderful weather—but leading to sleep problems, all the same. Anyway, if I never remember these fucking dreams I'll be glad. But knowing they're somewhere in there—in my brain—is disturbing enough. 

31 July 1997 - Thai Deli

Today I'm forced to admit defeat—the realization that I have total writer's block, or whatever you want to call it. I have no inspiration, and no ideas. No motivation, no anything, just a happy life that will end too soon. All the usual subjects are used up or uninteresting.

17 July 1997 - The Hurst

Don't forget how significant a day can be when you call in sick in the middle of the week and do out of the ordinary things. I worked in this job over a year without calling in sick. Hurt my toe two days ago—so I'm trying to spend the whole day today in bed with my foot elevated. But I got hungry and thought it might be easier to go to The Hurst than to cook lunch. Don't want to have to wear shoes for too long though. I had my audition for J's movie yesterday. Another brief experience for the annals. I guess it wouldn't be so bad if I had any idea what I was doing. The weather is nice and things are growing. Getting all phone calls done today with lying in bed with portable phone. A man and woman are here sitting on the same side of a booth with a whole bottle of wine and wine glasses like this is an elegant French restaurant on Friday night!

16 July 1997 - Portland, Oregon

The New Crystal Cafe

I woke up in a coma at the beginning of a movie—missed the first scene, but I believe that's all—which I later came to find was the movie Three Lives and Only One Death, a title that means —what the hell?—probably out of whack in translation. A Raul Ruiz film, the first of his I've ever seen, even though he's made like a hundred, it explained to me possibly what happened to me recently. Time has passed, and you turn up somewhere else. It doesn't explain it, actually, but it acknowledges it, and that is helpful, to know that you're not alone. I've come to realize that staying in one place and in one time takes constant, heavy maintenance. You virtually have to remind yourself who you are each day, and this gets worse and worse as you get older. You start to spend all your time reviewing aspects of the past you want to remember. If you don't, you forget—and it gets worse—you have to spend entire days just remembering who you are and where you are and what the date is.

1 June 1997, Salem, Oregon

It’s now the next morning and I’m at Denny’s for my free breakfast—which comes with the room at the Best Western. It’s a piddly-small eggs and hashbrowns, but I’m not too hungry, and it’s free! Denny’s is its usual busy self. A good counter to sit at. I don’t feel as weird today. I saw on the news that there were tornados in our area—Portland, Vancouver—which is really rare—so perhaps it’s partly the weather that’s making me feel strange. We’ll see.

31 May 1997 - Salem, Oregon

I’m at Burt Lee’s Tahiti Restaurant & Lounge, a classic, if still pretty incredibly weird, place. It’s very old, and worn to the point of point of bordering on dive-y, but incredibly expensive in menu—like the most expensive place I’ve been to in Oregon. It is, however, more or less perfect, from the old carpeting (at least 30 years old), and muffled ukulele ballads, to the thatched ceiling—making a we’re-in-a-hut appearance. But the major exception being overhead TV screens at the bar, which are lottery games, Keno, I think. Also, at each table, along with sugar and salt, is a plastic rack of lottery game shit—some kind of computer-like card—I guess you fill out info, put it in the machine, and pay money, then watch the screen. I’m just guessing, but I don’t care—because it’s so fucked up and ugly, anyway, I don’t want anything to do with it. It’s definitely a crisis—but let’s just say it’s not a social, human, political, economic crisis—we can argue—but one thing I know for sure is that it’s an aesthetic crisis—no arguing about that. But here I am complaining already on the first page of  my new life (well, at least new notebook).

It’s been the incredibly weirdest day ever, really, and I’m almost in a panic, though starting to recover. Starting with a thunderstorm a 5:30 AM (it never thunders and lightings in Portland). Then I drove to Salem in the rain, and it took forever and I was flipping out (too much coffee?)—and I stopped at 2 (two) McDonalds to pee before I got to the hotel—a Best Western by the airport. Overpriced, but nice, and at least a place that looks a little lively—unlike other places on the interstate. There’s 108 rooms and a pool, a spa pool, and two private saunas that you can use, as long as no one else is. So no one was at the pool or spa or saunas, so I went in the sauna, on and off for about an hour, and it was a real nice one, temperature up to 220 degrees (it says) and clean and new (probably unused for the most part) with a shower, too. Pretty unusual facility, I think.

Well, then I watched TV a little, and the first thing I turn on is a movie taking place at a McDonalds. It’s amazing. But I’ve been in McDonalds (two today, in fact) and this is like an idealized, cleaned up version, with human beings as managers, and an old guy being trained by a young guy. Three divorced men are eating Mickey D’s cuisine, talking that movie talk, and it’s that _____________, (horrible TV guy), and Randy Quaid, and… can it be? Mathew Modine. The movie was dated 1995 (called Bye Bye Love) and it’s HORRIBLE and MM is horrible and I think about these actors shooting this horrible stuff, what they must think, must have shot this a couple of years after we shot American Job, and MM was at that American Job screening, he didn’t talk to me, I wonder if it ran through his mind that I might say to him, flat, sarcastic, “I loved Bye Bye Love. Oh my god, this movie…

I’m still at the Tahiti and feeling totally comfortable in spite of flipping out earlier in downtown Salem—which may be the weirdest town I’ve ever been in (or is it just me, today?). I got the feeling I came into the first all space alien settlement—and it may be the case. Anyway, I’m glad I’m in the very muted ukulele mellow dark Burt Lee’s Tahiti—maybe the closest place I’ve seen to the Chinese restaurant in The Apartment—which I’ve wanted to look for in Portland (I mean a place that looks like it) but haven’t found yet. I picked my spot/booth with skill—dark, facing down the length of the bar, but obscuring the Keno monitors. The profile of the bartender, who might be ______________, is amazing, the best thing in Salem yet.  A woman sits at the bar. (Did I hear her say, “I’m forgetting tonight.”?) Totally dressed up, and a giant fishbowl red drink in front of her—with the umbrella, of course. Behind me is a couple, the woman sounds just like the woman who runs the parking garage where I work. She talks all the time. The man, who might be Mexican, doesn’t, but he does ask questions. Finally they leave, and it’s the first time I see them. They look exactly like they sound. My waitress is really nice. The other waitress is extremely weird. Every word that comes out of her mouth sounds badly scripted, like a person with English as a second language, writing from a textbook.

It crosses my mind that at least half of the population (anywhere) is alcoholic—perhaps much more—maybe 90 percent—under the spell of alcoholism in some way. Not drinking is like being an atheist or communist in the All-American, Christian era of Past (which never was, but you know—that mythic time and place). I’ve got to find out some way to live, and not feel like I’m being hunted down at every minute. Now the woman at the bar has a tall orange drink. People at booths disappear from time to time (including George the bartender). Where do they go? To lottery games. Help, we don’t help. TV and parking lots, that was my day so far. May I take a nice swim and watch more TV (something inspiring). Read Faulkner.

Wednesday, 17 July 1996

I'm at the Stepping Stone diner for breakfast on a rainy, cold day in the middle of summer. I guess reviving this Mauve Decade project has once again failed. I've been working, working, etc., temp job, then off to a film festival, then more working, waiting to hear about American Job's progress and then more working. Waiting, nothing, working, paying off credit cards, a little anyway, only about $15,000 debt left. Only? Anyway, living in Portland, that's the best thing. Got hired at my near permanent temp job. Another law firm. The summer is definitely welcome. Today feels like fall, and that's welcome, too, since it doesn't feel enough like fall here in the fall. Middle of July, 1996. This is a nice diner, too bad it's not in our neighborhood. It's old, and L-shaped, on a corner in a residential neighborhood. Circular fluorescent lights in the ceiling, L-shaped counter. Booths. Good coffee cups—though I've quit drinking coffee, at least for now. Bad music on the bad radio. Why? Why is there so much bad music? Oh, my.

Thursday, 1 February 1996

Whoops—here it is Thursday already and I'm in the middle of my account of Sundance week, and I'm hopelessly lost, behind and forgetting everything. I'm an idiot for not writing each day as it went along—I, as much as anyone should know better. I figure I can redeem myself by writing a coherent and artful account of the entire experience—but I'd better include notes here so that I remember a good portion of it. I'll do that…

But first—time for my pen to run out. Does that signify anything, I wonder? Though I do have a fine array of pens—actually, this one sucks too—yeah fuck it—oh no—this one won’t write either—a lot of these pens, they look nice, but when it comes down to writing, forget it!

Maybe it's the cold—nothing will write—its insane—I'm sick of it—maybe it's me—anyway. (Doug just called from Legal NW—my temp agency. I got a job for tomorrow, ending, at least, in my short-term mind, my $ problems. Time problems are ongoing—so what the hell!)

Anyway, I was going to say—that I'm concerned with the very nature of this project—and I have to find a way to make it work, to make it worthwhile for me to write—and for people to read.

Sunday, 28 January 1996

Today is the actual last day here—getting a ride to the airport at 3:30 and flying back tonight. It's kind of sad with everyone gone now and everything all over pretty much. I wish I would have got an earlier flight back, actually. But it's okay—the whole week was hectic and now I'm able to relax a little. Went to two movies yesterday—The White Balloon at 7 pm, and The Bloody Child at 10 am. It was fun going to a movie like The Bloody Child in the morning, since it was somewhat experimental, very disturbing, and the kind of movie that's impossible to see (anywhere but a festival). And it was pretty much nonlinear, but generally ran in reverse chronological order, much like this journal I'm writing.

Okay—the last thing yesterday was going to the closing night party, which was at some racket club in the suburbs—and was really hard to get into. We had like eight people in our group by that time, but only two tickets—so it was another iffy thing, like going to parties all week. We never were sure if we could get in, but we always did. Last night was the worst. There were tons of cops and a very organized system of entry. Tom Wheeler and Doug, who arrived earlier, managed to get in—Tom by ducking behind a curtain which totally surrounded the space. It was like an indoor football field sized space (actually tennis courts) and there was a curtain around the edge. Total chaos, but enough force at the door to keep us from getting in until we got the attention of Trevor, one of the programmers who was really nice to us all week, and he got us in.

Lots of people were exceptionally nice all week, and it was odd contrasted with the inconsiderate and rude behavior you would also see. It was kind of like local rednecks verses the rude Hollywood and New York types. You could see it. But amidst this you'd also see evidence of being nice actually mean something. Being considerate actually meaning something. It was kind of reaffirming all in all.

I saw a waiter at a restaurant YELL at a group of people yesterday. Amazing. The older woman working at the Vietnamese restaurant I'm eating lunch at right now just came up with my check and touched my arm and said, "Take your time." Since I'm sitting here along writing, very nice.

Where was I, though? At the party last night, incredibly crowded, we saw a lot of the people we met who were totally nice and supportive of us. You really kind of got the feeling that people were so happy we made a movie everyone wants to be made but no one has the courage to make. Totally un-commercial and not very happy.

We saw Matt W. again who was from Iowa City, etc. And Steve Bognar, who is from Dayton (and we saw all week), and did a documentary called Personal Belongings. He knows Ed Pittman (from Dayton).

Saturday, 27 January 1996

It's our last full day here, kinda sad, but I'll be glad to go back to Portland tomorrow. Last night was our second and last screening, and it was kind of disappointing in that it wasn’t very crowded—though there were enough people there to make it seem like an audience—but nothing like the first one—but on the other hand, it was a good audience—and I had the best time watching it I had yet. I sat by this guy, Matt, who we met up with earlier in the week, who was a film student in Iowa and now works for acquisitions at Universal or somewhere. I sat in the back, and it looked a little fuzzy to me with my bad eyes, but the color was great and really rich, and the sound was good too. I even noticed things I've never noticed before.

Friday, 26 January 1996

(Rewrite this anemic Sundance crap—even if it’s not true—and add stuff I wouldn’t have known at the time, i.e. Tokyo Fist by director of Tetsuo movies/Iron Man or whatever—a great antidote to the overdose on cream filled pastry horns that was Renee Zellweger.)

It's Friday morning, and I'm drinking coffee in our hotel room at the Treasure Mountain Inn in Park City, Utah. I'll try to go backwards with the bizarre things I can remember over the last few days—at least until I'm interrupted again with some bizarre thing, which I'll perhaps recount at the time. Anyway, I'm becoming afraid I won't get to remember everything, but then I already don't already remember names—I mean I forget them five minutes later. In the movie The Player everyone introduced themselves with first and last names all the time, but very few people have done that to me here. People are all going around with nametags, but I feel stupid squinting and bending to read their nametags. Anyway, that's not the most interesting thing, anyway. The overall feeling I've had is the most striking thing—which I'll try to describe in mere words and no doubt fail miserably.

Last of all, last night we all went to a midnight screening of Tokyo Fist, a new movie by the Japanese filmmaker Shinya Tsukamoto (whose name I'll look up right now). We went right after The Whole Wide World, which I didn't like very much. At some point in the evening, I realized I forgot to drink my afternoon or evening coffee—which is usually tragic. Not to mention, I've never been able to stay awake for a midnight screening. But this movie was so completely insane, it was impossible to fall asleep. It was easily the most violent movie I've ever seen, but it kind of transcended everything that it was—really fast editing, violence—moving camera, lots of symbolic urban landscape shots, alienating lighting, body piercings—which all, on paper, seem to be lame, but of course there's no way to reproduce the impact of the movie in writing, so why the fuck am I trying? Anyway, I didn't fall asleep.

On our way out to the movies, we discovered that DEVO were in the room off the lobby of the hotel where they were doing on-line interviews (we did one earlier). We started talking to a woman who was watching the kids. It turned out she was the wife of one of the DEVO guys—I think Gerald Casale. Doug and Igor watched her kid (Alex 2) outside while he threw snowballs at cars. She had Chris give her a backrub and told us how she saw a guy from Blue Oyster Cult in the lobby of their hotel who she used to know, and he said something about "bronzing the key" after being with her. Something like that—I'm not sure—anyway, something complimentary and sexist, but she was flattered more than disgusted, I think.

Finally the DEVO guys came out, and Scott had them sign the DEVO video Chris had happened to bring. Finally we went down to the movie, but Alex 2 was still out in the snow, so I played in the snow with him a little until Mark Mothersbaugh came out and took over. Oh, and the other funny thing, this woman, never found out her name, said they had a pet bird, a parrot or something, named Derbis. They had named it when they saw someone on the news talking about debris, but couldn't pronounce it, and pronounced it "Derbis."

Thursday, 25 January 1996

I'm really sorry about going 20 days without writing anything, and I will probably regret it later.  It has made me think that this project may be hopeless. It all started with a job I got at a law firm (temp job) soon after I had written the previous entry. Then, I was working full time up to the date of my birthday (January 19). It used to be, when I first started this project in 1989, that I could write entries at work, but now, doing temp work, as I am, I don't think it is as easy. So I don't know. Maybe I'll figure something out. Anyway, it's near the end of January, but then, every year starts out much the same way. January is kind of hectic and goes fast. I'll see if I can't straighten things out here in the next couple of days. Maybe. I have a lot to write about, but right now it's three in the morning or so, and I'm tired.

Friday, 5 January 1996

(no entry)