the plan

it was more like a ploy to get me home early.
almost worked.
had the recommendations.
the transcripts.
the required writing samples.
EVERYTHING.
via the internet i investigated USC's screenwriting program.
googled the faculty. their work. past students. achievements.
on the ball to say the least.
but i didn't get in.
another four months in the desert.
i was pissed.
but i did get a personalized letter from a gent named Howard Rodman.
told me to keep on, keeping on.
and i did.
through the disheartening gulags of community college.
the tedium of gay-lesbian-transgendered-bisexual-metrosexual-women studies-animal liberation-algebra for the mildly stupid, required classes of LMU.
and i wrote. a lot.
and read. a lot.
and i'm still writing. and still reading.
hell, i've only been at it three years.
wasn't raised in the theatre. parents never did take me to the opera. or read gothe to me before bed. barely graduated high school. operated exclusively on cliff notes. failed english and math. was the antagonist of nearly every teacher i came in contact with.
needless to say, i was a major fucktard.
never even read a book until my senior year; "catcher in the rye."
first play @ 27; "the importance of being earnest."
and now, well, i'm just an infant.
balancing.
gaining ground.
learning to stumble. busting my nose on occasion.
but yesterday,
i walked.
down the little shaded mazes of the University of Southern California--the same walkways John Milius, George Lucas, Robert Zemeckis, Judd Apatow, Ronnie Howard, etc, etc. walked.

classes start monday.
here we go...

13 march 2003

looking through my old journal, i stumbled upon an entry that really scared me. not too verbose, just very depressing and shocking. think it was late in the 1st iraq campaign.

march 13th 2003
sometimes i sit in the porta-shitters out here in the desert.
in the excrement and filth, piss, spit, pubes, mucus and vulgar limericks.
sometimes i think i've become a part of it.
like if i could just slide down that shit hole and become one of the many swollen turds, nobody would ever find me because thats where i belong.
and i sit in there; blue porta-shitters in 110 degree heat, and rationalize my life.
i want to shit out all the bad things i've ever done.
sweat out all my ruthlessness and depraved thoughts and actions.
those people i harmed and say it wasnt me who did it.
it was someone else.
i sit out here in the desert and think too much...

so thats it. i dunno. guess its a reality check. when it looks like theres no escape, when you're all alone and you've become a gear in the machine, dont acquiesce. dont engulf yourself in it. write it down. you might just make it out alive.

my boots

are tan, weather worn, unimposing.
they've seen a lot.
at times i think they've seen more than me.
marched in step on camp hornos parade deck;
trudged up the uss pearl harbors ladder wells;
dried and cracked in the kuwaiti desert;
soaked through with rain on the streets of fallujah.

one boot has a large dent in it. still rubs awkward against my big toe, makes just an impression to let me know its still there.
forget how i got it.
maybe an ammo can fell on it.
the soles are gnarled smooth. the grit of multiple naval carriers and the heat of the middle-east, creating a lacquered sheen..
some deep cuts are there too.
i know how i got those.
i did it.
i did it with my k-bar five years ago.
on guard duty.
it would be late, quiet.
the world ceasing fire.
then after sharpening it, id test it out on my tan rubber sole.

within the creases of the boot, underneath the beige laces, still covered with iraqi dirt, resides a dog tag. it is dented and dirty and has my name on it, my social security number, blood type, gas mask size, and tells my captors im in the United States Marine Corps.
got quiet a few dog tags floating around.
once had free reign of the dog tag machine at the school of infantry.
that was after my first tour.
thought i was shit hot. a salty dog.
and i walked through my old barracks, passing young Marines, fresh from boot camp, still looking scared and apprehensive.
i liked these kids.
joining after sept 11 2001, these guys actively choose to go to war.
something akin to the old timers after pearl harbor.
romantic patriots.
these kids.
18 year olds.
and i shuddered, thinking about the rabid jihadists they would eventually have to face.
about how their faces would look when they finally realized: this is war.

the prose you've read about in "farewell to arms;"
the jingoistic bullshit they lionized in boot camp;
the crap they protested against in the 60s.

don’t know why I wear my boots anymore.
just do every once in a while.
i mean i dont get all dolled up in my dress blues and march around my house, barking orders at imaginary subordinates. recite lines from 'taxi driver' in front of a full length mirror.

but these boots, they’re mine.
they’re all that I have now: memories.
because im officially out of the marine corps. no more inactive reserve. no more threats of being activated.
no stop-loss.
im a civilian.
a common joe looking in on an alien world.

ulysses, tortoise type

charles bukowski

lived a few blocks down from me.

santa cruz st., san pedro ca 90732.

poet. novelist. dirty old bastard.

and i like him.

a lot.

his prose ain't that hot, but his poetry is beautiful. an off-beat-odd-fellow-type beauty. something akin to a toothless hobo clutching a half empty bottle of mickey's malt liqueur under the setting sun in los angeles harbor.

recently re-read some of his poems and i've come to a disturbing conclusion.

i copy him.

not verbatim, but stylistically.

a mental road map to composition.

in fact, i think many young writers do.

in my defense, i dont think i tried to.

just happened.

seeped into my mental vernacular.

a subconscious seed planted in my medulla oblongata. maybe it happened when i looked for his grave site a few years back.

some half-assed supernatural bond.

i dunno.

but it happened.

should i apologize?

no.

he's dead. and i dont think you can copyright a mentality.

yet, the least i can do is introduce some scouts to my favorite, albeit relatively unknown, poet:

Charles Bukowski

1920-1994

one of my favorites:

I Made a Mistake

I reached up into the top of the closet

and took out a pair of blue panties

and showed them to her and

asked "are these yours?"

and she looked and said,

"no, those belong to a dog."

she left after that and I haven't seen

her since. she's not at her place.

I keep going there, leaving notes stuck

into the door. I go back and the notes

are still there. I take the Maltese cross

cut it down from my car mirror, tie it

to her doorknob with a shoelace, leave

a book of poems.

when I go back the next night everything

is still there.

I keep searching the streets for that

blood-wine battleship she drives

with a weak battery, and the doors

hanging from broken hinges.

I drive around the streets

an inch away from weeping,

ashamed of my sentimentality and

possible love.

a confused old man driving in the rain

wondering where the good luck

went.

private discharged by firing squad

this guy, bush.
death sure follows him closely. wanna know more?
click here:

http://www.politico.com/news/stories/0708/12129.html

sunday morning coming down

and i'm one of three remaining white males in los angeles who mows his own lawn.

its a little known fact that i hold close to my heart. and i like to celebrate said factoid on my porch with a pabst blue ribbon and a sanctimonious sneer. but im starting to think gravel might be a nice alternative. ulysses; my tortoise, masturbated all over my freshly mowed lawn.he was punished. here's some pix. live vicariously through me.