Waiting for Harlan at the Barbershop

It has been a few weeks since this happened. Maybe I have a better perspective from a distance. I don’t know. To recap, I had an opportunity to see Harlan Ellison in Los Angeles and I took it. This involved trains, Hollywood Boulevard and buses. And my ability to get lost when I think a place is other than where I think it should be.

After the tour barker incident and waiting 20+ minutes for the right bus I arrived at the 4300 block of Hollywood Boulevard. To say that this block has memories for me is an understatement. The last time I was in this area was the afternoon of the Rodney King verdict. There was a bookstore that I checked out from time to time. It is gone now.

So is the Circuit City and other businesses. There weren’t that many of them. It was the kind of street you walked fast to get to your bus connections.  It was a miracle that I made it home that night.

Now there are upscale boutiques. hipster hamburger joints and spray art on the sidewalk. I don’t see any winos or junkies. I don’t smell anything but air.

It is discombobulating. Not bad, but I occupy two different places at the same time.

This is not how it use to be.  I am adjusting.

There are a few fans lined up between the Sweeny Todd Barber Shop and the Luz de Jesus Gallery. We are older. Hair is grey in patches. Everybody has their phone ready to take a photo. Denim, spandex and tattoos are plentiful.

This is the cover of his new book of long out of print lad stories. Seeing as how I bough his  books at a stripped book store in the past (I had no way of knowing it was un-ethical at the time) this is my way of making amends. Should you be so inclined to read his early gang and men magazine stories of the 1950s and 60s you could visit Kick Books to find out how to obtain a copy.

(In the interest of honesty, I didn't care for the JD line of books so I can't speak to the quality of them. I was not in the demographic at the time of publication and nothing has changed since then.)

The game plan was that Ellison was supposed to get a haircut and then walk over to the gallery. I would have liked to gone into the gallery but it was a small place with too many people inside. There was plenty of action on the sidewalk.

The barber and Harlan come out of the barber shop. Harlan told the crowd don’t stand in the sun too long. Had on a nice lavender shirt, by the way. He looked good.

The barber was a right nice looking beefy guy with a traditional barber jacket that showed his tats very nicely. Poor fellow made a mistake; he asked Harlan how he was doing.

“I’m 79 years old. I feel lousy.” It is a known fact that Mr. Ellison can be terse. Caustic. They turned the corner and no one seemed to notice.

I’m still looking around clicking atmospherically evidence that as we go to hell in a hand basket a good time will be had if you know where to go.

Time marches on and I’m thinking it is mighty hot outside. Still, nothing can induce me to go inside the gallery and I sure wasn’t going into a $10 to $20 hamburger joint. I’m loyal but passing out on the boulevard is not a test I’m willing to take.

I snap up other items of interest and slowly move my body away from the festivities. Then I hear a horn, A old school horn and peep into the car. There he was in the back seat. I had this quizzical look on my face. I looked at him. He looked at me, shrugged his shoulders and I nodded back.

I understood. I think.

Harlan got out of the car. Two motorcycle people in black leather braced him as folks took photos. Then he entered the barbershop. And people proceeded to take photos of him getting a hair cut.

I’m looking at them. At the Lone Ranger billboard. At the neighborhood that sprung up from the old.

The colors of the buildings and the sky.

I couldn’t ask for anything more. Or so I thought. The driver of the car got out. He was a little tense. His only words were a frantic “I gonna have my beer.”

Back on Hollywood Boulevard proper, I came across another person who was throwing up because he was drinking fortified malt liquor in the 3 p.m. sun and that wasn’t a smart thing to do.

My center had been restored.

I went home.

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Witness to a PUA Failure - My Testimony

Dear menfolk, I like you. I do. Really. Well, some of you. A specific few. Let's just say there are positive lights in the firmament of mankind. Emphasis on the kind part.

Some of y'all are doing things that make the boogie man look honorable. A small percentage of the tribe has issues that need to be work out with a therapist or six months in the wilderness with a guru.

I understand that many of you would like female companionship. Others just want a body or access to specific female body parts. We are not like a car, Ruby on Rails or a jigsaw puzzle. We are people.

The poem below is an interpretation of an experience I had on Hollywood Boulevard. I was just an observer. This is the sanitized version.

No, not really. I tried to remember word for word what the tour barker said.



Either way, you cannot go around and cuss women out because they:

• Chooses not to talk with you.
• Is totally afraid of you, your clothes or the saliva emanating from your mouth.
• Has other things to do that do not include you.

I have to say that the actual man who inspired this poem towers over most women. He is also wide, in a muscular way. Booming voice. Bull in the China shop kind of guy.

If a woman walks away from you and she is not interested,  game over.

Done.

Let it go.

You do not need to blast your disappointment up and down the street and casting aspersions on her character where 30 seconds before you were quite interested in getting warm with her form.

In conclusion, that page in the PUA handbook that tells you to annoy women to get attention? Burn that page. Well first rip out that page, burn it and stomp the ashes.

I'd tell you to burn the book but that is something I cannot promote. But should it accidentally wind up in the barbeque pit don't bother to retrieve it.

Or replace it.

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Past as It Plays Itself Foward In Time

It wasn't like this. It was gritty. Dirty. There was a smell, sometimes. There was people selling vegetables in boxes on sidewalks or in half stall stores. There were winos and bums and people who had no place to go. People stood around talking all day long. They didn't need talk radio to keep a conversation going.

There were people going to work or to school. The streets were filled with busy people.

It was filled with motion.

There were no tables or chairs outside. No place for them. The sidewalks were narrow then.

There were belching cars and trolleys trying to get some place. Everybody was trying to get some place other than where they were.

Me included.

No, it didn't look like this. I tramped up and down those streets and what I knew is gone. I only have the memory of it.

I remember the good pretzel place where you had to wait for a hot one because they sold out quick. You could have plain with mustard or extra salty. Small, or freaky big. A couple of stores down from the pretzel place was my home away from home bookstore.

The bookstore, I think it was called Robin's, is where they sold alternative comic books. Where I could get a copy of High Times for a quarter. I was more interested in the hydroponics than the weed.

I was a strange person.

I must have been the only person to buy High Times for the articles and to check out Vaughn Bode's comic called Cheech Wizard. Bode was the only cartoonist I knew that celebrated big behind women.

There were days when I'd have just a dollar and have to choose between a photo magazine and three other candidates. If you didn't buy it when you laid eyes on it it could be gone.

One day I found this book called I Have No Mouth and I Must Scream. Paperback. It was right next to the Ice Berg Slim books . My arms where loaded up but I flipped to a few pages and thought this dude Ellison was on to something.

I fell in love with his writing. I fell in love with how he would talk to you in the fourth wall breaking pages before the start of a story. I didn't care for his gangster books. Gangsters were getting shot up all over town and making the tabloid covers every other day. Fiction couldn't trump that Goombah reality.

I kept my radar out for anything else he wrote. One day when I was able I paid full price cash money for a paperback that had the original script of the City on the Edge of Forever. Then I bought his other books with covers intact.

So when I heard that Harlan Ellison was going to be in Hollywood I thought I could go see him in person. I needed to make amends for buying those first stripped books when I was a teenager.

But meeting inspirations can be tricky.

So this is the past that you need to known to put context to the future that was.

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Yes, We Should UFTW Poem

I have been frigidity all day. Rather than stew in my own juices I'm trying out an experiment. I have wanted to try making video poems. There are people that are doing just that; there is a wonderful site called Moving Poems that curates the various ways a video poem can be created.







If you do check out that site you will discover that there is more than just talking head poets on video or film. There can be dance, animation, performance, text sculptures and a bunch more video poem formats than I have time to type.

I've been thinking about doing this for long time. I'm going to try to make my experiments public and use the Create Video Notebook blog to explain the tools and resources on how to create them.

This is a photo text poem. The text and the photo create the actual poem. Take away one element and it is meaningless or weak. There is no narration and it is open captioned.

Anyway, this is #1 with more to come.

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More Lessons About Being Attunded to Your Body

On this day I have an wowser of an ow.  I was pushing my hand cart. There was a slight incline out of the store. All of the sudden my back let's out a scream. Never happened before. Never want pull a muscle again. 

I was suspended between a sharp pain and the need to get home. I'm doing the body inventory as cars whip past me. Decisions have to be made quickly.

I can stand? Yes.
I can walk? Yes.
Does it hurt? Oh yes.

There is a meditation technique where you acknowledge the pain but you don't feed into it. Slow deliberate steps. Gentle breathing out. Outlining where the pain is and isn't. Sending loving kindness to the areas that hurt and not cussing myself out that I tried to push too much stuff.

Walking actually helps reduce the pain but I'm not a big fan of pain in the first place.

So here I am. Home. In a chair trying to figure out my next move.

Last night I had old food in the fridge which is more like a chiller but not really. I had leftovers that should have been tossed.

No, it looks nothing like this. I'd love it if it did.

I ate them.

From midnight to 4:33 a.m. I regretted it deeply.

Only I made fast deliberate steps to the bathroom. Letting go at both ends. Trying to figure out what I did to get into this space. I got my answer around 2:30ish when I remembered that I need to pay more attention to my doubts.

Acceptance.

Not good at that either but getting better. I don't ask Spirit to take it away from me any longer. I just want to survive it so I don't do it again.

Trash bags are standing by.

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