Dryline Rhapsody by Thomas A. Morgan

"Angel River Falls" Now Available on Kindle

2011-05-16T11:35:00.000-07:00

Yep, It's true. I made it through another edit and published my novel Angel River Falls via Kindle. I'm pretty stoked; it's been a labor of love. Get yourself a copy of this wonderful novel today.

Next stop, the world.

Peace.

T.A.M.

The Moneyed Places

2010-12-06T09:50:00.000-08:00

The interesting thing with wikileaks is how fast the powers that be have scrambled to shut this guy up and shutdown the site. The moneyed places have struck back because there is nothing scarier than information.

I'm sure it's understood that, given the age we're in, some information should be withheld; people are stupid, everyone craves instant gratification, folks want things cheap, free, mostly cheap, and they want it now. In many ways we're still getting over the 90s if not still suffering the hangover of the 80s; we went from excess to more excess to a mindset that is so financially frantic that it'd do anything for a buck.

Which is why I think Wikileaks is brilliant. Sure, if you're a conservative and have been mindlessly going off your script (the one handed to you, not the ideas you cobbled down), you view this as mostly a talking point but also a threat; you're designed to react to it because your side says so. On the hand, liberals, who defend people like this author, say that we're next, that we should fear the government's crackdown on this kind of stuff. They're both right, though I nod to the left, as always, when it comes to things like free speech and amendment rights in general.

At the end of the day, sadly, this dude will be shut down and the whole mess will be swept aside. Watch for some large distracting bit of news to coincide with it. Free speech truly has so master but the moneyed places always win in the end.

Blood-Colored Mountains

2010-10-15T12:19:00.000-07:00

Yeah, I know. But it's been a damn busy summer in the studio working out the tracks for my forthcoming CD release West Coast Hearts, and this means stories and such are in remission. Fiction comes slow but songs sometimes don't. For this I'm thankful.

This isn't to say that Dryline Rhapsody or any of the other writing projects have completely fallen off. Hardly. It's all about clock management, plain and simple.

Frankly, I don't remember Dryline, and have been thinking it's time to revisit the project, if for no other reason than to relish the nostalgia. This was a real novel, a serious novel in an age of pubescent wizards and dirge-driveling vampires. I actually never thought about literary wizards apart from Gandalf and in terms of vampires, Anne Rice's vampire chronicles did much to lull me to sleep. So there you have it. No fantasy or vampires for me--at this juncture.

I was recently thinking about Jim Thompson and how he managed to capture a grittiness, and had thought about going back to reread a couple of his wonderful, sad, immediate novels, notably The Killer Inside of Me, After Dark, My Sweet, and South of Heaven. Really great hard-edged stuff reminiscent of Cain, who, as you probably know by now, is one of my heroes.

My agent tells me we're getting there. I listen and nod and think about all the time it took to get here. He tells me we're close, and I think about what to write next. I focus a lot more of my energy on my music these days but there is a change in the light out here in the Southland: autumn. It's a perfect time to write.

**Project update**

The sunset mountains are lovely this time of year. A must-see. Like a wound on the earth...

Peace,

T.A.M.

Jeez, I Can't Find My Knees

2010-07-06T19:05:00.000-07:00

What usually happens after a weekend amid the appellations is I get back to loud unruly Los Angeles and either count my blessings or confirm my insanity. Either way, It's always kind of a buzzkill getting back here. It's L.A., and I've a love/hate relationship with this place.

Maybe my Yankee roots will never really wilt. Maybe they'll continue to seek new dirt, which makes me think of Central Coast. I'm transformed by the place; it's life-affirming. I actually had time to think up there--about the weather, about the drowsy light, about the oak trees and low rounded hills, about the end of the earth and the beginning of the water. About everything, I guess.

And this whole "writer" thing. Thought about that, too. They were fleeting thoughts at best; I've been out here long enough to have given up on deep thoughts, and maybe this isn't a bad thing.

No, it'll dog me until I finally surrender to the dirt. It's gotta be this way; what they hell else is there? Another MBA? Another lawyer? Another dope finding his way senselessly, like I have this past 1.5 Decades?!

It'll finally happen now. All writing eventually happens. And I may or may not care, as I've said recently to more than one person. Alas.

The road. We are transformed by beauty, I think. And up there, somewhere 'neath that cloudless sky, I found something else.

**Project update**

Workin' it.

Peace,

T.A.M.

Atop an Underwood

2010-06-29T13:15:00.000-07:00

Once again, life gets in the way of living. My hiatus from this blog is now officially over and it's time to get back to work. I won't waste your time by commenting on current events--we all know the gulf is in trouble, the banks are in trouble, the job market still sucks, and California is gonna sink under the weight of Meg Whitman--rather I'll start by thanking you for keeping up the vigil. And I'll do my best to revive Dryline Rhapsody, the reason I got into this in the first place. It remains my passion, my raison d'etre, and it's a damn good book.

I haven't given up on fiction or even literature for that matter. But as I said, life gets in the way of living. But in case you were concerned here's a few rejoinders, however post-postmodern seeming:

First off--I'm still alive. Been spending more and more time this past year working on recording projects rather than fiction and screenplays. This will change.

Second off--I'm still alive. Contemplating getting an absurd muscle car if for no other reason than to justify this midlife crisis (my second).

Third off--I'm still alive. And I'm glad for that.

See you up the road, and thanks for hanging in there.

Peace,

T.A.M.

Mr. Stack, Remembered

2010-02-18T18:28:00.000-08:00

It's one thing to dream of revolution, make change, and be called a patriot. It's something altogether different to dream of revolution, steal a plane, fly it into a federal building, believing it's "sane", and be considered a patriot. And yet this is what I see as a reaction to Mr. Joseph Stack from the folks on the Right: the patriot who has had enough; the Tea-Bagger Saint, crazy and fringed like the rest of them.

Naturally, a Fox affiliate posted his "manifesto" on one of their websites and I can just hear the Right going on about this guy. And yet there is something romantic about this fatalistic gesture. Where do you put yourself mentally when there is no exit? What did the captives in Iraq think right before they were decapitated? Indeed, what did Mr. Stack think as the plane slammed into the building?

Mr. Stack believe that "there isn't enough therapy in the world that can fix what is really broken," and by this he meant, among other things, the simple concept of justice for all. Why the hell are we taxed as much as we are? What are really getting out of this? What did it mean when Clinton said we would have a balanced budget that would eliminate the national debt? Had this happened--had 9/11 not happened, had Bush not raged into Baghdad--and the tax laws completely wiped out, would Mr. Stack still be with us? Would any of these jackasses?

Apart from his family, I'm afraid Mr. Stack will be forgotten in a week--this thanks to our wonderful short attention spans.

And like The Rifleman fighting for his land, Mr. Stack had had enough. He got up from the couch, went to the window, stuck his head out and shouted, "I'm mad as hell and I'm not gonna take it anymore!"

But unlike The Rifleman, Mr. Stack was crazy. The Rifleman was making good on his personal promises--to himself, his son, and his God. After all, Jesus said pay your taxes. And The Rifleman blazed the bad guys. What the hell did you do today?

You're a coward, Mr. Stack. You're a coward because we're still here and you're not. As it turns out you weren't part of the solution, were you?

**Project update**

Life continues, as it often does, here in the place where continuing is what we do best.

Peace,

T.A.M.

Like Mountains in the Rain

2010-01-18T09:00:00.000-08:00

The skies have opened up over Los Angeles, and it's a real Blade Runner rain.

I used to work with a guy who, when it rained like this out here, would kick on his hiking boots, grab his favorite anorak, and hit the mountain trails, often up Mt. Wilson or maybe one of those vague rises you can see from the 134. He knew that Angelenos often stay away when it's raining like it is. And the peace he probably found on the trail was mostly in his mind.

If you've walked in the rainy woods you'll recognize the constant almost hypnotizing drumming of the rain. You press forward through the constant curtain, ever moving closer to the source. You generate a different kind of warmth--a strange, sickly, steamy warmth that's neither offensive nor comforting. You're mostly soaked through but it doesn't matter. It's human to want to press on through the rain; it seems legends come out of the rain.

With this in mind and armed with nothing more than a crappy pair of hiking shoes and a raincoat, I hurried up a mountain trail with memories of doing the same as a young man in New Hampshire one wet, late-winter day. As was then, the rain was steady but not drowning. While that climb was pretty much along a tumbling waterfall, this one was along a trail I knew quite well.

I stopped to listen, to remember, to watch the Valley disappear in the ghostly vaporous veils. Ahead, the trail curved beneath a promontory. I stopped. What would the chances be if I passed beneath this ancient, scarred rock and the mountain decided to give it away. A few hundred feet below was a swelling mountain stream. The clifflike slope was already loose from the fires. This wouldn't do.

So I stood there and decided it was the poetic thing to do: to allow nature to continue unobserved and to forget wondering whether a wet mountain is made for humans or coyotes.

I headed down the mountain, got into my car, and grabbed a coffee at Peet's on the way home.

**Project update**

Finally working on a new novel. It's been too long, this hiatus.

Peace,

T.A.M.

One More Time, With Feeling...

2009-12-31T07:45:00.000-08:00

Here's to a prosperous, peaceful, eventful, life-affirming, life-changing 2010 and beyond. It's a new decade; the last one was kinda shitty for me personally but it ended gloriously.

There are new stories to explore, new novels to pen, new deals to be struck; there are screenplays to write, stageplays to contemplate, songs to be developed. I'm looking forward to it all--aren't you?

Happy New Year and thanks for reading.

Peace,

T.A.M.

Ennui, Thy Name is Errant

2009-12-23T12:54:00.000-08:00

Frankly, I still don't see the appeal. And now there's talk of zombies.

Please, give horror a chance to redeem itself. It's been laid to waste by the likes of these moody-ass characters and nabobs who stare at one another ad nauseum amid utterances of eternal love. Really? (Full disclosure: I don't read these books and never will. I don't see the point but some teeny-bopper no doubt thinks otherwise.)

Years ago I read parts of Anne Rice's The Mummy, which was almost as awful as her Witches book. I can see how a 3000-year-old mummy would want to get laid. I don't see that this--i.e., sex--is even considered interesting anymore to a vampire; they're monsters, aren't they?

I digress. I suppose that Twilight is more relevant than Lost Boys ever will be; at least there are werewolves. But this vampire-lycan thing is so damn boring. Whatever. It made the author tons of money, and wasn't that the point?

No, I've had my time working on a vampire story. Two of them, in fact. I nearly died of ennui, the blatant plotlines were so tired; there's really no where to go in a vampire story except to bed! Indeed, they were totally not for a teenage audience (one would hope). This is why they're relatively easy to write. So, thanks, Anne Rice!

But this is the age in which we write: the Pubescence of Literary Pubescence. These are not meant to be smart books or even interesting, and certainly not philosophical. They're vehicles for detachment and belonging. There's no effen way parents get this crap--not at all--and this could be one of the reasons these books are so popular. It helps, of course, that the film version are front-loaded with beautiful, emaciated people you probably wouldn't've notices pissing in the corner were it not for the silver screen.

Believe me--I'm not asking that teenagers go out and read War and Peace (I haven't even gotten that far into it) but wouldn't it be nice if vampires, zombies, mummies, werewolves, and ghouls were honest in their telling?

**Project update**

Reading War and Peace, and working on a new project.

Peace,

T.A.M.

When Golf Legends Get Laid...

2009-12-09T10:46:00.001-08:00

...the world notices.

Man, reality television is destroying us. In this rough hewn age of celebutards, bottom-feeders, and millionaire flunkies, one would think an ounce of class would rise to the top. Instead, a veritable busload of tramps has pulled up to the curb, and the media followed like a running sore.

It's remarkable--and sad--that so much time and energy is spent on these useless people. But it's fascinating, and that's why we watch.

We watch because they're not us. They're flawed, broken, bent, delusive. They have time and money, and mostly time. Time to chase down cocktail waitress. Time to solicit porn stars. Time to do mountains of blow. Meanwhile, as I sit here at this desk typing this madness, I recall how much better off I am not knowing that anything is happening in real-time, that I don't rush home to see this crap on the 7 o'clock hour.

Now let's talk about money lost. Kobe was the face for Wheaties (I think) then he nailed some Colorado desk clerk, and he lost a ton of endorsement money. A pittance, really, and I'm sure he never felt it. It did bolster his street cred though (he, who had one of the more privileged childhoods of recent memory). No matter. He stayed mum, made his peace with his pastor, renegotiated his pre-nup, and all was well.

But 12 mistresses? What's the missus' story then?

I don't care for golf in the least. Mostly they're fat white Republicans with manicured smiles and 19th-hole-chic wives (former cocktail waitresses?). It's a boring game. I can't imagine that it's terribly stressful. Did I mention it was boring?

Now this. Even I'm talking about it. I should be talking about Frost or Shelley, Kerouac and liberals. But no. I'm latching onto this crap because it's currently more interesting than I am; he's going to lose a fortune. It's hilarious and sad. And all those people who supported him, who through money at this guy, who're on the payroll--they're the ones that lose.

I guess in life as in golf it all comes down to a hole in one, I suppose. Depends on how many ones there are.

**Project update**

Boning up on my bogies, eagles, and birdies. Life's a Florida golf course and I'm teeing up.

Peace.

T.A.M.

Key Change

2009-11-24T17:31:00.000-08:00

Admittedly, I've let this blog fall by the wayside, proving once and for all that our brains are no longer expanding and that attention spans are not what they used to be.

Okay, maybe it's my own brain that is no longer expanding and my own attention span that has dwindled. Certainly Dean Everest Oakland never had this kind of problem; he was so in the moment that he didn't have a future, which explains the final chapter (you'll see). But then his was a world of three years ago, and a lot has happened since then. A lot.

I sit now and listen to Miles Davis' Kind of Blue, a veritable document of the mid-20th century jazz--a how-to of jazz composition. Just a perfect expression--a brooding wonderful, crisp, mellow, smoky record that I return to again and again to reference something deep down inside. I always find it, too, and that's a comfort.

If I have learned nothing else these past 12 months it's that you cannot live in some past, that you must continue forward. All books see the light of times at some point, and at some point they're committed to someone's memory. Even now, as I recall a vague sense of accomplishment in having completed not one but three manuscripts, I can finally, after all this time, move on to another project, start something new. It's my new life. I'm finally living it.

Dryline Rhapsody was written down so that I would remember it. I have gone back to re-read parts of it, trying to capture something. I've gone back again to rework scenes, to make it perfect. In that time, books have changed. I've changed. People have come and gone from this world. Things ended, things began. I may never write anything like this manuscript again, and I don't mind that. It was without a doubt the darkest chapter of my life, and isn't it lovely to walk in the sunshine again?

I count my blessings every morning these days. I'll return to writing but with the guided intensity necessary to create the literary fire I know I possess. I ain't talking about teenage vampires or gay wizards; we're too deep for that folly.

As I write this, my arms tire. It's been a long time since I typed this fast. But I am ahead of my thoughts. I'll wait for you.

**Project update**

Making a sweet potato pie on Thanksgiving--because we all should at some point in our lives, and mine actually kicks ass.

Peace.

T.A.M.

Exhuming McCarthy

2009-09-03T16:50:00.000-07:00

What is this "socialist" bullshit all about, really? I'm struggling with this one.

In a recent article, Florida Republican Party Chairman Jim Greer has said that he was "appalled that taxpayer dollars are being used to spread President Obama's socialist ideology." Huh? Really? Is that the same or at least similar to the taxpayer dollars spent spreading fascist ideologies, as per the previous administration? Where is this anger coming from, really?

I guess I'm struggling with this because it just sounds so desperate. It's blather from a political party on life support. I mean, seriously: How has education ever been about socialism? It really doesn't make any sense.

If you believe that Governor Palin wished to step down from state politics for a larger stage for the sake of "saving America," from a "socialist agenda", you're sad and in the way. It was all for the money and these so-called "family values"--my friends, this didn't work in '91 so what the hell makes these people think it's going to work now? Does any of this surprise anyone?

The United States of America dodged some pretty amazing bullets when we elected Obama and not McCain. There have been eight years of abuse and corruption--let's call it a decade--and it's going to take more than nine months to undo this mess and right the ship of state. All these other distractions--these embarrassing townhall meetings with people barking about medicare (which is pretty socialistic system, it must be admitted), all this horseshit about who's a socialist, who's a foreigner (the President), and how America is apocalyptic (thanks, Cheney)--are just fodder from and for the Right. These people aren't serious about this country and its ideals. These people don't care about you. These people have never read the Constitution or the Bill of Rights. These people are racists gasping for air. It's a sad place sometimes, America. And it's a shame that pharmaceutical companies have a pill for optimism.

Indeed, Jesus would never turn away a leper. So, how can these people cling so tightly to their bibles and tell us that we're wrong?

I don't know, man. Forty years ago this past August a great American celebration at once ushered in and destroyed an era. Woodstock was the beginning and the end because Altamont and the 70s followed. It was over. No one had any money back then; no one had credit cards. No one took risks. And then it became the 80s, and they started exhuming McCarthy.

**Project update**

Finished the next draft of MILFord (stage play) and have started on another. Getting these things in the mail for the agent in NY. He'll be singing for his supper soon enough.

Peace.

T.A.M.

Another Year; Things Burn

2009-08-24T15:07:00.000-07:00

Well, another year. Like a fine wine, it ages and maybe, like a fine book, becomes that much more relevant as time passes by.

Writing an effective novel manuscript takes time. There's editing, rewrites, re-edits, etc. Scrutiny, etc. Life, etc. You polish the thing as best you can; you've been close to it and have come to know it well. It trusts you. You trust yourself. Then you're finished. This is when the work starts.

Dryline Rhapsody was originally titled The Great Unknowns. A weak title, to be sure, but at the time I wasn't really concerning myself too much with titles. I was writing a novel, not a title. It wasn't until months into it that I changed the title, and the story followed like an oft-barked-at dog.

In the time since its writing, I've gone on to work on several other projects. And, indeed, I've gone back over some of the chapters and made adjustments to the story. But for the most part--and this is what I'm proud of most--the novel's integrity has remained. It is, for all intensive purposes, a first draft.

If you believe people like Kerouac and Ginsberg, there really is only one draft, that a first draft is the purest form of a story, etc. I don't think this is necessarily true. I think pieces of a novel are rewritten where needed; if a first draft works, then it works. I'm told Hemingway labored over page after page of his books to get the prose he was reaching for. Surely this must've been the case with Capote in his Other Voices, Other Rooms masterpiece. Each line is so perfect it had to have been rewritten several times.

Writing is a lifestyle. It's a way of inwardly reviewing and reordering the world. I've tried my hand at different genres and because of my penchant for perfection, I think I've settled on contemporary fiction as a place with which I'm most comfortable. Dryline is a very immediate book. It was written furiously and represented a tremendous journey of my life. There was no other way of telling it because I lived much of it. It's not a boring book--not in the least. In fact, it's very exciting.

Because let's face it. There have been many novels produced over the past 20 or so years that are just terrible. I've relied on the classics to see me through (and by 'classic' I'm talking about the likes of McCarthy, Ford, Kennedy, etc) and will likely continue to do so.

**Project update**

Life continues, writing continues.

Peace.

T.A.M.

Found Money

2009-08-11T18:37:00.000-07:00

I've always been romanced by the idea of found money. I used it in North of Here as a motivator for the 2nd and 3rd acts. Everything is lost for a time but it seems money is lost the least and when it is found, it's wonderfully terrible.

Take the scene in Fargo when Carl (Steve Buscimi), all shot up and bloody, limps from the car in the broad daylight to the ragged fence and proceeds to bury the satchel of money. He looks up and down the road looking for some sort of marker so that he'll be able to relocate the money. But it's about as barren as the upper Midwest can be, and totally whited-out with snow. Chances are he never found the money again.

"Found money" is probably as old as time. It's buried treasure--totally romantic, ill-gotten, luxuriously pre-owned (and not in the BMW and Lexus sense). There's that inherent danger associated with it: is it blood money? Someone's life savings? Someone's bad luck? Can it be spent?

I've never had the opportunity to stumble upon lost money; the closest thing I came to that sort of sensation was coming upon someone's potted marijuana plants on a tree-covered and well-camoflauged plateau above the Connecticut River. We ran through there pulling the man-tall plants out of the bags in which they were settled and barreled like hell down the hill to safely. Suffice to say we were fairly well set up for the rest of the summer into the fall. This was in the early 80s.

I wonder what it's like to come upon some briefcase full of cash? Everything would probably become very serious and very dangerous. Most of us don't live looking over our shoulders. The older one gets the less attractive the night becomes. Yes.

Truly, these days it seems Americans are limited in their opportunities (though this doesn't stop some from totally screwing others out of fortunes) so is it any wonder that most people if given the opportunity would squander a fortunes than actually use it. Maybe that explains the whole lottery mentality; how many more weekend millionaires this year will barrel through their luck on the luxuries of the absurd? I don't know. Too many. Who the hell needs a 747 anyway?

Then, of course, there's the whole Ponzi thing. I have to admit that I don't feel sorry in the least for Madoff, his wife, or his kids. Strange how the story has fallen off. And there's his wife--a woman who will likely live on the court-allowed stipend of about $100k/year. Not bad for an accessory after the fact; not too shabby for a thief's wife.

But it was someone's bloodwork, and likely stolen, is probably what I'd be thinking if I happened upon some kind of loot some gloomy afternoon. These days, though, it seems more likely someone will come across a bunch of cash in some hollow in the woods.

I went to the mountains once, maddeningly, to the top of Southern California where I looked down on the rest of this mess. There, I thought, one could steal away. As I pulled off at a turn around and took in the cool, thin air of the mountains, I thought I saw something tucked away amid a bunch of tumbled rock. I looked around: the silence of the mountains, late afternoon. I took a few steps toward the object then stopped: here they would never find me again. Here I would be missed.

I quickly turned around and drove back down the mountain to continue my life. I certainly can't tell you what was the object was; found money?

**Project update**

Burying treasure.

Peace.

T.A.M.

I'll Take a Beer Summit, Thanks

2009-07-30T17:40:00.000-07:00

I wish I could have a beer at the White House but no sooner do I mention this than some jackass on CNN runs a poll that suggests beer drinkers aren't really in the President's demographic. Is this any surprise? Have you seen a beer commercial lately?

Wine drinkers, on the other hand, apparently approve of the leader of the free world; it's somewhere around 53%. Wine comes from, among other places, New York and California. (You could include that rotgut that you find in the Midwest but I wouldn't call that stuff wine.) No, these NYers and Californians are laid back types from laid back blue states. And they say wine drinkers tend to be intellectuals who can savor the ease with which they imbibe. Beer drinkers--if you believe what you see on TV--are desperate white males in the late 20s who ogle the genuinely breasted blonde as she drafts a brew, all the while rhapsodizing some sort of coy message that only drunks can understand and appreciate. So much for the species.

Pete Coors would probably sit at that table. Hell, Samuel Adams probably urinated in the nearby bushes when his cousin was running the show a couple of hundred years ago; Spuds McKenzie likely would've shamed us into believe she was a he (and she did).

Wine drinkers, on the other hand, would be fickle and distracted by the setting and the moment. They would probably over-philosophize and carry on about white collar concerns or the arts; they might think they actually belong there. Beer drinkers, well, a few pints or steins in, would probably want a bowl of pretzels but I suppose it would depend on the beer. Senator Voinovich would probably have a few things to say about this, considering his recent observation.

But leave it to the great President Obama to open up the White House--a place that is off limits, even to Shaq. ah, well. Can't knock him for trying. The President would probably do the same if it were me, big fella. It was once the people's house (sounds socialistic, doesn't it?) where ordinary citizens could go to air out their grievances in front of the president. Now it's by invitation only. So who the hell invited W?

Beer Summit and race relations. I don't blame President Obama for diffusing this one. It's what he does. The media will back off now and we can get on with getting on. There's still a lot to do, what with the job loss, the herculean debt, health care, and the rest of the mess left behind by the last administration.

Health care. I really do hope it goes down this time. I don't know how it's going to be paid or by whom. And I do not believe that it's socialized anymore than the US Postal Service, the VA, or Social Security. Watch this rhetoric continue to grow maddeningly as we get closer to November.

As for Citizen Palin, it's gonna be very interesting to see what this moose knuckle does over the next couple of years. Mark my word: she will run, she will be totally made over, she will be completely scripted, and she'll fall flat on her face. This fear mongering over socialism is so amazingly antiquated that it's almost a joy to listen to morons like her ramble on about it.

So, raise you glasses. The man is working in Washington. You might not like it now but it's gonna work.

**Project update**

Headed to the supermarket for a six pack of Americana.

Peace.

T.A.M.

The Ghost of Many Whales

2009-07-09T17:45:00.000-07:00

So here's an intriguing idea for a comatose industry, one that's dear to many writers' hearts. It probably won't tell you anything that you haven't already heard but it's interesting nevertheless.

First book authors are their own foils it seems. Makes you wonder why we do this but I know all too well why I continue down this road--continue even as I fall asleep trying to work on a project, literally nodding at my laptop. And it's not because what I'm talking about is so uninteresting and non-stimulation. It's just exhaustion because the world, goddamnit, is tiring.

All writing has rules. Stories have plots, they've got to string along a certain way or heaven forbid! the idiot sub-agent or associate editor won't get it because they're all conditioned to respond to some sort of Harry Potter or horny vampire story. (I wrote half of a horny vampire novel years ago and pitched it to an agent who said something to the effect of, "Is it on par with Anne Rice? People want Anne Rice." To which I replied, "It's better than Anne Rice because I'm a better writer than Anne Rice, damnit!" The agent didn't sign me.) So if you come at them with something that hints at literary, then duck under the desk, the heartless, gutless pussies.

Well, anyway, that's not how I write. I once read part of this monumental Tom Clancy book with which I struggled mightily because it was such crap and so boring that I just couldn't finish it. Robert Ludlum's early stuff, however, was fun--something I've thought since first looking at that stuff in high school. After Parsifal Mosaic he kind of loses me, though. It's good storytelling but the writing was what it was.

This is all low-brow critique, isn't it? I mean, does anyone really sit down to read cover-to-cover Sons and Lovers or Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man? Maybe, though unlikely. I haven't read either of these in years and I doubt I shall complete again; I've always relied on the weather to dictate the terms of my reading: Berlin Stories in the late fall; Revolutionary Road in the summer, along with On the Road and A Passage to India. Currently I'm enjoying The Rest of the Earth, an outstanding literary western by William Haywood Henderson. I heartily recommend this novel--shades of Faulkner and McCarthy.

But why the hell does a beach book have to be an excuse to be distracted? I read Empire of the Sun and Absalom! Absalom! whilst soaking up the rays one summer; these days I don't really hit the beach; I value my skin and anyway it's gonna be sunny tomorrow because this is California...

Dostoevsky and Tolstoy work well over the winter. In the spring I suppose you could divulge in Howards End and Rabbit, Run. Those are very "green" seeming books, all rich in language and heavy on story. They release you from winter. Try it out.

So what about Dryline Rhapsody and North of Here? The former was mostly written over a summer and fall, with a hiatus in the early winter and finally completed some mid February a few years ago. The latter has been written and rewritten over the period of many years that I'm not sure exactly when it was penned but the story is certainly is something for the winter since it's set in northern New Hampshire over a November-December time period. And it's a dark subject. I would recommend either one for the beach.

In fact, I would recommend Moby-Dick if, for no other reason than to remind readers that the novel is the greatest written in the English language and that the ghost of many whales haunts the waters over which the wind blows. And wouldn't you know the chapters are around five pages each?

**Project update**

Focusing and outlining. I'm happiest when I'm at work.

Peace.

T.A.M.

Hush; Could That Be a Deer - Part II

2009-06-17T12:52:00.000-07:00

Peace, like a lake. Gentle lapping of the shore. The great forged rock thrusts skyward to form the rest of the mountain. Clouds drift by distantly, shading the calm surface at intervals.

Charred remains of someone's lakeside camp. Hacked lengths of wood now softened from the burning are summer cool in a fading light. It was someone's camp by someone's lake. The rest of it was the mountain's. I sat by the water on a ledge and watched the lake fill with the colors of the afternoon.

One's journey never really begins or ends at some alpine lake rather continues from there to the rest of one's days or until it's forgotten. In the thin-air silence of the mountain's time-passing is not noticeable in our terms; we can see the jagged edge of rock or gnarled bark of a hearty mountain pine to guess that it's a place of long times. Yes, and the watermark from past replenishing tells of levels invisible or momentary.

I haven't seen these places in more than 20 years but I would often revisit them in my memories and, subsequently, in my writing.

It's always been very important to me, identifying with New England. Maybe this is because it is going away. In North of Here, I was creating a small town experience that I'd never had (this despite being from a small place); I took a certain amount of liberty and stretched the truths a little but what you see there is more or less what happened--if only in my mind.

But I've been away for a long time. Even if I were to return to that place, I'm fairly certain that it simply couldn't be the same. So I write about it instead. North of Here is a wintertime novel; for me all of New England is wintertime. There is something about the cold, wintry windswept commons at dusk that evoke a certain drama. I'll never shake it.

Or is it simply because I was there during that wonderful, confusing, simple time of life--youth, late adolescence--that I keep looking back for answers? It was, after all, a time and a place before all this, during which that small place called Chesterfield was shamelessly attached to a past better suited now for old photographs; a whitewashed clapboard-sided church on some gentle rise. It's iconic, and I've known these places so well.

I write New England. Even Dryline Rhapsody wove the parts of the story back to the places I had once known. I haven't seen the New Hampshire in the summertime since then (three or so years ago) but it was more or less everything I remembered.

That muse, whatever it was, drifted off somewhere. I look for it still. All writers seek to create a perfect or even imperfect world in their writing. We seek to recreate experience and add to what we might've known or wish we could know. I don't know that I'll specifically write about the place in earnest again but I do know that whatever it is about the place continues to backdrop my stories.

**Project update**

Marketing, marketing, marketing. Waiting to see what happens.

Peace.

T.A.M.

Hush; Could That Be a Deer?

2009-06-04T17:20:00.000-07:00

In the spring there was the scent of fresh cut grass, at long last after the typically long winters. At the four corners, the bikes were ditched just blow the wall where the field dropped off from the road. And apart from the wind that shook the newly budded leaves, the town's silence was broken only by the church bells in the village.

This was part of Chesterfield, New Hampshire once. For me it was a place of the old names: Smith, Jones, Stoddard, Johnson, Nutting. In fact, the road on which my father had built a rather spare log cabin back in the early '70s was, on the old maps, called Jones Road. It was later renamed Poocham, which is thought to be Abanaki for "gathering place". The old names in an old place.

All of growing up is a categorizing of time and place, a remembering of what once was and what was perceived to be better. I do indeed reflect on my youth and adolescence as being a simpler place than the world in which we now live.

With every passing day, however, another part of my memory goes away. I write about it often and I try to be as honest as I can but there is a certain amount of sentimentality when looking back. It was simpler time and it was simpler place.

I've had conversations over the years and while I confess that I've at times over sentimentalized New Hampshire, there really is nothing I can think of that compares to those days: the sun seemed kinder, the air cleaner, the winters crisper. Those were oddly transitional years--between the post-Vietnam and the Reagan years. Kids were pulled between two ideals so is it any wonder I turned out the way I did?

Once, while walking one of the many Chesterfield hills I had come to know in the early summer of my late college days, I stopped in the woods and stood among the tall fern fronds. The day had been warm and now the cool shadows of the setting sun cast across the open woods. The trail continued along the swamp's edge; I was tucked beneath the base of the mountain, walking south to where the road quickly turned right and lead to the pond.

While counting salamanders (I was a poet in my youth and this is clearly something poets do) I wasn't really paying attention to the ferny hill until quite suddenly the thunderous drumming of a deer fleeing up the mountain stopped me in my tracks. I watched the white tail flash through the pines as the majestic beast made little work of completing the distance between us

I watched. Then it was gone and woods filled with sporadic birdsong defeated only by the spacial woodsy silence.

Other poets probably see it the same way, indeed as do other writers: these moments of our live are imprinted and cataloged, collected and ultimately reused in a story, song, or novel. While I know I can never go back in time nor can I really return to that town, whatever it was about that time and place is forever engraved in my imagination, the source of all my writing, that place I had known for most of my life.

**Project update**

Ready for a change and for a new project. Admittedly, I've allowed my songs to sort of take over but I think this needs to change now. It is, after all, summer--a very good time for writing.

Peace.

T.A.M.

Eureka! It's Gone.

2009-05-24T08:22:00.000-07:00

Frankly, I'm all for it. California as a state has failed; long live California.

It started as a dream. This ideal place for the so-called middle class. Cheap land, seemingly infinite resources, breathtaking beauty. It's been exploited, raped, robbed, and pillaged. It once held promise but like everything on this side of the water, it's become sour. I'm not one to dwell in pessimism, but now there's talk of breaking up the state. Hmmm.

I blame Governor Schwarzenegger, sure. But I also blame everyone else in the California legislature--the extremely partisan body that just can't get out of its own way. And so, ergo California: a failed state. Let's break it up and start over again.

Where would I live, I wonder? I don't altogether trust Democrats these days and I could never get behind Republicans because they're as exploited as anything in this world. On the other hand, the others parties all the way down the line can offer up nothing either. I'm independent. There's a certain amount of conservatism that must exist just as there is a considerable amount of liberalism that has to exist in this beautiful world of ours.

I mean, is it too much to ask to have fiscal responsibility, health care for all, education spending that's not gerrymandered all to hell, clean water, clean air, clean energy, low taxes, and an infrastructure that works?

Governor, you really should disband the legislature and spend the next 20 months getting this right. Californians are so checked out they probably wouldn't notice. I'm pissed off like anyone. Your kind of bravado and populism was just an empty suit. Real leadership calls for real leaders, not some dipshit actor.

Further, by all means, legalize marijuana. Who the hell cares?! The revenue would be absolutely staggering. And if anyone thinks for a minute that the so-called conservatives down in Orange County and in the Central Valley ain't ever took a drag on a joint before or had themselves a line or bought smack, or chased the dragon, they're all fuckin' crazy.

So, how about a five-state or less solution? Why the hell not. It couldn't get any worse and actually might be a boon. I would likely live in the state of Angeles because I like burritos, I'm not racists, I know the area and I've been to what will one day be known as the state of Reagan (Orange County), and it ain 't all that.

On the other hand, Sierra, where you will one day find the Central Valley and whose capital will be Fresno, has a certain amount of--how dow I put this?--salt-of-the-earthism, which is rather appealing. Land, land, and more land; flat as hell, a straight line highway to the state of Francisco.

Ah, yes, Francisco! That'll be a groovy place forever. Oakland will be the capital if for no other reason than to give props to the shitty Oakland Raiders.

Humboldt, the state that borders Oregon (might even be absorbed by Oregon, actually) will likely retain Sacramento as the capital and that place will be the main exporter of legalized marijuana in the still-new millennium. It'll be a paradise--and not just for stoners. Everything will organic--even the air--and some will be serious and some will be drowsy but it'll be a great place to visit.

So, eureka, there you have it. The Golden State's gone. The great bear on the flag shot down by some NRA retard from Bakersfield or Norco. It was great, thanks for the memories, California.

40 Days & 40 Nights

2009-05-13T13:17:00.000-07:00

Well, it's not like I abandoned this blog altogether or have given up on the whole writer thing. As I have said to a learned friend of mine--and, indeed, as I often say--"Life gets in the way of living." I guess this holds true for blogging: Life gets in the way of blogging.

These past 40 or so days since I last updated this things have been wrought with the busy-ness of life. I've been in a wilderness, as it were, finding my way back to my laptop only recently to begin work on another writing project. Meanwhile, there's the whole music thing--songwriting, performing. (Yes, performing. I've got gigs coming up in Pasadena this month and next. Booked gigs! Be there!) But all the while I've had this yearning to get back to a story or continue a story. I'm almost there.

Then there's the whole day-job thing. It really taps into one's soul, I find. Then there's the whole 46-inch flat screen TV (new) that is such an incredible distraction (not to mention the Cup and the Playoffs). All in hi-def. Insane. At least my digs are sleepy-quiet.

The other projects--Dryline Rhapsody and North of Here--are drifting in the tides of submissionland. It does take that long, folks. Ah, that I were a banker--then my tears would be valid, I suppose.

But I digress, as I often do. I'm still here, still determined as ever. The weather is changing on the West Coast; the jasmine plants are blooming and the night air is filled with the intoxicating fragrance. Nights are cool, days warming. I've literally climbed a mountain or two in the past couple of months, which, admittedly, did a number on my sinuses but who the hell cares?! It's a mountain!

So, Dryline makes the rounds as does North of Here. Afterlight Dreamers, which has taken many forms of late, is shaping in another direction; such is the story of my life thus far. A writer writes, but sometimes he makes a living too.

So, there you have it. An update. Been at sea, 40 days and 40 nights. Seeking now the olive branch to guide me ashore.

**Project update**

See above.

Peace.

T.A.M.

If This Is It...

2009-03-08T19:28:00.000-07:00

I don't know anyone who would profess or even confess to being a Huey Lewis and the News fan. But somebody was because they were everywhere for a time.

Back in the 80s when those guys ruled the airwaves and whose campy videos were in heavy rotation on MTV, you paid attention because they looked like the guys down the street, practicing in the garage.

This is not to suggest that they weren't any good; I recall Huey himself saying that they would either be huge or at least be the greatest bar band in the world. They turned out to be both.

You can name the songs ("Do You Believe In Love", "I Want a New Drug", "If This is It", "Hip to Be Square", "Jacob's Ladder") and now that I tee them up, I'm pretty sure you know a few others that I don't, and you at least know the chorus to the aforementioned.

And yet how come I don't hear them on the radio anymore? I hear everything but these guys nowadays. The plethora of retro stations in L.A. alone should at least lend three minutes a day to the News but I've yet to hear it.

Instead, as usual, we're stuck with the Stones, The Doors, The Doobie Brothers, Journey, Styx (ouch!), Guns 'n' Roses (still), and at least on the drives home Nirvana, which is scarier still, considering how many t-shirts those guys still sell; I've yet to see anyone walking around with a Doobie Brothers or Bad Co. shirt on...

I wonder if you can get a Huey Lewis and The News t-shirt? And if you could, would you really wear it? I've seen kids walking around with Lionel Richie and Paula Abdul shirts, as a sort of inside joke, I guess. Well, the joke's on them because I'm certain that Mr. Richie, who's reportedly sold upwards of 100 million records worldwide, and Ms. Abdul, who's on TV once a week flirting with wannabes, are still making money from that crap of two decades past.

But getting back to Huey. It was a pinnacle time in America when we first heard "I Want a New Drug". Back then still nearly 20% of the workforce made ends meet working in industry (compared to something like 7% now). Disco was on the skids, yuppies were on the rise, and money was king. Along comes a bar band with harmless lyrics, catchy riffs and sing-along choruses that worked perfectly into the scheme of weekends. I mean, whole records seem to be devoted to it anyway but there was something in those lines that reeked of getting a buzz on, keeping it on, trying to get laid, maybe even getting laid, passing out on a beach, waking up in the sunshine, getting a buzz on, keeping it on. trying to get laid, failing miserably at it, passing out on a beach, waking up in a fog, shaving on a ferry, getting back to the city to make it to the office by 9:15. It was an ideal time! They wrote the harmless score to a million MBAs!

Okay, maybe not, but I suspect they were, ultimately, an invention of MTV. Indeed, I suspect that if there hadn't been an MTV there wouldn't've been the version of The News we know and love.

I started by saying that I don't know anyone who would profess or even confess to being a Huey Lewis & The News fan but I say now I wish they were around. We could use a dose of that sort of fantasy if for no other reason than it's hard to go through the weekends like a goddamn warrior to the Jonas Brothers or Miley Cyrus (God help us).

**Project update**

I've been quite busy with projects, thus haven't had time to update this blog. More coming on that front. Meanwhile, thanks for dropping in.

Peace.

T.A.M.

Shortfalls and Waterfalls

2009-02-15T20:21:00.000-08:00

My father was five when the Great Crash changed America--and much of the world--and ushered in the Depression.

He, like a lot of folks of that era whom I've met over the years, recollected the sort of day-to-dayism of the times. I've tried to imagine what it was like with nearly a third of the population out of work. Man, that must've been crazy. But he did say that some of the best writing came from that era and I believe this is true.

But here we are in California with the unemployment rate rocketing toward 11%. California--the dream of America, the place that owns 10% of the country's population. That's a lot of people out of work. What the hell's going on here?

I lived in Orange County for a couple of years and only recently moved back up to L.A. Orange County is a mythic place of money and affluence. It's a dreamland of sorts--not a ponderous place and certainly not a place where people go to think about things. No, OC is a safe haven for those who're are influenced or otherwise driven toward success and excess.

I first ventured into this Shangri-La in 1990 when I attended a cousin's wedding. We went to some crazy Newport party and stayed out all night, winding up at someone's house where we jumped off the roof into the pool. It was decadent, it was cinematic, it was California. Anything goes. I would move to the Golden State some six years later and by then the dotcom era was about to kick into high gear, so there was plenty of money to be made.

Laguna Hills is a sleepy place eight miles and change from the coast. In the two-and-a-half years I lived there I think I actually went to the beach four times. I just don't go to the beach and would much rather prefer to go to the Laguna during the week when it's not so crowded. Still, I liked living there. It was the antithesis of literature and therefore unspayed ground. I wrote the second draft of Dryline Rhapsody and completed MILFord here, not to mention several songs. It was a creative period the times were good.

I've often said one would have to be crazy to buy property in California but I am wholly convinced that this is where I'll be buried. I won't leave this place. I've laid down roots here, however begrudgingly. I suppose it's not a bad place to live; surely the current economic climate might make for a level playing field.

And I can write here. Despite the shifting sands, I have found something of a muse in the maddening myth that is California. If she's a mistress then she'll leave ; if she's a partner she'll welcome my nuances with a resolved countenance. Either way, gone are the fields of my youth; I am part of this legacy and aim to make it work for me.

**Project update**

Actually, I've been revising Dryline Rhapsody and have re-read North of Here, since I'm making another push with both of these manuscripts. It's a long-ass road, man. Otherwise, I continue with other writing projects, including the collection of poetry, California Variations, which is also about to make the rounds.

Peace,

T.A.M.

A New Slate

2009-01-23T18:17:00.000-08:00

True, I could've spent some time entering something in here but quite frankly the holidays, the inauguration and now this damn head cold has momentarily laid to waste my literary aspirations. I say momentarily because it's just too friggin' much to ask to write when you feel like crap. So I haven't and didn't, and now this.

I worked on Afterlight Dreamers in December and started on a new script. The latter is a farce (what movie isn't?) and the former is a dark rendering. I have that itch to get another project in the can. But in the meantime, I wait patiently with Dryline Rhapsody and North of Here. It's a long-ass road and I know I've said that any number of times on this thing. Looking over some pages recently I had to laugh because there are passages--particularly in Dryline--that I don't remember writing. I suspect it was circumstantial.

But reading it again--for the fourth or fifth time, I don't remember which--makes me proud. It is a good project, a well-written and thoughtful novel. History may judge the rest.

And indeed I return every now and again and consider the various screenwriting projects I've started, completed, pitched, archived, and I think inwardly that this is the way it was supposed to be, that everything truly happen for a reason and things come and go but mostly we go forward.

It's intimidating to open a blank Word doc and start a story. It's hard to immortalize that first line and I often wonder why the hell I do it. There are other ways of making a living; I have a career and it pays. But in terms of what a very good friend of mine called a "glory career," well, that's all mine and it's up to me to make something of it. Dickens implores us, "Whether I shall turn out to be the hero of my own life, or whether that station will be held by anybody else, these pages must show," and those of us who are writers follow. What choice have we got?

Fiction is evasive. How many times have we heard that writers' stories or novels don't turn out the way they'd planned? Maybe it's because stories have a plotting and live all their own and cannot be contained. I've yet to really read the perfect novel; the closest thing I can think of is probably Revolutionary Road by Richard Yates but even this is a stretch because it's hemmed in tempered. I suppose an argument could be made for The Grapes of Wraith of even Gatsby but the problem there is time. We've had time to adjust to these novels and recognize either their greatness or their grateness.

Which is interesting, because I recently read that Gatsby almost fell into oblivion with the onset of World War Two and were it not for yet again another disillusioned generation we probably wouldn't've been force-fed the thing. Either way, you go back to it and search out the dark corners of the story and realize it's a great book. Much like The Sun Also Rises, much like Revolutionary Road, perhaps, one day, much like Dryline Rhapsody. Well, I have to believe that, damnit! What choice have I got after all this time?

And so here we are. Another year of working on fiction, screenplays, plays, etc. It's a lovely thing this place between the pages. You make up the fence posts and poplars, and soon a vision comes down the shadow-patterned road, that of a solitary figure walking soberly. Is it an entrance or an exit? You'll find out. Your reader will find out, too. And hopefully this time it will have been worth it for the characters, the writer, and the reader too.

**Project update**

See above. Happy New Year.

Peace.

T.A.M.

Fieldstone Poets and Leafy Rain

2008-12-06T08:25:00.000-08:00

This was never supposed to be a monthly blog. I had actually imagined it a weekly thing and for a while it was just that. But, as I often say, life gets in the way of living: summer happens, weekends away spring up, elections come around, the muse flights the gilded cage, etc.

I've worked on things in earnest--plays, stories, songs--but the day-to-dayism of life nowadays just gets in the way. I've been patient; my agent's office burned down a few months back (I know--I don't buy it either) and he's dramatized it very convincingly; I continue to leave him the semi-weekly messages. It's a tough time to be chasing this down.

Yes, and then there's the whole economy thing. A million folks booted out of their jobs in the past month of so. Nearing 7% unemployment. The stock market--not that I care about those greedy bastards--is beaten like a n undercard wannabe.

Then there's the whole real estate mess. Ghost town chic. It's coming to California, just you watch!

And then there's the whole oil thing. They're saying now that gas may drop to a buck a gallon. Can you imagine? When was the last time it was down there? I don't even remember; I'm still in my turbo days so I don't really care.

No, I don't know that I can lump all this madness into a writing project. I had thought that West Coast Hearts, a novel set in contemporary Orange County, CA, would wrestle some of this. It could happen still; I'm a few chapters in, waiting for my muse to bus back into town on a midnight bus.

So I look elsewhere and am reminded that every fall/winter I used to re-read Christopher Isherwood's Berlin Stories. Of course "Sally Bowles" (later filmed as Cabaret) could be the most famous story in the collection but I've always preferred "Mr. Norris Changes Trains" if for no other reason than it it being bleak and wonderfully rainy. If you haven't read it you should. Tight narrative and strangely romantic, it's set in 1930s Germany, and the underground never looked sweeter.

There is, of course, only so much more time to read books. I look forward to a time when people do it more often. I've got mountains of books in boxes--many of which haven't seen dust in years--and I'm sure that when I finally set them back upon the shelf there'll be several I'll forget were collected. Time doesn't wait for books either.

There used to be a used bookstore on a dusty dirt road in Marlboro, Vermont called The Old Bear Bookshop. I've blogged about this place before; the store was actually this massive barn with swallows in the rafters and breezy view of a majestic meadow. I wonder how that guy's doing in a crap economy like this and a fading audience? That's where I got a college-days copy of Berlin Stories (and several other books) when I was a fieldstone poet with dreamy visage, regarding the crisp springtime ferns and swollen rivers along a leafy rain walk.

And so, it's a continuance of days out on the West Coast. There've been moments along mountain walks, both down here in OC and up in LA, when I've stopped and listened and breathed the clear air, and have remembered the sounds of before and perhaps a passage I've read. And I've found myself thinking Yes. This is why I decided to take this long hard road. I take up that old musket and track the ridge back toward something else--something beyond the drop of the hill; yes, that's where it is.

**Project update**

See above.

Peace.

T.A.M.

Restore, Restore

2008-11-09T08:19:00.000-08:00

Six or seven years ago, people began to move. They went to Europe. They went to Canada. They went to Asia. They went anywhere to get away from here. Even I entertained the notion of getting the hell out; I interviewed with companies in Dubai and Latvia; I would've done this anyway, being the romantic that I am. But some people left because the current administration and the mess that followed it--the mess that we're all gonna have to fix. I stayed. I stayed not because I'm some sort of patriot. I stayed because I had to lend a voice of discontent.

It's true, World, that these have been very difficult years. I won't even launch what went wrong or why. And like you, perhaps, I've marveled that the "Bush/Cheney" bumper stickers you still see on SUVs out here in the Southland. I wonder if they really understand their motivation. I don't.

I stayed. My father's buried here, as are my uncles and grandparents. I didn't wave a flag around but I laughed at the pundits knowing full well that the mess these neocons have created would crash down around them like a house of cards. But this is not to say that the Democrats are entirely innocent. They had opportunities, being the majority in the House and Senate, to keep a watch on the current crash and the others that are on the way. I'm pissed off at their lack of judgment. But when times are good, no one cares. Everyone gets their money and gets the hell out of Dodge. That's not patriotism. Patriotism should not be defined by how much money you make but how quiet you are about the goals and successes of your life. If you "love the Flag", think twice about it and ask yourself why, then ask yourself why you're not succeeding right now.

I welcome Obama as my leader. Why? Because I'm a non-racist educated, book-read, book-reading, middle class, non-ideologue who appreciates clean air, commerce, world peace, checks-and-balances, organic energy, science, private worship, language, philosophy, making money, living my life, the truth, the dream of California, sex, and poetry. I know there are millions like me out there. Stand up. Count yourself in, on whatever shore you now find yourself.

We sent a signal last week: We're Mad As Hell, And We're Not Going To Take It Anymore. It was a wonderful revolution. And whether or not it succeeds or fails is entirely up to us, not our leaders, not God, or any of this other shit. We give support to Obama but these people need to be held accountable. And enough with this bullshit of Texas, Alaska, Red States, bible-thumpers, flag-wavers, ill-educated weather girls, ill-educated carpetbagger "businessmen" who fail and yet are allowed to continue, draft-dodgers, mavericks, K Street, Wall Street, Wasilla, and Crawford. You're the problem, not the solution. You should be ashamed of yourselves.

So I say to the expatriates out there. Come on home. Come home to help fix this thing. This is a new era and this is a very exciting time to be here. And I say this to the folks on foreign shores who "hated Americans" because of the assholes who stole the White House and ran this country into the ground: Gore won the popular vote (look it up) and Kerry lost Ohio because of voter fraud (look it up). So there are more of us than you think. And generalizing Americans because of the tender few shows an amazing lack of class and incredible amount ignorance. Remember: we've had to tolerate you just as much as you tolerated us.

Onward, upward; restore, restore. Yes we can.

Peace.

T.A.M.

October Roads Redux

2008-10-23T17:59:00.000-07:00

Octobers have always been that lovely place of receding light, drowsy meadows, and bittersweet fragrances of wood, apple, and smoke. In my youth I recall the smell of decayed leaves and old cornfields abandoned, it seems, to the wastes of winter. Wind rakes the creaking boughs overhead; shadows in the nearby woods. And across the field at dusk deer might've paused then bed to wait out the night.

What a lovely, haunted month. I don't have to drop back too far into my memory to conjure a feeling and indeed, on some nights while rounding the corner of my building to flight the stairs to the top, I can smell the cool of October that wrestles whatever flash of summertime away.

It was different in the northeast, though. Where I'm from, the old ghosts still haunt the covered bridges and Revolutionary cemeteries in my town. I say "my town" only because I'll always associate myself with the place, that place being, of course, Chesterfield. Try as I might, lately I'm a Californian, and likely to remain one. That doesn't mean, however, that we're not haunted out here either.

Still, what I would give to walk the October roads of that place. I attribute my poetics to all the silences I remember from that small place in the world; the cool dells in the fading light; the sudden wind that rattles the branches; the strange silent formation of far-above geese headed south. All of it signalled a slowing down, a cooling of the land, a closing of barn doors. Soon autumn rain would pass and the wet woods would seem colder still.

And there in the mist, perhaps at the base of a hill by the beginnings of the wood, there you would see like a flash of light, something appearing then quickly fading into the dark. You hurry away without looking back. You pace quicker toward the road where your car might be parked. When you drop behind the wheel and finally catch you breath you're convinced that what you saw was...something else?

They stay with you, those swamp Yankee ghosts--maybe because they're not here, in California. Here I've seen stranger ghost towns and silent alpine meadows and misty arroyos. Wild crazy desert landscapes after hard rains bringing forth a glasslike clarity. And distantly I wondered if there was anything out there...

Soon winter comes; for much of the Southland today, it's been in the high-80s. Too warm. The only real downside to this Golden State. In another week or two things will cool off; rain will come. The cold lovely winter in California; there's nothing quite like it.

So I say allow for the quiet moments of soft breezes that kicks up the leaves along the sidewalk. Somewhere in that shuffling in the memory of so many ghosts that have passed through here, and do.

**Project update**

It could be worse; I could be in Alaska, calling myself First Dude and dreaming of snow mounts.

Peace.

T.A.M.

Through It, Not Around It

2008-10-02T17:28:00.000-07:00

When the history books are written, sometime in the decades to come, when we've had a chance to allow for things to settle, what will they assume this time meant?

Minds will be different then; there will be nothing left to fight over on this planet and so maybe a prolonged period of so-called peace will prevail. Maybe nothing will happen at all and we'll all just continue as we are. There's been enough doom and gloom--let's just call it 10 years' worth--and we're all more or less here, some more pissed off than others, some decidedly poorer, many decidedly richer. It's not an apocalypse we're staring down, no. It's nothing like that. It's transition of thinking and for once we will collectively do the right thing.

I just made the argument with a coworker that the Declaration of Independence is the single most important human document in history, bar none. There is no other treatise more important, more relevant and, sadly, more misunderstood. It's shameful to be American sometime. We're not all the same. And the message has been lost, and this is what costs us so much.

I was not for the bailout. Not for a minute. It's a remedy for business, true, and it should kickstart the economy again and put things moving forward. But, really, in the end what, will it mean? Who pays for it and why, and why the hell should we let the crooks get off clean? There is no answer to this--at least none that I can think of.

And it occurred to me that maybe this really is the end of America. It's a sad f*ckin' thought. And if you put aside all your ideologies and religious believes, your hatred and your love, if you clear you head for a minute of all that brain noise and step back to regard the larger picture you will see that it's the failure of us all. Because if it can happen here it can happen in Europe, Japan, Russia, and China. It's already happened before in the former three and it will happen in the latter. It's only a matter of time.

Countries and ideologies. I' m not a flag-waver and I care about the struggles and triumphs of everyone. For the first time as a writer--as a human--I don't know what tomorrow looks like only that I'll wake up and filter all the bullshit and get on with what Lawrence called "The business of living." Other countries have survived. And some of us will succeed. And some of us will...

**Project Update**

Rattling through the old bones of tales past, looking for the missing link.

Peace.

T.A.M.

The Beer Light Guided Us

2008-09-12T22:35:00.000-07:00

For whatever reason, the songs were in the background, like so many soundtracks I've heard since--in movies, in commercials, or just in passing. Those old Bowie records were new to us back then, and they added to the noise of my youth. I collected them and they played along with the countless cigarettes and cold beers with which I've poisoned myself. Admittedly, there've now been lapses in my appreciation but lately, for reasons unknown, I'm hearing those songs again, and I'm listening.

"It's the record that changed your life," is what someone once said about The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders From Mars. Released in 1972, it's without a doubt one of the truly great and important rock & roll records of the last 40 years. The first time I heard it collectively was sometime around '84, riding along with Devin and Brett and Travis. Of course we had heard the songs before but I hadn't heard the album. Shortly thereafter I went to the record store and bought the thing and listened to it over and over.

I've since owned it on vinyl, cassette, CD, and download. I've seen Bowie several times. I don't really play his records all that much these days but occasionally the mood strikes, like tonight, and I flick through my iPod to one of his records. Right now, for example, I've got Aladdin Sane on. I've always thought it a sort of more realized Ziggy record--not quite Rise and Fall, not quite Diamond Dogs. Altogether, something apart, something different.

I had all his records. Anyone who know me them know this much. And likely they've all of them became fans. Late nights: cigarettes, pipes, and bongs burning. Leaning sadly into some dark corner, imagining oneself a character from his songs. It was all too real. And then one day...

I grew up. Grew out of the fantasy maybe. Maybe that's what Ziggy is: the ultimate rock & roll fantasy. All the madness of that weird world. You knew the songs inside and out. You identified with whatever the hell it was Bowie was singing about. And then one day...

I've said all along that Low and 'Heroes' are Bowie's best records. I believe that he was truly a reactionary at that point--free to do and be what he wanted. He side-stepped the punk movement and dove deep into avant garde in Berlin, hanging out with Eno and Belew, creating two veritable masterpieces.

But you can sing along to Ziggy, Aladdin Sane, and Diamond Dogs. And I knew all those songs once. They were part of the soundtrack, as I've said.

Soundtracks change, tho'. We grow up and grow out of it. Try as I might these days, memory is still there tho' faded. I have glimpses into moments where I once stood or laughed, forever captured along with lines of those old songs. I don't think I can ever fully forget what it meant. I don't ever want to.

**Project update**

Polished North of Here and kicked around some plotting for Afterlight Dreamers. It's coming together.

Peace.

T.A.M.

This Side of Paradise

2008-08-26T21:15:00.000-07:00

"...and I shambled after as I've been doing all my life after people who interest me, because the only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn..."

Kerouac, of course. One The Road, published in 1957. I've slogged through that book now three times; currently I'm re-enjoying Junky by William S. Burroughs; I will likely read Road again before the year's out, maybe even next year as well.

I've often wondered if I've missed something when I've finished reading a book. My reading tends to go in fits and starts (more fits than starts); I've been reading Karamazov for more than a decade; Anna Karenina's been easier. But perhaps that's the difference between Dostoevsky and Tolstoy.

Or maybe it has something to do with reading these books at, say, 40 rather than 20. You're just as distracted but by different things. Or perhaps it has something to do with reading something in the 80s rather than the millennium. Who the hell knows? All I can say with certainty is that I glean more from Kerouac these days than I ever did. I glean more because it offers a glimpse to a time and life of which I was more or less on the heels growing up. The language, the causes--all of that was in the background like the smoke from my father's cigarettes.

There was seemingly no money back then, thus nothing to lose. The old man--my father--bought acreage in southwestern New Hampshire when Watergate was just boiling over; by the time Nixon took that walk to the helicopter and flashed the now-famous peace sign, the log cabin was built. Life was different. It would never be the same.

I'd be lying if I say I remembered any of that Nixon stuff. I don't. But I do remember kids asking each other (this was in kindergarten) whether they were going to vote for Nixon or McGovern. I remember answering McGovern. He was my father's candidate. I don't know who the hell McGovern is. I don't even know if he's alive anymore. All I know is that he meant something to a kid in kindergarten.

Kerouac, of course, was dead by the time Watergate went down. He died in 1969 (another year about which I have no memory). It wasn't until the early mid-90s that I read Kerouac in earnest. I say "in earnest" because at the time I was in my late 20s, finding my way, having been in NY for a few years, having dragged my sorry ass from one East Village poetry slam and blues club to the next trying (indirectly) to be Sal Paradise. I think I achieved that on some nights. Yes, and on some nights I'd ride the PATH train back to Jersey just hours before the sunrise with some or other ragged poetry book in my pocket. I'd read passages aloud and sync up the lines with the click-clack of the steel wheels. And then, ascending the stoop to the thickly painted black door, would look back as the sky lightened. It was another night. I was another day along on this journey. I had been there.

You grow out of Kerouac in your youth--even if you haven't read him yet. When you discover him later it's mostly because you're finally honest with yourself or you're going through divorce and looking for something. For me it was both.

So, to Sal Paradise. I don't mention him enough. But somewhere in all writers he's the ghost going out the door just when you need him the most.

**Project Update**

Been editing and reworking North of Here (Thanks, Ani!) and MILFord. I think I'll take another look at Afterlight Dreamers since Ani loves that one too. And did I mention love? While I write about New England, I'm pretty sure I'll never leave California.

Peace.

T.A.M.

The Writing On The Wall

2008-08-05T21:54:00.000-07:00

I love the ending of American Graffiti, wherein Curt (Richard Dreyfuss) glances out the window of the plane and sees the elusive white Ford Thunderbird rolling down the lonesome California highway. Is it her? It doesn't matter; he, like the rest of the characters, is forever changed by this one night, and whether or not he ever meets the girl in the T-bird is moot: the rite of passage has happened. Life awaits.

George Lucas more than captured moment in postmodern American history in this masterful film, which is arguably his best. It's ambitious in its storytelling and yet very simple: coming of age right before a time of tremendous change in world thinking.

I saw this movie in the theaters when I was a kid. It must've been marketed some other way; it's not a kids' movie. But we went--for the race cars, the songs that were already all t00 familiar from AM radio, and for no other reason than it's what your parents brought you to.

In 1973, Vietnam was coming to a close and Watergate was about to break wide open. Only one year before, The Godfather ushered in what I like to call "The Decade of the Italian-American Filmmaker." There was De Niro, Stallone, Scorcese, Coppola, Tavolta, Pacino De Palma, and certainly dozens more, starting with The Godfather all the way through to Apocalypse Now.

But American Graffiti didn't mention the grittiness of urban decay. It talked about hope, about leaving home, about getting out of California. Indeed, the film is set (presumably) in Modesto, Lucas' hometown. And it's unique in that the action essentially takes place over a 12-hour period, maybe less. It's an extraordinary film, one that at once romanticizes the past but almost looks back on it with a critical eye. Yes, and Lucas was certainly influenced by the French new wave films of the 60s; there's plenty of hand-held, immediate camera work that makes it seem as though you're not really part of the events but certainly a witness to it, as Lucas surely must've been.

I'm pretty sure Graffiti is one of the best American films of the last 40 years. Strangely, Lucas began working on Star Wars shortly after, and again would tap into America's psyche to deliver--or re-deliver--a piece of the past: Star Wars, it's been argued, is essentially a western set in space. So much has been written to this effect that it's almost pointless to comment on it. But I will say that American Graffiti is a much more interesting film. It's wonderfully personal and its own unique artistic vision.

**Project Update**

Eating cherries is very good for the soul, I've discovered. I've also discovered a need to take up boxing again. And, as always, the writing continues--much like a boxing match. Cherries, on the other hand, don't box. But they are good cold, like a knocked-out fighter in the eighth round is good for nothing but his own loss.

Peace.

T.A.M.

I'm Not Really Here

2008-07-19T09:11:00.000-07:00

You know you've lived when you get pulled over in Canada for speeding and tell the cop that you're David Lee Roth and you're having an allergic reaction to peanuts. Man, how many times would that have gotten me out of a ticket?!

Of course, it wasn't the real Diamond Dave but some dude named David Kuntz (!), who apparently has posed as the exaulted rocker in the past and has gotten to rock out with bar bands and lord knows what else. I'm really not in the mood to preach so I'll let this one be. I'll chalk it up as another example of what an interesting world this is.

Someone once called me Michael J. Fox on Bleecker Street, NYC back in the early 90s when I probably looked like him. I don't know. It was funny. At a wedding recently, a cheerful drinker commented that I look like David Beckham. Ouch. I'll take his money, though.

I've always thought doppelgangers were interesting. The whole idea of seeming to be in two places at once is kind of enticing. Over the centuries there have been countless tales about switches and changelings living each others' lives. And then there are the stories you read about duel identities--people who've actually lived two lives simultaneously. I remember reading about a guy who married two women and lived in two states, with the excuse of traveling a lot for work. I can't even imagine keeping that plot line straight; it's hard enough to balance a checkbook!

These kind of plots are formulaic; there's always an obvious lesson to be learned. But we seem to be moving away from some sort of moral high ground in these waning days of the Bush Administration, one that was forged by the religious right, and so we can't really lean on some creepy bible thumper's interpretation of what life should be. No, my doppelganger is leaning back in his chair right now, looking across the street toward the river, contemplating the Paris rain. He knows all too well that front-loaded morals are an American invention, and he's only all too thankful he's not here right now--even if here is California, not America.

California. A country unto itself. West of the "West" as I've said in this blog and to passersby. I'm fickle about the place and at times euphoric. The weather doesn't really change. Wildfires happen. Floods happen. People happen. I chatted with my buddy Non last night; he's up in Alaska working for the man but is headed back to the Southland next month. Perhaps like me, and his literary creation Alasdair Galloway, he seeks a truth from this place, as I did as Dean Everest Oakland in Dryline Rhapsody. Truth-seekers find California eventually, even when we're not really here. You find it along the PCH, maybe up in Big Sur where it's not really the end of anything but your own words to describe the breathtaking beauty.

Yes, and in narration you step into the characters lives and get to a place that exists between the Word doc and your mind's eye. That liminal place. It's awesome. Often when I wake up and I'm not really here, I drift into a narrative in my mind and put myself into a story I'm working or a scene I've imagined for something that is merely a sketch on paper.

But to live as such--that would be intriguing and kind of scary. You've only so many days to your life and the fantasy could become dangerous. I'm thinking in terms of Silence of the Lambs, which played on Encore last night. I hadn't seen it in years and I'm thrilled it's held up. I remember reading the paperback over a three-day period while nursing a cold that first spring in NY.

New York. The bookend of my life. Cesar Millan, the Dog Whisperer, said on the show yesterday that every dog owner the world over should walk their dog in Central Park at least once in their life. I think this is absolutely brilliant and a spot-on and original observation. Right on, Cesar!

But I digress. I can't be in NY right now. I'm in LA. That other place that's one-part circus, one-part mountain range, one-part legend. While I'm not really here all the time, I'm still baked into the offing, and for the better, I hope.

**Project update**

I'm finding the energy to boot Word and get my @ss back into writing. It's been a tough couple of weeks but we shall prevail.

Peace.

T.A.M.

Divining Rods

2008-06-26T10:11:00.000-07:00

This past spring has been interesting, to say the least. It was 50 degrees in Seattle at the beginning of the month; when I got back to the Southland, we had triple-digit heat indexes (I think it capped out at 107 in Laguna). Now it's cloudy and "cold" down here again (low 70s), which is the norm this time of year. What does this have to do with writing? Probably nothing. But it's good to be back.

We Southlanders are spoiled these days. No major wildfires to report; no crazy swells at the beach. Housing prices continue to drop--a great victory for the middle class--and oil prices continue to go up. I won't give props to speculators, although I do believe that watchdog groups are gonna shake things up; we've already seen mortgage brokers get raided. No, the table's set for a something big.

But I'm not paranoid. I was never into conspiracies until the 90s when the Bulls ousted the Knicks as a result of player suspensions, which were instigated by the Bulls! I mean, half the starting line up was on the bench for a crucial elimination game; the Knicks would've beaten the Bulls but because we're talking about Michael Jordan...Well, it's ancient history. Who the hell cares about those guys anyway? They're dumb basketball players; many of them are pretty much forgotten by now; can you name the 1995 starting line up? I can't--and I was a Knicks fan.

No, I lean back in my chair right now and think about where these past several months have taken me. I've completed a couple of projects and worked on a few others. I've been outlining novel ideas and screenplays, have been working on songs and thinking in terms of this ongoing recording project. Then there's this strange Facebook phenomenon. In the past month or so I've noticed more people from college and high school on there--people I hadn't heard from in years. It's almost as though there was this rush to get on the site and set up the networks. Not sure why that is. Nevertheless, I've reconnected with people all over the place, and it's been kind of funny and strange.

But with every passing day, as I resettled into life in the Southland, I think less and less about the roots I had up in the northeast. I've written about it so much it's almost as though I don't really have to remember it. Of course, I won't really forget the place. But like any good historian, I feel the need to temper the emotional attachment. I wouldn't be able to go back there to live since when I was there, there wasn't any cable TV, Internet, cell phones, or even a Charlotte NBA team. There were old woods, old names, old ways. A lot of stone walls and friendly, waving people. And a farm next door where I had learned a thing or two about responsibility, justice, and how to clean a trough.

Yes, for me New Hampshire is forever the source. It's the place I left behind. It's the place my brother and I get to once a year to recapture a piece of the past, or maybe even just to glimpse some of the old ghosts. The romantic in mean longs for walks across vast, July dusk meadows, to find a gap in the wall and plunge into a dark woods for a while to hear its stillness.

Sometimes in California you find this; it depends on where you go. We recently went up to Ojai on a day trip. We passed through town and drove along a narrow two-lane road that continued toward the mountain. It was getting late and the light was falling. I pulled over and we got out and stood near the side of the road. To the right was an orange grove; the air was absolutely steeped in the lovely fragrance of the orange blossoms. The sun was setting on the mountains. And it was completely still and silent. I turned to Ani and said, "This is what I mean."

Yes, there's something different about this place. It's not New England--it's not trying to be. But in places like Ojai you can rekindle whatever small place might exist inside. I'll always have that. Later, she said, "I get it now," or something like that. We talked about getting back up there; it's not far from L.A. but it's miles away from everything.

**Project update**

My agent says Dryline Rhapsody is at two different places right now. I had sent him a draft of MILFord recently; no word on that. Otherwise, we keep on keepin' on.

Peace.

T.A.M.

Compliant Uncivilness (or How To Make Old Transcendental Books Interesting Again)

2008-06-15T09:20:00.000-07:00

It's interesting to go back and reconsider an historical figure, maybe put him into a context that's, I don't know, human maybe. We've read books about the lives of others, and what comes to mind in particular is the 1970 play by Jerome Lawrence and Robert E. Lee titled The Night Thoreau Spent In Jail. Here isn't a slow moving conservative-seeming former Harvard student gazing wisely, albeit dreamily, as the daguerreotype captures the eternal moment. No, here's a wild-eyed creature who's justifiably pissed off at the system, and so Thoreau is truly transcendental.

Of course, all of us got through Civil Disobedience and Walden in either high school and/or college. Most lit majors had to read the stuff at some point; most Americans probably should. I think their relevancy comes and goes every half generation or so, and I can see that now's a good time to reconsider what he was talking about.

I've always been interested in historical figures in contemporary plays. For example William Luce's Barrymore is wonderful solo set just months before the extravagant actor's death. Luce also penned The Belle of Amherst, which, of course, is about Emily Dickinson (who lived 150 years ago and 40 or so miles south of where I grew up, Chesterfield, NH), which I recall seeing on PBS sometime in the late 80s. Funny, poignant, engaging, sometimes these plays are necessary to deconstruct (and then reconstruct) historic lives and put them in perspective.

Lately I've been working through Thoreau, and at first I wasn't sure if I liked it. Where exactly was the Thoreau I thought I knew? He's depicted as being a little nuts, maybe a even hyper. Then I began to wonder if maybe he was. I mean, who the hell else apart from a spaz would wander out to Emerson's woods, build a house, grow some vegetables and whittle away the hours contemplating life?

All philosophers are probably a little crazy. Some of them come to noble ends, such as Socrates, then maybe others just sorta fade but their works remain. I once watched some sort of humanities program in high school wherein we see Socrates going nobly to his death, cheerfully mentioning that he owes a friend a chicken. The interesting thing is, I can't imagine someone being that composed these days; just wander through Newport Beach and imagine any one of those "Real" wives of Orange County sipping the hemlock and stepping nobly into the Beyond. Ain't gonna happen.

I actually like Lawrence and Lee's depiction of a smartass Thoreau. He's a kind of know-it-all dreamer whose rambling in this tale, in many ways, predates Whitman. Toward the end of act on Waldo (Emerson) introduces his son, Edward, to Henry (Thoreau). Henry had been hinting at being a handyman on the Emerson's farm. He wasn't expecting much in the way of payment--a pittance, really--to which Waldo says, "Henry, you're not a very good businessman." And rather unexpectedly, the other replies, "I'm not a businessman at all. If you don't pay me a regular salary, then I won't feel obliged to keep regular hours. I love a broad margin to my life..." I found that to be rather Whitmanesque. Indeed, all of Henry's lines are tight and very unlike what we read in Walden and Civil Disobedience.

The play was written and produced in 1970, which lends a hand to themes of distrusting government and individual rights, and a general movement that is akin to what Thoreau was driving at when he wrote Walden (1854) and his other great works. Though it's been years since I read that book, I can recall passages and certainly have an ingrown affinity to the man who once canoed the Merrimack River in south central New Hampshire.

**Project Update**

Finished a one-act over the weekend and resolved some issues with my !@#$% laptop. All's well, nothing's lost. Meanwhile, work continues of West Coast Hearts, et al.

Peace.

T.A.M.

Manifestos & Myrrh

2008-05-31T04:59:00.000-07:00

It's a delicate balancing act, writing and working for a living. I've slowed down and gone back to review some books that were neither shelf worn nor brand new. I might not finish reading them but I wanted to at least start because it occurred to me the other day, which I sit up in bed reading Richard Ford's The Lay of the Land, that bookstores seem emptier these days, that there appear to be more books on shelves, and this is alarming.

Tough economic times, I guess. My father was coming of age during the Depression; I don't think his family were in that bad of shape, though. Just the same, people stop spending when the budget tightens and jobs are lost.

However, that's not entirely why I write. Admittedly I haven't really had time, what with work and all. But now, as I dig into the hard drive and start to block out yet another manuscript (Dryline Rhapsody continues to make the rounds in NY, as does North of Here) I begin to wonder whether this next manifesto is going to gratify the way these others have.

All writing is sequence of peaks and valleys. Anecdotes of one's life. Paced out memories of conversations and witnesses. Hopefully 80,000 words later you've got something. Staring at a blank page, which is what I've done a lot recently, is terribly intimidating. All the promises of one's life are staring back. All the conversations you can recall (and some that you can't) are kind of queued up waiting for their chance to affect...what exactly?

I used to escape into a writing project. For example, I worked on a book set in Europe that involved shady dealings, money, murder, and lust. Then I got a subscription to Vanity Fair and discovered every month what I had been working on. So I abandoned the project (for now) and started down other roads, such as fictionalizing your life. This isn't a advisable thing to do but, again, all writing is reflective adjustments; lamentable manifestos, really. Just read John Fante. Talk about realism--totally devoid of magic but magical just the same.

No, my rice paper manifestos are real enough. Several years divide these last two manuscripts. I work hard at trying not to let too much time slip by. After watching the latest Indiana Jones flick, I've noticed just how much time has slipped by. He snaps the whip but it's lost on me.

As I write this a chorus of bird out-praise one another to greet another day. It's amazingly calm otherwise. Mornings are bluer than I remember--literally. No matter where you go this is probably true. Just ask the dust.

**Project update**

Working on my own brand of magic realism and filling my days with myrrh and banter.

Peace.

T.A.M.

55 Days of Sunshine

2008-05-16T23:20:00.000-07:00

You begin to notice the coffee you drink. Then you notice that you're drinking a lot more of it--more than you normally would. Then you notice that you don't care; it's something to do with the cloudy skies maybe. Welcome to Seattle.

I relocated up here to take a job with an awesome company. The vertical is hot (automotive) and the position is tight (product management) and the coworkers are at once laid back and busy, ergo the three or more cups of Starbucks, Tullys and even Peet's a day. (Yes, they have Peet's in Seattle!) I've already been yelled at by a fat cop, which was kinda funny, and I've been up one side of the city and down the other. (It ain't that big) Yes, and my agent thinks this is a good move; he mentioned that there was lots of theater up here and recommended joining a couple of companies or at least getting involved.

People are on the move, man. There are a lot of folks coming up here from all over (but mostly from SoCal), which explains why it's been kinda hard to get into a place but the house-hunting is pleasant enough.

Yes, people are gettin' on. My friend Non send a note from Alaska. I envy the guy. He's up in Alaska for at least the summer, maybe more. Originally he had planned on Montana but that didn't shake out and it's probably for the better.

But I'll stay for a while. I've neglected the writing for obvious reasons and bailed on opening for a band down in LA (tho' was re-booked for a week from Monday); life's busy. What're ya gonna do? Mount Rainier to the south looks like a mural painting, all hazy and distant and dreamy. It's almost unreal how perfect it looks--large and volcanic seeming. Then, of course, there are the Olympic Mountains across Puget sound, all heroic and draped in snow. Quirky neighborhood, bad Mexican food, organic ales, and mansions on the many lakes. What a place. Some of the flora looks east coast, and I haven't seen so many damn Subarus before; we drove around looking at houses and basically Subaru spotted. Too funny.

And coffee. Like I said, maybe it's the cool, cloudy, misty climate that puts you under, thus a mad coffee every three or four hours.

Yes, it's more than this. You make it your own. And as I plod through DListed and Perez Hilton I realize I'm no longer in Southern California. I'm ages away from that bullshit now, and not a moment too soon.

**Project update**

Living in the Pacific Northwest. That vegetarian Thai was an oddly light accompaniment to an otherwise heavy week indeed.

Peace.

T.A.M.

Our Fathers' Haircuts

2008-05-02T07:43:00.000-07:00

I haven't had a lot of time to think about the pastures, mountains, and meadows of my youth lately and this is probably a good thing. It's a good thing because I think back to when I was a kid, sitting there at the kitchen table with my parents, and my father would be talking about his various misadventures and such, and we'd all be laughing because it would sounds so carefree; it was postwar world then; anything could happen.

He was writer at times as well. He enrolled at Iowa back in the mid-late forties, initially starting out in veterinary studies before switching over to literature (which is strange, because I began as a biology major before declaring myself an English student). Maybe I was like him for a while; I might've even had his haircut for a time.

But what he lacked I certainly didn't--this despite the occasional and various libations that made their way into the dorm room. No, he didn't have the discipline; like all of those who've ever sat in front of a typewriter, a blank notebook, or a laptop, tuning out the outside world is a essential in creating one on the page.

And language changes. How we tell a story changes as much as what stories are told. Truly, what story should be told? And should we be writing just to make money? (Because those two ideas don't always sync up.)

When I set out to write Dryline Rhapsody it wasn't so much that I was thinking in terms of publishing this thing rather I was trying to distract myself from my then current state of mind and affairs; I was processing a divorce. It was painful and certainly a dark period of my life. Knowing how writing is actually a wonderful escape, I began by translating what I was going through, and plotted it along through characters who could help me figure out and interpret everything. The result was a a 90,000 word masterpiece that has so far delighted those who've read it (thanks Ani, Matt, & Non). And my lit agent is behind it and me 100%. So there.

But in the case of my father, well, he apparently wrote a full-length manuscript about a handful of soldiers and their lives after the War. He told me that he had been drinking a lot then, and the novel was accepted by a New York publisher but there were so many recommended changes and edits that he just kinda gave up on it, which is a shame. It was his story. It was his interpretation of life back then. It was his footprint, if you will.

Publishing is a tough, heartbreaking business. But, then, so is perseverance. Sticking to your message, writing until you can't even think straight anymore, and continuous experimenting with plot, dialog, and theme is what drives us to do this crap. It's hard. But, as I've said any number of times on this blog, when you finish a project like a novel or a screenplay or a theatrical play, there is an amazing sense of accomplishment to holding the manuscript in your hands and having your mind open up to the idea that you've taken the first steps toward publishing and producing. You're an author, and all the romantic images sweep through your mind of whatever glory you may have. It's awesome.

**Project update**

Maybe these economic woes are more in our psyche than out in the world. But corporations run governments and media outlets, so it's hard to tell. Keep on keepin' on, babe.

Peace.

T.A.M.

Thus, Guilty Pleasures

2008-04-19T08:41:00.000-07:00

Wouldn't it be great if life's episodes were as painfully obvious as, say, the ending of A Good Year?

I admit it's a guilty pleasure--the book and the movie. And as painful as it is to watch a rather smug Russell Crowe for a hundred minutes, the film--or rather the movie--certainly returns the romance of living on its ear. Seriously: who would turn their back on a Provencal chateau?

Peter Mayle's books are charming and, indeed, smug. But we read them because of it. As a response--and I think it was long overdue--Stephen Clarke penned his Merde series, of which I've more or less read A Year In The Merde (mainly because of the title). It's funny. It's British. It probably appeals to anyone who's stepped out of their comfort zone and traveled to another land (besides Disney World).

So here's what I'm thinking. I'm going to buy a farm in Iowa and grow either soy beans or corn (I haven't decided which), and I'll be romanced by the heartland. I'll write a memoir--I've Got The Corn--and it'll be made into a movie. I've already begun to plot the thing out: Hotshot, disillusioned city slicker inherits a farm in Iowa. No, wait: city slicker, feeling burnt out in his day-to-day, glamorous Los Angeles lifestyle (!) decides to "find himself" and goes to Iowa to become a farmer. There, he meets quirky, strangely world-wise characters who inspire him to rediscover his values. And he has corn on the cob with every meal.

Naturally, all the farm girls in the film version could very well have stepped out of the pages of Hustler--they don't call it the heartland for nuthin'--and the locations would be absolutely gorgeous because, I mean, that's what Iowa looks like, right?

Alright, maybe not. I don't think anyone would read it; alas, Mayle's books and Ridley Scott's filmed version of A Good Year have knocked Iowa off its perch. And the last time we really visited the midwest the bible-thumpers were banned from dancing (Footloose was set in Utah, but just the same...), the Klan were networking (Betrayed), and the Chiefs still haven't been back to the Superbowl.

But that's the nature of guilty pleasure. TCM's Robert Osbourne called White Cargo a guilty pleasure the other night. So I watched it. Film is set in Africa and stars a very tanned Hedy Lamarr as native girl Tondelayo (which is a great name for a cat), and a bellowing, larger than life Walter Pidgeon as the plantation owner. I couldn't make it to the end. Guilty pleasures are reserved for the reservers, I guess. Ergo, my love of The Creature From The Black Lagoon.

So, I admit now that A Good Year has become a guilty pleasure. Why? It's a smartass movie, it's a smug movie, it's "sophisticated" insomuch as there are plenty of British accents--and a few French ones--and therefore what's being said is presumably important. They poke fun at Americans and although I have a hard time believing that the character Christie (Abbie Cornish) knows anything about wine, Uncle Henry (played masterfully by Albert Finney) is the movie's saving grace. Yes, and it certainly helps that the film is set in Provence.

The filmed life is the observed life; it's subjective. I mean, come on: it's not like anyone would actually leave California (perish the thought), where the greatest wines in the world are produced, to live in some scrappy ruin in France, to drink shitty French wine and lunch neath poplars. I'll take a lovely meritage over that any day, coupled with a heart-rendering Napa Valley vista that reminds us, yes, this is why we're here.

Maybe California is the ultimate guilty pleasure. You can't totally own it; it's heartbreakingly beautiful at times and at times completely nauseating. And, anyway, there are more French chateaus in Los Angeles than there are in all of France.

**Project update**

Work continues on the play, Henry Swann's Limoges (speaking of French); edits on North Of Here continue (finished part one); Dryline Rhapsody continues to make the rounds.

Peace.

T.A.M.

Mountain Laurel

2008-04-04T10:44:00.000-07:00

They turned, laughing, and then hurried into the woods on the path, their fleeting forms quickly dissolved from the red firelight to the blackness of the night. When I asked where they were headed, someone said, "Up to the pond. It's on top of the mountain."

Years later I followed the same path; one warmish spring afternoon I made it to the fork of the old drive way--a driveway that hadn't been used as such for more than 50 years--and continued through the ever-greening forest. This was the backside of Wantastiquet Mountain, in Chesterfield, New Hampshire, my hometown. Everyone knew about Madam Cheri's, a now mythic ruin from the mid 20th century, but I don't think everyone in my town was familiar with Indian Pond.

The trail, which once probably doubled for a logging or maple road, edged the mountain base, then abruptly turn right and followed a tumbling brook for a few hundred yards before continuing summitwise over low heaths and through shallower portions of the runnel. The trees thinned; to the right enormous patches of fern grew and displayed their almost regal fans the summer long.

Being several hundred yards from the road--a road which saw little traffic--the woods were naturally very quiet, save for birds, squirrels, and chipmunks. A breeze continued softly through the trees; the afternoon light illumined the budding forest a zesty green--the type of green one seldom sees in Southern California.

Because the trail was seldom used, saplings and new-growth had begun to crowd the edges and though the forest was fairly sparse, it was nevertheless almost new-seeming and very dense. The shrubbery was low near the top of the trail but ahead I could see the high cliff to the right, and the clearing at the edge of Indian Pond.

The pond, which was more like a small lake. The far side was lined with trees, and I guessed that it was some sort of tributary. Flanking both sides, to the north and south, were very steep, tree-covered hills. Rocks jutted out here and there, and as I took in the scene, my mind slipped back, aided no doubt from the silence up here.

But there had been others in recent months; the remains of a crude fire and debris. I wasn't sure how long the pond waited for someone to return; it had been, as it always seemed, a long, wet spring.

Mountain lakes in the northeast that are unspoiled are truly literary gems. At the time, of course, I was a college senior, having completed all of my core literature classes and had modest plans for spending the summer in one more seminar while helping my folks around the house. I would graduate that summer than less than a year later, would move to New York City to be a writer.

That was the plan, anyway.

Indian Pond, as it's known locally, could very well be the remains of a burned-out volcano; it is an exceptionally large body of water near a mountain summit that had no noticeable feed from streams or brooks, and indeed, at its west side, appeared to wash over its rocky banks to form a sort of alpine marsh that eventually trickled down in wetter months the declivitous western slope of the mountain. Just the same, it was a peaceful enclave in an already peaceful place. So, sitting there with notebook in hand, I started to sketch, to write, simply enjoy the silence.

Great swatches of heavily-weathered trees and low, tough mountain laurel surrounded the pond. On the north side, a trail appeared through the underbrush, and so I followed it further up the mountain to a rocky outcrop that provided an amazing view of neighboring Vermont, but also the still virtually untamed Pisgah State Park, a place that really hasn't changed at all since the time of the Ashuelot, some two hundred years ago. Later, on a road trip to Canada, I would see virgin woods that resembled it, and in my mind's eye, the French trappers who're part of its ghostly lore.

It must've been a few hours I spent up there enacting whatever rural poet scenarios I could think of; I would return to this Walden several time before leaving New Hampshire for good in 1991. To this day, however, it's these places--these outbound prosceniums--that began to shape the writing and material, and add both a mystery and romance to my imaginings. I may get back there one day; you come too.

**Project update**

I Know I Am August is developing, as is Henry Swann's Limoges. Per my agent, Dryline Rhapsody continues its rounds; I've befriended Patience and I have to admit that I find him exacting.

Peace.

T.A.M.

Ain't Talkin' About Love!

2008-03-15T10:43:00.000-07:00

As I've said to folks here and there, "Life sometimes gets in the way of living," to which they nod thoughtfully, because maybe it's true for them too--maybe it's not--but certainly some can appreciate maxims and conversational bullet points. Ergo, two updates this month so far.

I've devoted myself to working on two projects as of late: I Know I Am August and Henry Swann's Limoges. The former's a novel, the latter's a play. And, admittedly, I've found it hard to tear myself from my beautiful new Taylor 12-string; ergo, two updates this month so far.

And then I began thinking about Van Halen--something I don't normally do--and, once again, half awake, I stumbled to my laptop, booted, opened Final Draft and began to write a scene.

Wait: Van Halen?! Who the hell cares about those guys anymore? Then I remembered a call I got from my brother back east: "Hey, can you believe I actually passed on going to see Van Halen? This guy had an extra ticket!" to which I said, "Holy crap, John, is it 1984 or what? Van Halen?!"

Then I glanced at my over-flowing CD shelf and saw two VH discs there. Sure, I got 'em. Who doesn't? Eddie was insane on that far-out Kramer of his back in the day. They were rock & roll. They were California rock & roll, part of the crazy mythos out here.

John said something else and I thought, Man, I would love to see those guys--even if the chubby dwarflike bassist is a no-show.

They were never really part of my collection after the Ramones, The Clash, Sex Pistols, Iggy & the Stooges, et al entered the fray. And growing up in the northeast, during the wacky transition between the 70s and 80s when there was still such a thing as AM on the radio, you had two music stations, both of which originated in the Bay State: WAAF and WAQY. And their rotation included--and I'm not kidding--Led Zepplin, The Kinks, Rolling Stones, REO Speedwagon, Jethro Tull, Bob Segar, AC/DC, Rush, and, of course Van Friggin' Halen! And that's what we heard on the radio.

So small wonder when you picked up the college station every once in a while and heard Talking Heads it was like you stepped into an art gallery or something. You were suddenly smarter; you were hip to something that your long-haired neighbors couldn't possibly comprehend. The rebellion was on; rock is dead; long live New Wave!

Yeah, but, it didn't really happen that way, did it? Apart making billions for record companies, no one really remembers The Vapors ("Turning Japanese"), Ian Dury & The Blockheads ("Sex & Drugs & Rock & Roll"), or Big Country ("In A Big Country"). But, unfortunately say some, you can still hear Dexy's Midnight Runners (I still don't know just what the hell these guys were all about), Madness (you know the song), and General Public.

But then New Wave become Nothing Wave, and the "glamor" of rock & roll fragmented, and video killed the radio star--and this probably destroyed a lot of rock & roll careers while making charlatans out of both fans and performers. And if you go back and watch some of those silly videos you can see what I mean.

It's encouraging, though, that these geezers have the huevos to pick up those axes and get back up there to recapture some of the magic. I'm talking, of course, about the old rock & rollers who blew out your eardrums when you were young. And it's even intriguing to see the old glamorpusses from the New Wave days, all bloated and sometimes pasty, with a fresh coat of hair dye, swaying and posturing like they did when it was the early 80s. Well, ya gotta pay rent, I suppose.

So after chiding my brother about not seeing Van Halen (we were marginal fans but like all guys totally intrigued) I went back and listened to the blistering first record and thought, Yes, I get it. I know why this one album has stayed in the collection all these years. It's no longer an embarrassment, it can stand alongside Exile On Main Street, Fun House, Rocket To Russia, "Hollywood Town Hall", Live At San Quentin, and Europe '72, but I won't put it anywhere near Born To Run, the greatest rock & roll album ever. Boss, you got your own space on my shelf, man. No, that first VH record is a classic, hands-down. I thought it then and I'll stand by it. And say what you will, nothing attracts more speeding tickets than "You Really Got Me"!

So, sober up, Eddie. Get well, and get back out there. My brother John needs this more than ever!

**Project update**

Trying to figure out why I think a musical about Van Halen is important, so if you're a play producer give me a call.

Peace.

T.A.M.

Follow The River

2008-03-03T10:53:00.001-08:00

Once again, the desert-dry wind blows in--the Santa Ana conditions, as they're known--and once again the trees pitch madly. What fires that were this past autumn have left only charred hillsides that have been reseeded but here and there wisps of salt-dry ground blows off the mountain and trails in the wind. It's ominous at times; how much more of the mountain will go when the rains return (if they return). But these are the seasons in southern California.

It's more or less a constant breeze: a steady, gusty, tepid-warm wind that continues throughout the day, and sometimes into the night; the sky gets so dusted that the moon's like a dim bulb but it's blown so clear you can see the ponderosa pines and eucalyptus tree pitch wildly in its luminescence. It'll go on for a couple more days then soon die down, and then the off-shore morning fog and coastal clouds will return.

But the dryness. It's almost unbearable. I can feel already my sinuses beginning to tighten. And because of the winds and because of the warmth and return of the sun, the pollens and buds have begun, and while it makes for a fragrant walk along the arroyos, it certainly doesn't bode well for allergy sufferers.

Strangely, it'll be a variable warming and cooling then the latter spring months will come and glorious, heroic land will erupt in colors only California can promise. When you get off the main drag and follow the old paths, now paved, into the mountains, you slip back a century or so and can see just how timeless an ever-changing place can be. And that's when you hear the silence of this part of the world; it's a luxury to hear nothing in the Southland sometimes.

I've driven out there: into the mountains, out into the vastness of the high deserts, to the coastal ranges that are at once forgotten by any type of media, and therefore a looking-glass experience. Some of the shadowy places I've paused have brought Steinbeckian phrases to mind; Lenny's ghost some where beyond the edge of the shade-tree, standing there looking back dumbly. Or angrily, if it's Tom Joad. In Grapes of Wrath, when the Joads make it to the California border and decide to take a swim in the river, Tom's elder brother, Noah, decides not to continue with the family but rather just follows the river south, presumably because he felt unloved but also because sometimes you gotta just follow the river. It's a great and subtle scene. I'm sure it happens to this day.

While I've followed rivers before, I've at least never put myself in a situation where I had to because of those reasons. No, the omenlike winds push me back. Maybe that's why I stay in California. I've often said (because I'm a smartass) that the Golden State is the beginning and the end of everything. It's west of West; it's the promise that's draped by mountains to the east and coastal fogs but when the Santa Anas kick in and clear out the fog and smog, only then can you see the majesty of this place, the heroic end of the continent, California.

**Project update**

Been rattling through the novel manuscript I Know I Am August, a first-person narrative novel. Also, have begun work on Uncle Henry's Limoges, a stage play. Dryline Rhapsody continues to make the publishing rounds; it's somewhere at a "major publisher" in NY, thus sayeth my literary agent.

Peace.

T.A.M.

Midwinter Authors

2008-02-22T17:11:00.000-08:00

It's always been interesting to me to read the lives of authors I admire if for no other reason than to connect on a different level apart from their fiction. For example, I've been reading John Worthen's D.H. Lawrence recently, where I now find myself somewhere toward the end of WWI and Lawrence and Frieda are totally broke, and will remain thus for nearly two decades to come.

But that's not what was compelling. Rather, a passage right before the start of the war, wherein the biographer notes that Lawrence had just sign a publishing deal and was being introduced to the London literati of the day, including E.M. Forster, Walter de la Mere, H.D. [Hilda Doolittle], and Bertrand Russell, and was no doubt on the cusp of a promising writing career.

Then the war happened, the biography goes on to say, and that Lawrence's "life and work would never be the same again. He would never recover any similar sense of delighted ease with success, or companionship, or even social acceptance. His work would not again be in such demand for the next decade and a half; nor would he ever be in such a happy relationship with his own country. The war put paid to all that."

Prior to the war, Lawrence had published The White Peacock, Sons and Lovers, and The Rainbow. The last two were largely banned and the first, while interesting, is more or less a fussy Victorian novel. He also published a couple of volumes of poetry and some essays but it would take the end of a war for him to be able to leave England with Frieda to return to a war-torn Europe, to continue on what he called his "savage pilgrimage".

I've talked about Lawrence on this blog previously and it's because of him--after having read all but two of his novels--that I wanted to pursue the self humbling act of being a writer. The other heroes, of course, include the usual rogues gallery of Faulkner, Hemingway, Fitzgerald, etc, but in college I had subjected myself to not one but two D.H. Lawrence seminars. What the hell was I thinking?!

Some stories are better than others and some of his books certainly are. Frankly, I thought The Plumed Serpent, The Virgin and The Gypsy and Apocalypse to be his most interesting books, and his stories "England, My England" and "A Prussian Officer" to be his finest. His travelogues were flowery and indicative of the times. No, on the whole, I've always enjoyed Lawrence's works.

And as creepy as it sounds, there was a guy in neighboring Brattleboro, Vermont who was a dead ringer for the embattled author. I can recall waiting at a light when I was in high school when this hunched-over looking oldster crossed in front of the car and cast a sidelong glance toward me and Devin, at which point I said, "Holy shit! It's D.H. Lawrence!" We, of course, knew Lawrence was long gone but this doppelganger remained--hunched, unhurried, upturned collar against the blustery New England winter night.

Lawrence is for wintertime reading, as Isherwood suits the fall, and Faulkner suits the sultry, silky summer. I haven't felt strongly about other authors but perhaps Maugham is best read in the winter also, as is John Fowles, whom I have recently recovered from memory his magnificent narrative novel, The Magus. If you haven't yet, you really must.

Meanwhile, I guess I will attribute my own current writing project, I Know I Am August, to the winter as well. The story takes place in present-day New Hampshire, in the spring, and is filled with all the lovely, haunting memories and instances that I can conjure. It's what we do, we writers, when we're not putting ourselves in that other place that makes us successful at this madness. It's the midwinter author thing.

**Project update**

Got through chapter three of I Know I Am August the other day. Good feeling. The rewrites are starting on MILFord, a stage play that is on it's way to the beleaguered agent in NY. And Dryline Rhapsody is still under consideration at a publisher, so there's always hope for March.

Peace.

T.A.M.

Piazzas And Painkillers

2008-02-08T14:33:00.000-08:00

So, the road we're on. Watching Anderson Cooper 360 the other night, and you'd think that we're pretty much f*cked eight ways from Sunday. But hats off to Obama for his performance, and to McCain for his. Ann Coulter has said that if Hillary wins the nomination she'll back her. Wow. Talk about eating crow! What's this world coming to?!

None of this, of course, has anything to do with writing a novel. Or does it?

Gone are the days when a shoddy, hunched over romantic could prop himself up against a gnarled tree trunk to write free verse or recount what she said to whom, then fold it into a plot and fashion a novel out of it. Indeed, gone are the days when taking in the night sidewalks was considered exercise. I wonder, then, are we really in another age of disillusionment?

Writers were heroes once. Or maybe, as I've probably written in here previously, their lifestyles just made the human condition (for thinkers and romantics, anyway) something to which one really rose to greet the morn. It doesn't hurt to be from New England, too, where so much of the past one can touch (or in some cases physically break). But writers are drunks, addicts, charlatans, usurpers, snobs, elitists, lunatics, and untrustworthy. So why on earth would--should--anyone wish for this?

We write because we have to. It's the writer's gene, maybe. Some of us are born storytellers (and some clearly are not). Many of us will never wholly get through Dante in this lifetime (you should at least read Moby-Dick) but we can at least try. No, none of us will be as widely regarded as Shakespeare, so there's that. And there's no sense in trying to emulate Faulkner anymore. So there's that. So-called literary writers live in the eternal moment and if you're gonna do this at all you should write about what you love or that which you can relate to a larger audience.

A book caught my eye the other day at Barnes & Noble only because I recognized the name. It was a sappy novel "written" by Thomas Kinkaid (and his ghostwriter) that was essentially set in one of his fictional painted towns dripping with color, rainwater and, presumably, devoid of dogshit. The premise [sic] was set around the struggles of finding light and peace within, which is rare if you believe what you see on TV. Anyway, needless to say his series of paperbacks probably found an audience because, ultimately, we can't ever achieve that life because it simply never existed, never will exist and, if it does, it's surely a facade. At least Henry James and Edith Wharton had the courage to live among their luminaries and could see through the layers to the darkness of the soul beneath. At least Daisy Miller's flaws were our own--even if she had to be swayed by the drippy, drowsy piazza light...

My father used to say that some of the best literary works were produced under times of great economic strain. This is an intriguing idea and considering all the shitty chick lit that rolled off the presses in the 90s...

Well, dad, I say at least good literary works come from hard work, diligence, and determination. And from reading James M. Cain, which is what you recommended years ago.

Yes, and Cain probably would've appreciated the democratic responses as of late, although I suspect he'd be fairly lost in Glendale and Burbank these days, so much has changed out here. Indeed, if you go back and reread Mildred Pierce, The Postman Always Rings Twice, and Double Indemnity (great film adaptations on all, so boogie over to Amazon or Netflix and get in the know!), you can drive down the same roads his troubled, broken, and faulted characters drove down.

So I say get on with the real stuff if you're a writer. I've rambled on enough over the past couple of years about these books and writers and one day maybe someone with do the same about Dryline Rhapsody, North of Here, I Know I Am August, et al. Meanwhile, there's the silky jazz in the background, the politicians on CNN, and my sometimes harried thoughts of why I'm pursuing this.

**Project update**

Writing and editing like some crazed monk in the time of Rapture, but at least I'm doing it.

Peace.

T.A.M.

Punch-Drunk But Still Standing

2008-02-03T08:48:00.000-08:00

Admittedly, I've sparred only a few rounds with my weekly posting on this thing. There are a number of reasons for this, not the least of which is my old mantra, Life gets in the way of living--that trusted, philosophical excuse I've devised for slacking off or rather being too busy to be the observer that I am. Yes, I've been busy with a handful of projects and other obligations. So, thanks for noticing.

Thanks also for the 10,000-plus hits over the past couple of years. That's a major milestone. Half of those hits have been from return readers (probably mostly me) all over the world. That means at least 4800 of you think this thing's intriguing, and I couldn't agree more.

Writing isn't really boxing, of course. Boxing--the Sweet Science--demands so much more from us but it's no surprise that writers sometimes feel as though they're in the ring when they're plotting, writing, rewriting, editing, deleting, and polishing. It's tiring work. And for what? I wish I knew.

But it's a better world because of this. Indeed, Shakespeare invented and cataloged the complexities of the Western human. This was refined over the years by any number of writers and novelists who've gone insane trying to live up to that canon. It's been unglamorous at times--mostly always--but we fight on. The beacon is there on a distant shore and, like most sought after treasures, it's there for the taking. You just have to tar the hold before tasting that tempest.

Lately, though, I've had doubts. It has nothing to do with the economy and the gloom that "spooks" Wall Street investors; I too chuckle when I read in Atlantic that those Greenwich, Connecticut hedge fund bajillionaires are getting hosed because of their defaulted loans on their ridiculous mansions. Yes, they looked hot in Vanity Fair a year ago, but this winter...

Well, maybe it's all a sign that the mess of the past eight years is finally going away. Maybe, as in Hamlet, as in the boxing ring, the bad guys will get theirs and the little guy will triumph.

Come on. I'm not that naive. When has that ever happened with any sort of resonance?

I continue typing, in the meantime. I continue observing, knowing full well that at least three more masterpieces are simmering inside, in notebooks, on bar napkins, on my digital recorder. Some moment soon--a small event, maybe?--will trigger the story out. Then it's back to writing. That's what I do. But for now, it's still that battle in the ring. I wouldn't have it any other way.

**Project update**

Anyone see the Jones/Trinidad fight? What an ass-kicking! A couple of years ago I began outlining my boxing story. Then I saw Joe Calzaghe fight and was certain I was watching a poet in the ring. Meanwhile, both North of Here and Dryline Rhapsody are under consideration at a NY publisher. Also, starting the revisions of the stage play MILFord. Stay tuned.

Peace.

T.A.M.

Type Keys Blues

2008-01-16T09:45:00.000-08:00

I wandered, as I often do, through Barnes & Noble the other day, randomly picking up recently published and "new" authors' books and reading the first couple of pages. Some of openers were ok; some seemed smug and others traditional in that they could very well have been knock-offs of popular writers from earlier times. Then I would put the books back slip silently into another row. They stand there still, like ghosts. A reminder of what publishing really is.

Over the past three weeks, I've completed the redraft of No Daylight, a screenplay, and the first draft of MILFord, a full-length stage play. It's a great feeling when they're printed out and sitting on the edge of the desk. As a rule of thumb, I don't really look at the things for at least a week before attempting edits and additions and rewrites. You're still in the story so you can't really see the flaws; you can't story at all, in fact. You're paced along in a read-through mode.

I can't say I prefer writing stage plays over screenplays. In many ways, they're easier to write--or rather what has come to be known as contemporary theater (so far as I can tell) seems relatively simple or even simplistic. Nevertheless, a play's immediacy is what I find appealing.

Screenplays, on the other hand, adhere to a more formulaic model and therefore are kind of restrictive; producers and agents and story editors are so used to thinking in terms of turning a buck that most scripts have to be simple and explainable. There's certainly nothing wrong with turning a buck; but I suspect the everyman agent or producer who got their hands on a draft of There Will Be Blood (based on Sinclair Lewis' novel Oil!) probably would have passed. But get them a draft of Transformers II and watch their eyes light up!

But that's Hollywood. And that's Broadway. MILFord is off-Broadway stuff (maybe even off off-Broadway, in fact). Just the same, this draft is completed, and I'm a better man for it. The real challenge will be cornering my literary agent in a few weeks and forcing him to read it. He will; he's all about theater--and this is partly why I wrote the damn thing.

Without giving too much away, MILFord is set in contemporary Orange County, California. The main characters are college and post-high school aged. They're awkward but confident. They've been diluted and deluded by the townships in which they've come of age; indeed, it's a coming-of-age tale in which none of them can imagine days without sunshine and pleasantries. It's a good first draft. Let's see what we can do with the subsequent drafts.

**Project update**

See above.

Peace.

T.A.M.
dryline.rhapsody@gmail.com

Meatty Hungarians At The Gate

2008-01-07T12:41:00.000-08:00

So, it's one week into 2008. And Hilary wept up in my beloved New Hampshire, Obama is kicking ass and taking names, and Lindsey Lohan apparently got laid in Italy. Sounds a lot like 2007. Crap.

Well, I ain't gonna complain. 2007 weren't all that bad (for some of us). But I have my own agenda. Been recently working on a script revision for a project called No Daylight. Details forthcoming. This has also sparked the fire around finishing MILFord (the as promised play my lit agent's expecting) and continuing with I Know I Am August.

Recently finished reading Joe Eszterhas's The Devil's Guide To Hollywood: The Screenwriter As God! and I must say that his anecdotes are funny as always; his Hollywood Animal is a great primer for script-spazzes the world over. Here's a guy who pulled down $10 million one year (or so he says); here's a guy who reinvented noir in the 90s, and put Sharon Stone's...on display; here's a guy who's about as loathed as he might be loved, but this can't be confirmed nor denied.

Admittedly, years ago, I tried to write scripts like Eszterhas; I had a buddy over at CAA who'd bring me boxes of screenplays, and Lo! therein was a copy of Jade and Basic Instinct. And I'd read these things and say constantly, I can do this. So I did. I wrote a script called Scully Lake (or re-fashioned, I should say) and it was OK enough to get some people attached to other writing projects. But in the end, the 90s went away, Eszterhas went away (with that dreadful Alan Smithee thing he wrote, which wasn't funny, wasn't interesting, and wasn't for anyone outside of The Industry), and I worked on a few novel manuscripts.

But the takeaway I have from Eszterhas's book is to never stop writing and always stand up for what you believe in. He's spot-on when he's talking about the studio execs being more or less business school idiots, and I had to laugh when he said "creative executive" is an oxymoron. That is absolutely correct. These people don't know story. These people probably never read anything other than coloring books. But these people can probably balance your checkbook better than you.

But movies these days. I sometimes down that one writing writes anything anymore; there's too much money involved, and one writer can't really be trusted. Plus, creative executives get involved, producers get involved, executive producers get involved (whatever they do), and the loathsome writer is pretty much hung out to dry.

Eszterhas's advice: write a novel, or don't write a novel. Get the hell out of Los Angeles (I agree with that one). Don't take screenwriting seminars (Eszterhas loves ragging on Robert McKee whose gatherings I am proud to say I've never attended; in fact I never attended any of that crap, with the exception of a pitch conference wherein I'd walked away with at least 40 business cards, a few tentative meetings, and headache). Drink mightily (got that one covered!). I suppose if you do all that, you too can be a Hollywood screenwriter.

So sometime around 1995 I was watching Swimming with Sharks (1994) with my mother et al, and halfway through Kevin's Spacey's masterful shouting at Frank Whaley, she turns to me and goes, "Why the hell do you want to go Hollywood?" I laughed at my little mother and said, "Because it's not there."

**Project Update**

Preparing to swim with sharks again.

Peace, and happy 2008.

T.A.M. dryline.rhapsody@gmail.com

Farvel 2007, And All That Crap

2007-12-31T17:32:00.000-08:00

At the risk of being totally boring, maybe now's a good time to reflect on the past year. Granted, I can't remember everything; what lame attempts I have had at traditional journal writing were essentially scrapped. But thankfully I had this here purdy blog, Dryline Rhapsody. Let's see what we have...

Celebrities went nuts, got jailed, got drunk, got bald. Britney, Lindsay, Paris. More crap has been written by these queebs that prompts me to not waste another inch of Internet web space on it, apart from saying It's Hip To Be Square.

I talked a lot about music: jazz, Dropkick Murphys, The Briggs, classical, etc. Saw the Murphys, the Briggs, Bob Dylan, Travis, Anti-Flag, to name a few. I know there were others; can't remember which.

Wine was the subject--or sub-subject--of many a post. Poets and playwrights alike find purity in wine; when you've been revealed to Meritage, you've been shown the way...

I rewrote huge parts of my novel North of Here as well as tweaked a few things in Dryline Rhapsody. Indeed, worked on a few plays, notably MILFord and Weekenders (the latter of which is almost finished), and more recently have nearly completed No Daylight, a screenplay. For all this effort, I've landed an agent; the last update I got was that the novels were under consideration at a New York publisher and there is interest in a screenplay Kennedy and I had written years back, called The Last Camaro. So, there's that.

The Spice "Girls" reformed and went on tour, as did Van Halen and The Police. What were we talking about?

I mentioned a lot of writers and critics in this thing too, notably D.H. Lawrence, Harold Bloom, Isak Dineson, Edgar Allen Poe, Herman Melville, Hart Crane, E.M. Forster, Graham Greene, T.S. Eliot, William Faulkner, Me, Jack Kerouac, William Gaddis, Thomas Wolfe, James M. Cain, et al. I've read books from all of them. There's a reason they're in here. You should continue reading them as well.

California burned. And burned. And burned...and burned. Then the fires went out. And, if you believe the story you saw on 60 Minutes last night, this is only the beginning of the era of Mega Fires. Friggin' scary, man.

The 16 - 0 New England Patriots changed football history forever. They broke several records that I couldn't even list here. They're post-season bound, probably Superbowl bound as well. Being a native New Englander, all I can say is "The Tuck Rule" to all my Oakland Raider friends (both of them). Go PATS!! Go Sox!!

Speaking of New England, how 'bout those Celtics, huh? Crazy. They blew out the Lakers the other night. And if you ask me (and Kobe), those retro shorts were painful.

UCLA Bruins lost their bowl game; they didn't have a coach. The Trojans are in the Rose bowl tomorrow against Illinois. Good thing there are other games coming up.

And here we are. The end of 2007. I bid it adieu. Thanks for the memories and welcome 2008. I know it's going to be a phenomenal year. I'm gonna get to Europe in 2008, maybe Mexico as well; I'm about due for a trip.

And, as always, thank you for stopping by. Continue with me in the coming year.

Peace.

T.A.M.
dryline.rhapsody@gmail.com

Guided By The Marquee

2007-12-14T09:15:00.000-08:00

On some New Jersey nights in the oncoming cold you could pass along beneath the flickering lights of the old movie theater and, looking up at the marquee, read that they still play From Here To Eternity. You could agree with that and move on or your could turn and go back.

You would probably choose to continue on. Whatever wisdom old marquees bestow is sometimes drowned out by the passing night.

These sad nighthawk imaginings are intriguing and it brings to mind a painting by American artist Edward Hopper. Talking, of course, about the now very famous Nighthawks. It's an image and idea that doesn't really need to be updated; it's seemingly timeless and universally recognized and, in many ways, a wonderful summing up of that moment of time.

We've all of us at one point or another, have lived in those characters, whoever they are. Hopper was a "realist" which I suppose means he was capturing the everyday, gritty realities of life.

All euphoria ends at some point. Then you're left with the hangover of it having ended. In reviewing some of Hopper's work what strikes me as interesting is the contrast of color with the depth of emptiness. They're very lonely paintings. And while I admit I know little or nothing about his life, there are moments in his paintings that seem very familiar--and not because they look like places that I've been to (Maine, New York, etc); no, the familiarity is something else that I can't quite put my finger on.

But all of that is lost on the lazy fast shores of the West Coast. We're saturated in light out here so contrasts are short in supply. Even downtown L.A. the other night was a study exile's return. I wonder, then, what would December really look like if it came here to stay.

**Project update**

Continuing work on MILFord and I Know I Am August. This is the perfect time of the year to do so: cold nights, coolish days, etc. Agent tells me that both manuscripts--Dryline Rhapsody and North of Here are at "a major publisher" in NY. Quoth he, "Now it's a waiting game." Which I read as, Quit bothering me! I'm working for my 15%!

Peace.

T.A.M.
dryline.rhapsody@gmail.com

Etc., Etc., Etc.

2007-12-05T15:41:00.000-08:00

As the manuscript makes its rounds, from time to time I find myself going back to reread chapters and passages of both Dryline Rhapsody and North Of Here. I do this because, building upon something my brother John once said, I want to make sure it happened the way I remember it. In terms of the former, I can't really say; in terms of the latter, it was written over a period of several years, so I really can't say. Nevertheless, I return to certain chapters and passages because I want to confirm where I was when I wrote that stuff.

All writing, as I may've said over the past couple of years on this blog, is confessional. I wouldn't trade the time it took to cobble together these projects for anything. It's not easy to sequester oneself and write a page or two, let alone a novel. But you do it. You do it because something compels you to tell a story.

In the case of North of Here, which was begun well over eight years ago and rewritten at least six times, I set out to talk about small-town New Hampshire--the sometimes dangerous, sometimes heartbreaking place where I grew up. That same small town is no longer there; with the advent of the internet, it's even further away. But the story--a simple one, really--was inspired by David Lynch's Blue Velvet (stop me if you've heard this diatribe before). The characters' struggles seemed very real, very immediate to me. So, I set out to tell my version of it.

Dryline Rhapsody was pure catharsis. I wanted to tell a story about divorce from a male point of view, but I also wanted it to flow and move and sound its own way. I also incorporated literary "ghosts" since I believe a magic realism in literature certainly is wonderful and a clever device.

Which brings me to the current novel project, which is called I Know I am August. More magic realism only this time there's a tragic element and the main character knows what he wants. He has to choose between two things, which is good for a story, since in life we often have to choose between many. And it's a respectful nod to that small place in New Hampshire that I sometimes go back to--in my mind at least.

But you can't go home again. I read that book (You Can't Go Home Again) the winter after graduating from college. Thomas Wolfe. It's a massive book. And at the time I hadn't really left home so I wasn't sure if I could go back. We would--my brother John and I--subsequently go to New York, and we never went home again, not really. Ergo, you can't go home again.

Yes, and all writing is confessional. Whether this notion was realized through the many beers with fellow SoHo and Greenwich Village writer-types I knew in the early 90s or on the road to the West Coast--through the vast and unrelenting emptiness between two oceans--all writing was a confession. And when you've written whatever it is you want to say and shape it into a novel, you start over on something else. Etc., etc., etc.

**Project update**

Working on I Know I Am August (thanks, Walt!) and outlining a few other projects. Been working on several songs lately as well, with an eye to get back into the studio after the new year.

Peace.

T.A.M.
dryline.rhapsody@gmail.com

Rites of Passage

2007-11-20T20:49:00.000-08:00

Twenty years ago I had read the following out of an appropriately dusty and shelf-worn Modern Library edition:

"Except for the Marabar Caves--and they are twenty miles off--the city of Chandrapore presents nothing extraordinary. Edged rather than washed by the river Ganges, it trails for a couple of miles along the bank, scarcely distinguishable from the rubbish it deposits so freely. There are no bathing-steps on the river front, as the Ganges happens not to be holy there; indeed, there is no river front, and bazaars shut out the wide and shifting panorama of the stream. The streets are mean, the temples ineffective, and though a few fine houses exist they are hidden away in gardens or down alleys whose filth deters all but the uninvited guest. Chandrapore was never large or beautiful, but two hundred years ago it lay on the road between upper India, then imperial, and the sea..."

Naturally, being a lit major, I was transfixed. I was transfixed also because I had read this after a long night of libations with the lads and later still after a staggeringly long walk down the old dirt on which my father carved out a house. I had seen A Passage To India on HBO and was taken by the story and characters. And, of course, being the romantic that I was (and still am, damnit), I had read the above in nothing more than cargo shorts and by candlelight, no less, a cigarette burning patiently between my middle and forefingers. I doubt I could get away with that these days, this despite being a said romantic.

E. M. Forster protected British literature for me; he, Lawrence, and Maugham were the heroes of my reading for at least a year. While not altogether an Anglophile, I'm sure I went through those motions in my late teen/early twenties because it was the early mid-80s and sophistication seemed only to be suggested on magazine spreads or alluded to in movies and in fragrances (as in Ralph Lauren's "Safari"), and certainly not something a young man from rural New Hampshire could attain. Indeed, and during this era this whole sort of nostalgia for sophistication sought parity with the equally violent films of the times (I'm talking about the Stallone, Willis, and Schwarzenegger films that more or less dominated American box offices in the 80s) to the point where on any given weekend you could be swept away by Meryl Streep in Out of Africa (adapted from a painfully uninteresting novel and other writings by Isak Dineson) with its sweeping panorama and sad, drawn soundtrack, then pop into the adjoining theater for 100 minutes of anti-commie fury a la Rambo.

Reading and now rereading the opening lines to Forster's magnificent novel removes me from the 21st century. It takes me away from southern California and my non-frequent travails. My father, being brilliant, always said that Forster was a superior writer--far greater than D.H. Lawrence, though I tend to disagree on that front. I think Lawrence and Forster were mutually exclusive and indirectly were concerned with the same thing: being English in an increasingly non-English world.

You can imagine, then, my disappointment in reading A Room With A View, which I couldn't really stand. Howards End, on the other hand, was perhaps Forster's greatest literary achievement. Interestingly, as I sift through my memory, I can recall only having read it once.

So why the hell am I going on about this? This is a literary blog; I try to talk about writers and writing and books and my book(s) and what it's like to be a writer, etc. And here I was this week reading yet again an article about the decline of leisurely reading in America. What is going on here? Are we really so busy as to not pick up a novel and read? Is it really boring to be intimate with a novel?

This isn't the case for me. No, I read all the time. I very well may continue my education and get my PhD, which is something I've been threatening for a very long time, if for no other reason than to give my tirades some sort of justification. There were some amazing novels produced in the 20th century. If you pick through this blog, you'll see snippets of them. I have a passion for novels and writing so naturally I'm inclined to say get off your ass and get to the bookstore and buy a book. Read Tolstoy. Read The Sun Also Rises again (you read it in college). Be challenged by Faulkner, Gaddis, Crane (the 20th century's greatest American poet), and Joyce. Let Cain, Lawrence, Kerouac, and Melville guide you. There's still time to be amazed, folks.

E.M. Forster's A Passage To India is a deeply satisfying, deeply political and emotionally gratifying novel. I agree with my father in that he was an excellent storyteller and writer. I'll reread this novel again and again in my lifetime, and I'm certain to find yet another rite of passage. To me, books such as these are like old friends: they're always there, they listen to you and speak back their amazing journeys.

**Project update**

Continuing work on MILFord (play) and Revolution Cafe (novel). Settling into the moody dark winter months during which one can truly explore that which lies beneath. Yeah. Creepy.

Peace.

T.A.M.
dryline.rhapsody@gmail.com

The Last of the Great Audience Characters

2007-11-01T16:17:00.000-07:00

Maybe you're like me and you remember what it was like when your parents insisted on watching those Alan Alda movies that appeared on HBO during that strange transition from the 70s to the 80s. You know the movies I'm talking about: those adult comedies, in which affluent, middle-aged folks from the suburbs are portrayed adjusting to social change and give commentary on our then lives.

I'm talking about, of course, California Suite, Same Time Next Year, The Four Seasons, and, to a lesser degree, Sweet Liberty. There were others but by the time the mid-80s happened it seems those middle-agers were just too old, and anyway we had Willis, Schwarzenegger, and Stallone to keep up with. No-one had time to listen to plotted, sophisticated complaints; we had to blow up buildings and get the bad guy.

I grew up with Alda's Hawkeye Pierce on M*A*S*H; he was the only actor to appear on every episode. I laughed along--even before they added the canned laughter--and admit that sometimes I didn't get it. But who can forget the masterful performance he gave in the last episode? (As I recall, Hawkeye went a little nuts though ended the show in an amazingly long kiss with Maj. Margaret "Hot Lips" Houlihan, immortalized by Loretta Swit) Everyone in the world tuned in for that one.

But it was an age of introspection. American life was about being middle class, and middle class issues aren't what they used to be. We were post-Vietnam. There were gas lines and the PLO. Everything was about to change, and still we went to the movies to watch Alda and a host of luminaries we'd glimpsed in the late-night television of the 70s: Carol Burnett, Ellen Burstyn, Michael Caine, Walter Matthau, etc.

Alda went on to write and direct a handful of projects in the mid-late 80s, some of which entered the so-called "Woody Allen fray" (A New Life, Betsy's Wedding) then he actually appeared in a handful of Woody's movies from the late 80s into the 90s (Crimes & Misdemeanor, Manhattan Murder Mystery, Everyone Says I Love You). I'm certain he did some Broadway work along the way, and certainly appeared fairly consistently in a number of films and television shows since the middle-class days. And who can forget those weird tutoring commercials where he was always in a hurry to get out of the house, appearing as he was hanging out with some twelfth-grader. Strange. Not sure what was up with the copywriter on that shoot.

But in many ways I suppose Alan Alda is two-generations-ago's answer to James Stewart: The every-man. The Audience Character, there to help us understand what we're going through (or what my parents might've been thinking). Indeed, a steady voice of reason to help us get get a handle on what our crazy neighbors are going through, and how we can resolve things like people. So what if the mom-jeans and penny loafers are a distraction? The conversations captured in those days were from a world devoid of magic so to speak, or if it had some, as in the case of Excalibur, Ladyhawke, Dragonslayer, etc., the magic was so poorly executed that you had to think rather than be shown in order to understand what the hell was going on.

No, in the end the ensemble social commentary films aimed at the middle and upper-middle classes were to have a finite screen life (see The Big Chill--ouch!). While these might not be great films--and many of them weren't--they at least spoke to the suburbs about their problems, and it seems to me that those problems weren't external. People were funny and interesting for a while in the early mid-80s; TV's Three's Company showed us what swingers in Santa Monica knew already. And not everyone looked like Thomas Magnum or Crockett and Tubbs, or even Mary Tyler Moore, for that matter (see that painful Ordinary People). But we were reminded that many of us are normal, and isn't it boring, so get on with the explosions, the Merlins, and the cyborgs.

**Project update**

I'm working on a social commentary script set in the suburbs somewhere maybe in the northeast, wherein middle-aged people argue with one another but, through a series of poignant subplots and one scene involving a hopefully poorly filmed car chase through a small part of northwestern New Jersey, resolve their differences. It's gonna be great.

Peace.

T.A.M.
dryline.rhapsody@gmail.com

It Wasn't Burning On Friday

2007-10-23T13:28:00.000-07:00

On the one hand you want to say, Well, this is part of living in Southern California: the wildfires; the Santa Ana Events, as it were. On the other hand you want to say, Someone set Orange County on fire? How can someone be that stupid? Seriously, I mean, go to a movie; go get laid; play online chess. But don't start fires, dumbass.

I've lived in California for more than a decade; when I got here I was in my late 20s. I can't remember fires this bad--apparently no one can. It's about as bad as it gets. As I write this nearly 400,000 acres of southern California--from Ventura County down to San Diego--has been scorched; some estimated put that about the size of New York City. Indeed, several thousand homes have been lost. City-sized populations have been evacuated. Lord knows how much this is going to cost. And there appears to be no end in sight at the moment.

Firefighters working the line. You talk about real-life heroes. These folks have been going round-the-clock just to get a handle on the blazes, let alone stop the spread. Their fighting an uphill battle (in some cases literally); there's little in the way of humidity, and the hot, dry air blowing in the from the desert is only fanning the inferno. There were gusts clocked at somewhere around 70 mph. Couple that with no moisture--either in the ground or in the air--and drop a few communities along a hillside on the edge of the desert, and you've got yourself a powder keg.

A couple of nights ago, around 2 am, I heard the wind rattling the blinds so I got up and stood on my porch and watched the far-off trees pitch madly against a dust-orange moon. Dust and smoke, blowing in off the desert. It was very pretty, really. The wind continued for nearly a half hour then quite suddenly it stopped. Then I began to smell the smoke from the fire over near Irvine; my fire alarm chirped once or twice so I closed the windows and eventually fell back asleep. I woke up with the sun and looked out the window: hazy smoke filled the canyons, presumably all the way to the beach to the north and south. The smoked stayed with the day--even after the winds died down slightly. But the winds picked up again, and now we're on day three.

Day three. Almost a hundred degrees out. Not really that windy down here but the fires still rage on the crests and in the canyons in nearby Irvine and Foothill Ranch. It's not supposed to cool off till the weekend, which means it's gonna be a long-ass week.

**Project update**

Been in the throes of a play, Milford, which I'd promised the agent by mid-November. Meanwhile, begun work on a new novel project, which is to be called Charlie Phaeton's Monster. It's a Jekyll-and-Hyde comedic outing set here in goofy Orange County. In fact, many things in the OC appears to be Jekyll and Hyde these days; just ask the dipshit(s) that started the fire near Irvine.

Peace.

T.A.M.
dryline.rhapsody@gmail.com

The Last Empty Place

2007-10-14T21:27:00.000-07:00

Who's to say that the Raven hasn't already made an appearance at my chamber door?

Looking back through the mists of my life, I can name a few times that a raven probably would've appeared or at least would've croaked at the window sill. Naturally, I too have read and re-read that wonderful poem and have recalled, however vaguely, the past hazy moments (mostly in the lovely, spectral autumnal months) when I've read the thing only to be haunted by what I thought could be there; it never was, but the dark New England October evenings of my past sure made it seem altogether possible.

Poe's The Raven (1845) is a beautifully rendered, though maybe not terribly complex poem, in what will become the true Gothic American tradition. It doesn't mask its misery and in fact makes its melancholy so immediate that it becomes almost funny. Indeed, were it not for The Simpsons, wherein Homer is the narrator and Bart the bird, I wonder if this current generation now settled into careers would really have survived its reading. What comes to mind is the quote, "Comedy is tragedy, plus time," which is attributed to Carol Burnett. And why not? We all of us need material and we certainly need to laugh. Not sure what Poe found funny. His day-to-night life seemed to be a dress rehearsal for personal failure as an artist and certainly lent a hand to his dark writings.

Intoxication is a word that comes to mind when reading it. And having read his other works, I conclude that Poe wasn't really on par with with peers but his imagining was extraordinary. Like all great writers, there's is a percentage of published works that are, frankly, completely out of step with the rest of the author's offerings, or just plain out of step and therefore largely unreadable. Are we made better having read Poe? No, I don't thinks so. But does the seeming seasonality of the work speak volumes and does the popularity define its importance? Of course.

Poe gives us the last empty place, and fills it with a cryptic hallucination in the form of a guilt-relaying bird. There is no exit in the poem; whereas some authors of the times (Hawthorne, Melville, et al) might've at least shown their haunted the way out of the house, Poe locks up the doors and seals the crypt. It's interesting and maybe even ironic that in this expansionist phase of American history--in the times leading up to and including the Civil War--artist and writers were often breaking out and celebrating the individual, Poe, submerged in his own underground, shed a light into the darker catacombs of his psyche, only to find out that all light ends eventually and what's left in the darkness is whatever the mind fills in.

Yes, and he endures. To this day, what literature student hasn't immersed themselves into that alluring nightmare depicted in the poem? The inventor of the detective story, an absolute original voice that really adopted its own audience over the past hundred and more years, Poe is probably very misunderstood in the context of his times but because of the fractional nature of publishing has found a place in world literature.

**Project updates**

Been working on a stage play for the agent, who is heavily involved in theater in NY. Also, started laying the groundwork for a new novel. Details forthcoming. Tweaked Dryline Rhapsody and North of Here recently; the best writing is rewriting, or so they say. I say the best writing is necessarily rewritten.

Peace.

T.A.M.
dryline.rhapsody@gmail.com

We're All Ahabs

2007-09-29T08:52:00.000-07:00

I guess it's all about adaptability. In this changing landscape, where so many have made so much and time moves so damn fast and many unlearned low-brow types fancy themselves artists, actors, writers, and poets, and the media has become this retarded hyper-outlet of extremes (I'm talking morning news and pundit-stroking), is it any wonder we're all Ahabs eventually?

I don't know whether Ahab was actually seeking salvation. He may've been; one would hope he was. But his was a brutal world but seemingly more ordinary and ordered than the current iteration. Ahab existed before the Age of Aquarius and therefore was forcing his enlightenment. On the other hand, his was a spiritual journey bent on revenge and as we all know the Bible is rife with those tales. But his saturnalia with the white whale is truly one of the great teachings of Western literature. The rich texture of the narrative really explores Ishmael's woes than Ahabs, and in many ways we've all become Ishmael's as well.

Of course, you know the story of Moby-Dick. I think it's fascinating that it apparently drifted into literary obscurity, only to be resurrected and republished some 80 years later, in the 1920s. That seems to me an odd age to be seeking salvation; it's been read in every other language ever since. And indeed, I agree that it is simply the greatest novel written in the English language. I can't think of another novel that comes close--but who the hell am I to say? People read what they want to read and since we're more or less a sub-literate society on the go...

We're all Ahabs--for a while in any case. While most of us will probably never be that driven into a revenge-frenzy, we can at least subscribe to the spiritual blend and riveting madness that possessed the peg-legged captain. I wouldn't want his job--I don't think anyone would. But I think we're made wiser by observing Ahab's demise. Indeed, we're made more whole by the time we reach the shore at the end of that mighty book. From the shore, the drama looks a lot smaller.

**Project updates**

Spent some time going through an earlier manuscript, North of Here, to tweak a few items. The best writing, after all, is rewriting. Meanwhile, heard from the agent this past week; a few publishing houses are to get copies of both that manuscript and Dryline Rhapsody.

Peace.

T.A.M.
dryline.rhapsody@gmail.com

The State of Mind, Or Who Spiked The Zen?

2007-09-15T07:59:00.000-07:00

This morning isn't any different in California; sunny and cool; soft, autumn light filtering through the trees; birdsong and moments of commerce; a neighbor and her daughter walking to the car. And I am free to listen to it without consequence.

I don't really feel any different than I did yesterday so much as I feel as though I've moved forward. You see, for too long I've felt as though I'd been spinning my wheels, both personally and professionally. And as the saying goes, one door closes, another one opens. I talked with my agent (which has been a luxury of late) and all systems are go. Yes, and I was granted an opportunity to move from a rather stagnate and non-motivating work situation, which is always a welcome relief for those of us who've been baked like so many tired brownies.

Truly, between the ups and downs of a life there are days in which one has to succumb to living, or the business of life. And we can only hope that when you're absolutely t-boned at what appeared to be a clear intersection, that whatever Zen* you have--whatever understanding of the target, whatever balance and will you possess--is at least for that moment spiked with enough vigor to enable you to walk out that door with your shoulders high, and not look back. For truly these Hollow Men (with apologies to T.S. Eliot) are doing nothing more than leaning together, at once stuffed and hollow.

But I digress, as always. It is, after all, The Day After.

So, who spiked the Zen? Whatever the case may be, I'll take it. Someone who's got a line on spiking Zen is certainly more interesting than the nabobs who pollute your waters then offer you a drink. That, my friends, is the strange corporate zombie you've seen sadly driving to work on the 5 Freeway; that, my friends, is one sad jailer who doesn't know the way of of his own labyrinth.

**Project update**

Now than I have some time on my hands, I'll be hammering through the rest of Weekenders. I've given some thought to West Coast Hearts but admit that the plays have been on the front burner.

Peace.

T.A.M.
dryline.rhapsody@gmail.com

*BTW--I loathe the phrase Zen Cowboys. It doesn't really make any sense but I'm sure some of these or goonbahs in entertainment think it's cool. I can't remember where I first heard the phrase--I'm sure it's been around a while--but I'm convinced D.T. Suzuki and Alan Watts wouldn't've approved.

Mr. Lawrence In September

2007-09-08T09:19:00.000-07:00

I sometimes wonder what D. H. Lawrence would've thought of this past summer, about these starlets going to jail, going to rehab, going crazy. Maybe he wouldn't have cared at all. Readers by and large have stopped really reading him and so whatever comment he could have had probably would've fallen on deaf ears anyway.

Admittedly, it's been years since I read David Herbert Lawrence from cover to cover. I still have, either on bookshelves or in boxes, all my Lawrence books from college; I actually attended two seminars on the author that covered his entire life and I agree the eminent literary critic Harold Bloom who suggested that his later books were flawed and not as important as, say, Women in Love and Sons and Lovers. Mr. Bloom also suggests rather hopefully that the tide will turn and Lawrence will be appreciated and read again. We can only hope.

September reminds me of Lawrence. The cooling-down effect of the month brings back the now hazy memories of my youth when the bustle of the college walks was alive with ideas and words and lines and poems and passages. As a young literature major, I would find myself sometimes gathering with others in smoky Keene, New Hampshire coffee shops to read aloud passages from whatever books we were assigned for whatever classes we were taking.

And so it was in the cooling months of the northeastern year that I discovered Lawrence beyond his more famous short stories, "A Prussian Officer", "Rocking-Horse Winner", and "England, My England". My memory now reminds me of his first novel, The White Peacock, which was the only novel Lawrence would write in first-person singular. It wasn't quite "Lawrence", as it seemed to me that he was struggling with the still smoldering fires of the Victorian Era. And, of course, Lawrence would a short time later completely challenge readers with The Rainbow and Sons and Lovers, and in many ways English-language literature would never be the same.

My paper that semester, in fact, dealt with images of art and narrative in White Peacock. Throughout the novel, Lawrence references all kinds of artists of the time and their paintings. Frankly, I don't remember what the argument of my paper was but I got a good grade, and became more and more interested in Lawrence as a novelist, a pagan, and a prophet.

Well, he would be at least one of those things by the time he died in 1930 at the age of 45. In the 1920s he and German wife Frieda von Richthofen set off on what was described as their "savage pilgrimage." It took them all over the world, as Lawrence appeared to be searching for the right climate for his ailing lungs (he was tubercular), the right circumstance, and Rananim, his Utopia. He settled for a couple of years in Taos, New Mexico, on a ranch deeded to Frieda by a relative. From here, they traveled to southern Mexico, settling for a while in Mexico City and Oaxaca, both of which would serve as backdrops to what I think is one of his more interesting and certainly most ambitious of his later novels, The Plumed Serpent.

Contemporary writers do owe a lot to D.H. Lawrence. He didn't teach us how to love; he didn't even teach us obscenity (Henry Miller owned that distinction, but of all his books truly Quiet Days in Clichy is among the more transposing in that regard). What Lawrence did help us understand was that by challenging convention, we free ourselves. Yes, and while his output was extraordinary, he was a flawed writer like a flawed human. I think he owes a lot to Whitman, as do we all, but I think his middle books were at least as immediate as books can be. If you haven't discovered him, you should.

**Project update**

Rattled off small edits to Dryline Rhapsody and have been working fiercely on Weekenders, a full-length stage play. Reading a biography of James Joyce for another project, which you'll hear about here eventually.

Thanks for dropping by.

Peace.

T.A.M.
dryline.rhapsody@gmail.com

Lest You Find Your Way, Heaven Forbid...

2007-08-22T17:11:00.000-07:00

So you can imagine my surprise--me, an aspiring novelist, storyteller, etc--when I read yesterday that one in four Americans don't really read books anymore. I'm not so convinced it's media, television, 26-hour days, or even movies. Could it be the books to blame?

Yes, we're all busy these days, it seems; I haven't even had time to blog this month. I can barely get up in the morning because, really, I just fell asleep. We used to be an anxiety-ridden society jacked up on cocaine, whiskey, and pills. Now we're sometimes that but we're living so immediately outside ourselves it's no wonder nobody reads anymore. "I didn't really care for the movie, but the Podcast was sensational!" You may hear that one day, if you haven't already.

Indeed, and apparently the classics (I assume they mean Greek, etc) are the first to go. That makes sense; the melting pot that is America is dramatically changing, and that which seemed important a hundred years ago (Homer, Plato, Orestes) is being replaced by more interesting and relevant heroes (Malcolm X, Kerouac, Spider-Man).

I guess the question is, Why do I care, and if I do, What am I willing to do about it?

It's romantic to imagine the life of a writer: all hunched over, touched by guilt, touched by madness, ego-driven, the silent observer, the commentator. But the reality is who the hell's got time to write a book, let alone read one?! Myself, I'm reading three or four things at once (James Joyce's biography; Kerouac's On The Road in its original scroll form; and John Patrick Shanley's Doubt) just to keep up or make good on promises to myself. I'm also working on two stage plays, to make good on promises to the agent, that cad (kidding; he's not a cad but he does need to return my call about something).

At first I thought, Holy crap! No one reads anymore, so what the hell am I doing trying to publish novels?!

Then I thought about all those dreadful pink and baby blue paperbacks at Barnes & Noble and Borders, that chicklit crap. I thought about the movies wherein two competing chefs fall in love (ouch). Then I thought about Whitman and DeLillo and Faulkner and Capote and Lawrence and Yates and Ford and Marquez and Cain and Mamet and Williams and Miller and Poe and Bloom. Yes, surely these people--be they ghosts or otherwise--won't let me down that easily; yes, these past several years meant something. Surely, they know that.

It takes ego to be a writer. It take self-sacrifice. We're not always the best-looking people in the room but we pretend to be. Indeed, some of us have gathered tragedy enough into our faces to be pictured on dust jackets as though the town were burning. We don't always care about your problems but if you listen we'll tell you a story. And if we've worked hard enough, you may even believe it, and for a while you'll enjoy the by-product of the craft of writing, the novel.

So, get away from the damn television, stop reading this (until the next post), and get to a bookstore or go to Amazon or Alibris or Powell Books, and buy a novel or a biography. Slow down. Immerse yourself. Read the pages. Participate in the humanities; we're not living in a catalog but it's sometimes easy to think we are.

**Project update**

Changing the world. See above.

Peace.

T.A.M.
dryline.rhapsody@gmail.com

Dish This

2007-08-07T07:06:00.000-07:00

Two years ago I started this blog as a way to talk about a novel I was writing called Dryline Rhapsody. I'm thankful that I did start this thing because frankly I don't remember the day-to-day of it. Well, the book's finished; I landed an agent and have been sending weekly emails with other promises like the two plays I'm working on, not to mention the scripts; he sometimes writes back; such is the life of a writer?

But I wouldn't change anything if I had to. This is a successful blog which has garnered hits from all over the world. And I'm only too thankful that people have carved out a few minutes to stop by and take a look at the thing.

Blogs are interesting. They fill the Web with words and symbols, and keep it and your life very immediate. Books, on the other hand, fill the web with nothing but transactions, are as immediate as the Middle Ages, and are loaded not with symbols but symbolism. Blogs about books are...what? I'm not really sure.

This writer's journey could not have foreseen the Internet for this purpose. Less than ten years ago when the world-wide-web was this mythic, sci-fi communications device, actually communicating with other human beings was limited to electronic mail. But now look where we are. Social networking, behavioral targeting, Google--I mean it's all so relevant. And yet here I am--a journalist, a writer--observing, commenting; I'm participating in changing language as we know it; it's all code, baby.

I used to read a lot of science-fiction. Now I sometimes live it. This is all one big space opera in which we all have a part. It's a continuance of messaging, immediacy, and acceleration. And I'm fairly certain that the fragments of long-gone Saturdays 'neath a suburban blue sky are the matinees of the past.

**Project update**

See above.

Peace.

T.A.M.
dryline.rhapsody@gmail.com

"Take Me Drunk, I'm Home Again..."

2007-07-25T09:10:00.000-07:00

Oh, man, the Left Coast blonde starlets just continue to astound! No sooner had one sobbing boozehound sobered up in the clink, the cops had to go and pull over that "innocent" Long Island bombshell who said the drugs weren't hers. Too much. And then we're hearing that NASA astronauts stopped off at the bar car before being sent into orbit. Huh?!

Back in the day when there was less media coverage you could probably get away with tearing off into the night on a mad chase through Beverly Hills after your one-time assistant--this after pounding a half dozen mai tais. Hell, you probably could have a martini before riding into a low orbit to fix something as important as, oh, a communications satellite! But not with 24-hour media coverage, you can't. Don't these people watch CNN?

I mean seriously: where's the dignity? Now someone's saying Lindsey could get 6 months in the slammer, which, of course, ain't gonna happen. But what could happen is Hollywood's gonna shut the door, and I can't imagine what skill set's going to bail out an actress in her 20s.

You hear stories about this type of thing all the time; it was hearsay who slammed what car into whose fence, who staggered out of what bar into what fist fight, etc. There was more privacy once. Kenneth Anger's masterful (if sometimes unreadable) Hollywood Babylon is replete with the same tragedies we've been seeing all summer out here.

And let's face it: this is exactly the kind of crap that makes blogs buzz and millionaires out of fools who sit in Starbucks all day blogging about it. Myself, I have a professional career (thank God) that doesn't allow for me to play Kolchak but this doesn't mean I'm not without commenting. Like anyone else I marvel at public relations people in Hollywood. I've said it before: that's a job I'd never want.

Maybe they should just move Hollywood somewhere else. It's gotta be the weather out here that makes people think that there's no tomorrow. Indeed, SoCal life is so invariable and seemingly without consequence that sometimes even stars feel compelled to wreck a few SUVs for the sake of celebrity. After all, with all this media, you may as well.

**Project update**

Sent off final manuscripts of North of Here and Dryline Rhapsody to NY. Now I can relax (sorta).

Peace.

T.A.M.
dryline.rhapsody@gmail.com

That's A Lotta Money

2007-07-12T09:21:00.000-07:00

It's no surprise that this story is buried on some news websites. I had to mine Google to find it. But apparently it's confirmed that $300 million was robbed from a private bank in Baghdad.

That's a lotta money, but only a fraction of what the US is apparently spending over there.

I try not to blog too often about this sort of thing but when I saw that number I thought of my own expenses here on the Left Coast. I thought that that kind of scratch can certainly buy anyone's way out of that country. Then I thought of all the things that were supposed to come from that kind of cash: health care, running water, electricity, an infrastructure!

Then I wondered if this was part of the benchmarks set by the so-called leaders. Probably not; I'm being facetious. But then that kind of money does buy a lot of martyrs, and that's the last thing this or any administration needs right now.

Of course, these guys are long gone. The cops may retrieve them from a ditch somewhere in the desert; they may even get the dough back. But one really has to wonder why isn't this all over the news websites, and then wonder what the hell was it doing there in the first place.

The writer in me started thinking in terms of a stage play about the temptations of living in a crappy bank watching over what can only be thought of as immense. Those guards certainly have huevos to make it out of there; I mean, how much does $300 million weigh? When did they decide to do this? Who's really behind it?

And a bright side? I can't think of one. It's gone beyond a Greek tragedy at this point; it's gone beyond politics. I guess in terms of biblical messes, this is right up there with Flood. Yes, this whole thing is one big Trojan Horse and I can't decide who's been giving it to whom.

I guess now's a good a time as any to cue Underdog. Maybe he can straighten shit out over there.

**Project update**

Sent of a bunch of stuff to the agent in NY and am waiting on contracts. Meanwhile, been working on two other projects which I'll mention as time goes by.

Peace.

T.A.M.
dryline.rhapsody@gmail.com

Old Spice

2007-06-29T09:01:00.000-07:00

So, I'm sure many of you are thrilled about the Spice Girls reunion--I know I am. Even though it was a short decade ago that they exploded onto the world market like an out-of-control rickshaw, some of us might not remember exactly what the Spice Girl were and came to represent. So let's have a short review.

Back in the early mid-90s, a couple of British talent producers heeded the call to form a wholesome (if slightly risque) all-girl dance troupe that could splash their way across MTV, give adolescent boys night sweats, and be anything but wholesome. They also needed to make money. So they put an ad in the paper that called for spunky women all over the UK to step up, be British, and at least know how to sing.

After (presumably) thousands of auditions, five women were chosen to rock the Casbah. They were perky, trendy, naughty but more than anything they were spicy. The was Scary Spice, Posh Spice, Spice-that-climbs-on-rocks; they had all your fantasies covered.

And then they took over the world. The Spice Girls were everywhere--at awards shows, on the then still-watched MTV, on the radio, and later on the silver screen.

But, as always, the devil was in the details. We're told that internal tensions forced a split then a total meltdown. The Spice Girls were dissolved. They went their separate ways, married soccer stars, had kids, returned to the suburbs.

Enter the era mass-market reunions and 24-hour media. It was only a matter of time before someone approached Victoria, Melanie C, Geri, Emma, Melanie B about dusting off the Lycra catsuits and go-go boots. Girl power is back only now they're women and mothers!

Long live The Spice Girls! cries someone somewhere (probably in New Jersey).

The Girls--I'm sorry, Women--say it's not for the money; it's for the music. Huh? Okay, we'll buy that. I mean, it's not like they need it, right? They were pulling down millions by the time they bailed in 2001.

So, it's the era of popstar reunions. The world's changed since the last time we met (think of the Police, whose guitar player is almost 70 and whose reunion tour is nothing short of mythic) but it's your continuity that makes it all worth while. I wish them luck. Do it for England; do it for the world!

**Project update**

Met with my agent in NY a few weeks back. Wait--did I mention the agent yet? Hmm. Okay. That's for another post, since the contract is pending. Meanwhile, been shaping up a screenplay (creepy thriller) and a stage play (about middle class wine drinking fools). Dryline Rhapsody's final draft is headed to NY in a couple of weeks, as is the manuscript for North of Here. And, of course, there's the ongoing novel project, West Coast Hearts, which is...ongoing.

Peace.

T.A.M.
dryline.rhapsody@gmail.com

Never Sleep Again

2007-06-18T07:33:00.002-07:00

It's one thing to write about someplace like New York City from the comforts of the OC, it's something different altogether to be sitting in one of the (perhaps) tens of thousands of Starbucks that have invaded the city like so many foreigners on any given Monday.

I suppose from a population point of view it was vital to keep things moving; keep these sidewalk zombies in that mad shuffle. And interestingly, when you get to the Upper East Side and find yourself ambling along, say, Park or 5th, there's narry a Starbucks for blocks and blocks. Well, those green letters can't be everywhere.

Times Square, on the other hand: you chuck a rock and pass then hit at least three. It's the city that never sleeps, after all. Keep the sidewalks moving.

And naturally, being the nerd that I can be (not always) I've made it a point (and always will) to locate myself in relation to the Empire State Building because where else do you put an 10,000 pound gorilla?!

Seriously, the City looks wonderful again. I've wandered and walked and destroyed my legs more than once. I've paid my respects to the Strand, passed through the Park, saw a few old ghosts down in Village, and now sit in Chelsea with a grande drip watching those who never sleep pass in colorful retinues to wherever the hell it is they're going. It's a great city, and it's great to be back here in the early summer.

In Dryline Rhapsody Dean meets up with Andy at some downtown arthouse roof party. The city is draped behind them like a far-off diamond curtain. Dean gets lit up on gin rickies and passes out, screaming, "Take me to Times Square, damnit!" When he wakes, he's in a cab with Andy at the corner of Broadway and 41st. Dean has a few ghostly hallucinations, then heads back to the West Coast more broken perhaps than when he left. That's New York: It's waits for your resolutions; it doesn't provide them for you.

**Project update**

In the City, meeting some folks, dodging the Starbucks, and not sleeping much. It's a nice break from the Left Coast.

Peace.

T.A.M.
dryline.rhapsody@gmail.com

"Why, Oh, Why Do I Love Paris...?"

2007-06-08T15:26:00.000-07:00

All of this, of course, is some kind of journey, my dear. It's all a journey. I guess the upside to this dark summer is that some celebutantes aren't really going to have a summer. But what is summer in California? It's everyday, man: sunshine, SUVs, alcohol, sports cars, more alcohol, cops in the rearview, passed out in the passenger seat, more alcohol...

But I digress. I promised myself that I would overly-refrain from commenting on drunk idiots who buy their way out of jail--even if they wept and cried Injustice! Get Sheriff Lee Baca back on the phone! I demand a recount, damnit!

It's friggin' sad, man. It's sad because here's a gal who's about as interesting as a soap dish, who does nothing, who apparently contributes very little, and is lost, and still she's making headlines all over the world--headlines that none of us really want to make, mind you. Yes, and here's another blonde trainwreck coming round the bend.

I mean, really. How hard can it be to stay sober? I stayed sober once. It was after waking up with the world's most spectacular hangover in which I could neither breathe, keep down liquids, let alone walk and have a conversation. Is it really because you can that you do?

My father was an alcoholic. And I knew hardcore drinkers in college and beyond. I've known drunk fuckups who fell from roofs, off the back of motorcycles, and from trees. They all seemed to get up--maybe not so much back on the horse but the got up.

But maybe getting isn't an option here. Maybe the fact that she has to face herself and herself alone for the next 40 some-odd days is the most terrifying thing of all. Damn, I know most of us wouldn't want that. Not sure what I 'd ask myself at this point.

The shit-end of the stick is now she'll get a book deal. Now they'll carve up another tree for paper so we can hear her "wisdom."

Ouch.

So, Paris, my little nightmare, see ya on the other side. I'm sure they're already selling Free Paris! t-shirts at Venice Beach, so you won't be forgotten. And gather your tears for water and drink deep. It's just time, after all.

**Project update**

Manuscripts for Dryline Rhapsody and North of Here are flying out the door and off the hard-drives. Been working on screenplay revisions as well as a new stage play.

Thanks for dropping by.

T.A.M
dryline.rhapsody@gmail.com

Memorial Dais

2007-05-29T06:36:00.000-07:00

One day after Memorial Day, and anti-war activist Cindy Sheehan has given up the battle to end the war in Iraq. She's laid down her signs and walked away. But I don't think the other side has gained anything. The media stopped listening, that's for sure. Sheehan did what every human being should have the right to do--even if either side of the aisle steers clear of you.

Sheehan, of course, began her protest after the death of her son, Casey, in Baghdad, April 2004. She was more or less ignored by the current Administration, and I'm not even sure that Democrats lauded her; they may have; I'm fairly confident you wouldn't've seen it on Fox News.

But when you join the military and they tell you to go, you pretty much have to follow orders. Even though now most of us can see that this was a disaster built up with smoke and mirrors, it was nevertheless a soldiers duty. When I was eligible, back in the late 80s, early 90s, there was The Gulf War. There were a million troops in the desert. That must've scared the sh*t out of the region. We were there finally, and we had the weight of the every branch of the military behind us.

But then it was over withing a 100 hours, if I'm not mistaken. But this is redundant, actually. And I'm only too thankful that I can retreat into my writing every once in a while. War is a nasty thing and so is protesting wars. Sheehan says the Democrats bailed on it too, but I don't think they could've stopped it. Just the same, thanks, Cindy, for your brevity and courage. I guess you can say you've join the ranks of the great American Patriots.

**Project update**

Revising pieces of Dryline Rhapsody as well as revisiting a stage play I'd started a few years back. Saw Pirates of the Caribbean 3 (I figured now's a good time to get with the masses) and I gotta say it weren't all that. Summer's officially here. It looks a lot like last year's.

Peace.

T.A.M.
dryline.rhapsody@gmail.com

"...And The Nominees Are..."

2007-05-16T06:39:00.000-07:00

Alright, I guess I just don't get it, so bear with me if you do, but Lindsey Lohan is what Maxim calls the hottest thing in the world?

It's true that to boost revenue publishers will do anything. And it's true that lists like this--no doubt conjured during random midweek editorial meetings that are as disposable as some Hollywood careers--truly move magazines off shelves and drive traffic to websites. And it's true that most men (including myself) are fascinated by cheapness of stuff like this. But honestly, folks, what the hell is the point and who the hell cares?

The blurb is written on the run and claims that Lohan is "unbelievably beautiful" and an "untamable Golden Age throwback with a nonstop social calendar..." (which, of course, includes trips to the ladies room to powder her nose). Now, there's no doubt that Lohan is pretty, that she has a raspy, Thursday night, Long Island partygirl inflection that drives some sad fools to euphoric highs. But can Lindsey handle the stresses of being that hot?!

Now, a milf list--that would not only be funny and pathetic, it would also redefine website journalism ethics and commerce as we know it! Goddamnit, it would be content worth reading! You want to be edgy and drive revenue, Maxim? Come up with that list and listen to the coffers sing, all the while driving the suburbs mad!

Ms. Lohan is a talent, I'm sure. She carried the weight in that wonderful Freaky Friday remake, reminding anyone who saw it (I didn't) that's it's the storyline that just won't go away (original bowed in 1976, with remakes in 1995 and Lohan's in 2003). And she blew the doors off the competition in Herbie: Fully Loaded (I'm seeing a pattern here...), which is an ominous title for a movie, if you believe what you read about Lohan these days.

I suppose it should be noted that on her honorary page there's a link to "Baseball's Best Mustaches" and "See The Video of Movies Best Plane Crashes." (See how much fun list making can be?) And this is clearly not an editorial faux-pas but it does make you wonder if Maxim's editorial staff ever got out of the 10th grade. Indeed, I wonder what Lohan's publicist thinks about that?

**Project Update**

I've been working on a condign milf list for Maxim...

Peace.

T.A.M.
dryline.rhapsody@gmail.com

Another From the Rhapsode's Sad Cache

2007-05-11T10:03:00.000-07:00

Because we're sentimental, remembrances are often bittersweet. I liken the woodsy silences I know now only sentimentally to some sort of deep-seeded desire to feel the diffused sunlight of someone's pasture, and not the hard, bright light I've come to know of California windswept desertscapes. Where I live now has an answer to this.

In Orange County where the mythologies are so new that you can meet your Hesiod face-to-face, there's a wide strawberry field surrounded by new streets, housing developments, and a freeway beside. Over the past year I've watched them harvest and re-harvest these fields at least twice for each major patch. And now that it's May, this crop--this amazingly fragrant crop--has blossomed beautifully, and the air is filled with the lovely, sweet smell of strawberries.

Whereas Napa and (I presume) Sonoma winds are awash in the decidedly adultlike and lovely fragrance of wine (duh), and whereas Portland's breeze is probably more along the lines of microbrew and patchouli, Orange County--or at least that 30-year-old-city of Irvine--carries a fragrance of strawberries. And why the hell not? It could be worse; it could be dried coyote shit. No, that would be the sad wind you'd run into up San Dimas.

I imagine that this lusty run of land--between Culver and Sand Canyon--must've been a veritable cornucopia back in the day; I imagine it was more than strawberries that kept folks working year round. Now it's the quick-buck types who're snatching up the parcels, and building one ugly office complex after another.

And why the hell not? SoCal needs to survive, ergo construction. All the farms are shipped out to other lands these days. And still they want to build a bigger fence on the southern border.

Last year around this time I waxed poetic (sorta) on this blog about the immigrant marches in downtown L.A. This year I'm talking about strawberries. They're one and the same. As the farms go, so goes the help. We're stretched thin as a people of the world. One by one the great pastures of America are replaced by concrete buildings and parking lots.

But, come on. Everything's eventual, even money. I'm not naive enough anymore to think that all of this is permanent--the fields, the poets in said fields, and the ridiculously non-marketable scent of strawberries. Truly, the only thing that is lasting and that which will last infinitely is the Internet because it is now more than anything the stuff of the stars. "Get here," Jim Morrison once sort of sang, "and we'll do the rest."

**Project update**

I'm probably the only human being on this continent who hasn't seen Spider-Man 3 so, like the lemming that I am (at times), I'll get my geek on and go see it. Meanwhile, both Dryline Rhapsody and North of Here are cranking through the motions on other desks. And, of course, there are the scripts...

Peace.

T.A.M.
dryline.rhapsody@gmail.com

Take On Me (Whatever That Means)

2007-05-03T07:04:00.000-07:00

We've all heard the popular legend of how when M. Night Shyamalan was drafting The Sixth Sense that he had put it down because at one point he wasn't sure how it ended. Then he realized that his protagonist Dr. Malcolm Crowe (Bruce Willis) is a ghost and reveals this at the last moment, and it's brilliant.

This recalls Kierkegaard's absent-minded man who's so caught up in his world that he doesn't know he exists until he discovers one day that he's dead. While neither had happened to me (yet), I did in fact have an a-ha moment (not the band) the other day.

Years ago I wrote a novel manuscript called North of Here. It was simple story, really. It was my variation on everything David Lynch had taught me. But it had a sugarcoated ending, which I generally can't stand because so much of life tastes like olives.

So there I was thumbing through agency letters when it suddenly occurred to me that the protagonist had to go. He had to be taken out in a dramatic, northern New Hampshire way. The book is violent enough as it is but it needed a reminder walking away that magical realism of those places of which I wrote--in this case the clapboard-sided colonialness of postcard places of northern New England--can only be known from distances.

So, the book's two main characters, Lucy Albatross and Denver McBride, would in fact make the climactic flight with the money but also with the handgun.

The handgun. A-ha! It was always in the duffel bag, thought I. It was pondered upon at least once, so it has to be the conclusion of the story. But how do we get them to the site of the final scene of the final act?

Well, all that was already written. Whereas before they hit the road in a sort of post-indie film way--the cold wind blowing through the open window, rootsy guitar music streaming in from somewhere else, a few glances and knowing smiles, fade out, the end--all folded into a richly sad narrative, now they had to have a post post-indie film ending. They enter the broad wintertime sunset field... The silence associated with snow-covered places... Crack! goes the steely cold handgun... And we're left to assume at least one of them is dead.

And it worked. I cobbled together a rough of how I wanted this new ending to go. A few tweaks later it was shoehorned it into the last chapter then went back to add foreshadow.

And that, my friends, is how its done I guess. Sometimes ya gotta remember that the 80s happened, that a-ha were as pretty as they were terrible (yeah, you know the band--your girlfriend had the poster of those Scandinavian pansies on her damn wall), and always trust Jim Thompson and James M. Cain to show you the way.

**Project update**

See above. And keep those cards and letters rolling in.

Peace.

T.A.M.
dryline.rhapsody@gmail.com

Color My Bollywood Gere

2007-04-26T15:37:00.000-07:00

Because they're such easy targets, I've come to realize that I spend a lot of time talking about actors on this thing. Maybe it's because they make such asses out of themselves that it's easy content for bloggers. Or maybe it's just it's easy to see how human they are. So, why change horses in midstream when I can comment on Richard Gere?!

Richard Gere. The name is immortal. Here's a guy who defined the sort of soft-spoken, new wave urban sophistication that audiences couldn't get enough of in the 80s. His hair worked. His sadness worked. For whatever reason he had an audience. And because he made oodles of cash, he was able to have an audience with the Dalai Lama--which, in and of itself, is a disaster for an actor.

Because, think about it. He started the whole spiritual actor thing (he and maybe Tina Turner, who was/is a follower of Buddhism), which only puts them further into the stratosphere. And I said to myself as I started this thing that I wouldn't mention rodents--oops!

Then, of course, there were all these actors at the Oscars a few years back who one by one got up to announce some award, and many of them started with their political cause, environmental cause, Save the Dolphins, etc. Gere implored the audience to send positive thoughts to the Dalai Lama. The audience fell silent; viewers at home wondered aloud, perhaps, Weren't he in Pretty Woman?

But, I mean, enough already!! Now they're going to issue an arrest in New Delhi for the way he manhandled Bollywood superstar, Shilpa Shetty. Did you see the video? He tore into her like a lumberjack into a steak! This is a real Bollywood mess. Hindus are going nuts; they're burning effigies of...?

God bless 'im. A ballsy move, man. And I can see the Indian point of view--it's not part of their custom, that sort of PDA. Whatever happened to an officer and a gentlemen? Whatever became of Neve Campbell?

And I've said it before: I wouldn't wish being a Hollywood actor's publicist on my worse enemy! I mean if it's not DUI, it's assault with a can of beans or that ridiculous Donald Trump/Rosie O'Donnell mess, or Phil Spector's hair!

I don't know. Maybe I'm missing the point about the human condition; I thought it was something more. Maybe through celebrity we get to cling just a little longer to irresponsibility. Maybe through celebrity it can happen for us fast enough that we don't notice, let alone remember. Maybe celebrity is for blogs.

**Project update**

So I've been making waves and tweaks to North of Here, a manuscript I wrote and rewrote over the few years. I've been sending that one out to agencies (per their request). Meanwhile, I sent an updated draft of Dryline Rhapsody to the NY agent. Stay tuned.

Peace.

T.A.M.
dryline.rhapsody@gmail.com

Relate

2007-04-19T09:26:00.000-07:00

I've spent a lot of time over the past couple of years thinking about, writing about, and living through the writing of Dryline Rhapsody. It is at once a journal and a novel and to date I haven't really made any major edits to the project. I don't think I wrote it to make money so much as I wrote it to make sense. And like a dream, there've been moments of clarity, symbolism, but nothing really fantastical.

But the other day I wondered What was the first nightmare ever dreamed? What happened in it? Who had it? It could be anything really: a flood, a giant spider, a landslide, being chased by Tyrannosaurus Rex. Somewhere deep within the collective consciousness maybe there's an imprint of that first nightmare--a frame of what happened.

This, of course, means nothing against this writing project. In fact, we don't even enter a dream throughout the entire story (thank God). We do, however, get into the ramblings of Dean Oakland, the story's narrator. His imaginings bring us to confront not so much his nightmares but his conscious demons. Dean's forever tempted into the battle but he allows for whatever wisdom these demons--in this case nonfictional literary heroes--to transcend the moment, and therefore lend guidance.

Dreams of others are hard to relate to. They're explained through sequences and it's easy to picture yourself in it, not observing. But all dreams are observed. It wouldn't make a lot of sense to have a dream related on paper; it could work if some sad idiot were trying to explain it to someone else in a set piece. But I would avoid it, frankly. Too messy, too open to interpretation, and you lose credence. Indeed, while I can see where Dean would want to dream something for a change, a winsome dreamlike sequence takes away from the story.

And personally, if I could dream again, I'd make it to the top of the mountain, to the rooftop of the world because absolution doesn't seem to be enough.

**Project update**

For all I know, whatever it is you have to say about a dream was covered masterfully by Roy Orbison in his song "In Dreams." Nothing more can or has to be said. In terms of Dryline Rhapsody, it's merely the fulfillment not so much of a dream but rather a nightmare.

Peace,

T.A.M.
dryline.rhapsody@gmail.com

Thanks, Horace, For Making Your Latin My Vernacular

2007-04-10T16:09:00.000-07:00

If you were coming of age or collegiate in the mid-late 80s, then surely you'll understand the following. If you weren’t coming of age then, perhaps you’ll be thankful you weren't.

I always amazed at the gaps of time between movies I saw when I was younger and how I relate to them now. For example, Dead Poets Society was on HBO the other day and I happened to tune if for no other reason than to marvel at how sepia-toned the 80s made the past seem.

"Seize the Day!" cries poetry professor John Keating (Robin Williams) to sweep of strings and cymbal crash. And that one line seemed to completely torch all that nastiness that followed the bloating 1980s; we were now a softer more inward-seeking society, post-Live Aid, post-Iran Contra, post a lot of things. When you lost everything you can Carpe Diem the hell out of what remains of your life, I guess.

I was in college in 1989 when Dead Poets Society debuted. In fact I was a budding poet of the times—living in the drowsy light of New Hampshire days without a care in the world, and all the time in the world to contemplate and comment on Thoreau, Whitman, Coleridge, etc—and though I saw the film (I worked at a movie theatre), I don’t think I've given it that much thought in the past 20 years; the sobering 90s erased a lot of those memories for me. Nevertheless, there it was on the tube, and there I was reminiscing along with it.

I remember reading somewhere that there were people so influence by this movie that they actually quit their jobs as accountants and lawyers to go off the woods to become poets. In essence, what they did was decide that being human was a better idea. And of course, this was the late 80s. And I’m all for not being an accountant or lawyer.

Dead Poets Society went on to win several awards, including Best Screenplay Oscar. Conscientious director Peter Weir went to direct Truman Show and Master and Commander: The Far Side of the World, et al. A lot of us went on to relive these movies in our own way. Some of us paid the price.

But truly Dead Poets Society is about what's no longer there for many of us. I don't know that any other movie can come along and make people find caves in which to read poems with their pals. I think Play Station and MySpace have done away with that for good.

**Project Update**

I seized the day last week, actually. I made a final pass at Dryline Rhapsody and The Last Camaro then put the sonsofbitches in the mail to that agency in NY. And all the while I memento mori'd myself into a stupor. It was like watching a bonfire in the sunlight. Sort of.

Peace.

T.A.M.
dryline.rhapsody@gmail.com

The Fragrant Mystery of Lilacs

2007-04-06T10:12:00.000-07:00

Speaking of T.S. Eliot, it is in fact April and every nerdy literature major is apt to recall the opening line of The Wasteland, which I shan't insert here because you already know it. Suffice to say that when I was as nerdy I found it both useful and kind of silly to emulate Eliot to whomever was listening; you break that crap out at parties and you get nothing. In any case, it's April. Do I dare say it?

April makes me think of old books and daffodils, greening meadows and wet, shadowy woods. I came from a small town in New Hampshire where once it started to get warm we could more than show you the meaning of "spring fever." I once stood on the back deck naked reciting poetry to the old apple tree; it was a fine blossom that year--a bloom year for the lilacs.

My mother transplanted part of the old lilac bush in Connecticut to the side yard in New Hampshire. And since lilacs bloom every other year, I've only seen maybe 20 blooms in my life. Poets would--and probably do--lament this stuff. In the remote sad places of a young man's life it seems we're replete with bi-annual things like this. I'm sure I did.

I really can't remember when I forgot the gift of seeing and smelling a lilac bouquet; there are similar trees in California that are just as lovely and colorful. Maybe lilacs are for memories alone. Or maybe--and most likely--they're just a fragrant tree for young poets and old people to expound upon or fade past memories against. Either way, I'm glad I've known them the way I have, which is more or less the way I view most things in this world.

**Project update**

Woke up at 4 am and (briefly) worked West Coast Hearts, then set about editing a few things in Dryline Rhapsody, since this latest draft is headed to my agent in NY. Otherwise, Kennedy and I wrapped up The Last Camaro script rewrites this past week. I'm friggin' tired. Need a vacation, damnit.

Peace.

T.A.M.
dryline.rhapsody@gmail.com

Unreal City, and Other Musings About T.S. Eliot

2007-03-21T11:20:00.000-07:00

I sometimes wonder if anyone after graduating college, after enduring a few Woody Allen movies from the 80s and 90s, really thinks about T.S. Eliot anymore. It would be a shame if they didn't. Indeed, it would seem that he would be even more relevant these days but maybe only for nostalgists and college freshmen.

You know Eliot from smoky readings of "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock" and The Wasteland--the very same cafe be-ins that no doubt included awkward passages from The Sound and The Fury, and from the sometimes elegant England, My England. Hopefully you lived to talk about it, or in this case be reminded of it.

Eliot, of course, is said to have owed a lot to Ezra Pound, to whom The Wasteland's author inscribes as il miglior fabbro, or "the better craftsman", which is reportedly lifted from Dante. And while this epic is required reading for poets and English majors alike (or at least it was 20 years ago), I count myself among those who defer to Four Quartets, a later collection of poetry that I believe is superior to the earlier stuff.

But Eliot is a relic. He's not tragic like his contemporary Hart Crane, who is in some ways a better poet for poetry sake and who is widely acknowledged to have committed suicide by jumping from a passenger ship in 1932. No, if anything Eliot's an example of any sort of disillusionment; he was a nonplussed anglofile from a well-to-do Midwest family that (occasionally) vacationed on the north Massachusetts coast; it was a different world--even more so now than when I first read his stuff in high school (that was the 80s).

Re-reading T.S. Eliot is, then, kind of like revisiting an old museum you've been fortunate enough to have visited more than once: the paintings, though familiar, have a sort of deliquescent effect on the memory, and soon you're hurrying through a pack of crappy filterless cigarettes, wildly chasing after some art-house muse who probably wouldn't even put out anyway. Eliot speaks to the literary fool in us all, and I would know.

Yes, and Eliot's importance to modern poetry is without a doubt, though with the advent of later poets such as Ginsberg, Bly, or even Dylan--all of whom owe something to him--I'm afraid the works are sort of unreadable, and kind of dated. Or maybe kids're stupid and don't care.

But this doesn't mean you can't have an identity crisis and re-read those epics. Though they can be tedious at times, and though you may have to refer to Encarta to straighten out just what the hell he's sometimes talking about, Eliot's is nonetheless outstanding poetry--a different kind of poetry that removes the acceptable from the equation, and gives you back something akin to an education in poetry, if not the humanities. "Unreal city" indeed, man.

**Project Update**

While I'm no T.S. Eliot, he was nevertheless my literary hero when I was a budding poet in college. And while I never fully understood what he was talking about, the sheer richness of the language was carried with me. I try to apply such discipline to Dryline Rhapsody, though I admit that North of Here and West Coast Hearts borrows more from the James M. Cain school of writing. And if you haven't read any Cain, you should contact your school to get your money back.

Peace.

T.A.M.
dryline.rhapsody@gmail.com

Jazz For Nighthawks

2007-03-15T18:11:00.000-07:00

I make it a point when I'm writing to listen to movie soundtracks and old jazz records. I've been doing this for years. If nothing else it's sensory and emotional. And it cancels out any other world noises.

Of course, it helps if the soundtrack is symphonic to some degree. I find it hard to write when someone's singing (especially if he sucks at it).

I used to work a lot to the Lord of the Rings soundtracks. They're dramatic and moving and sad and thrilling. Then, of course, there's King Kong (2005), which is wonderful and escapist and at times regretful. And depending upon the weather, I'll sometimes put on The Moderns soundtrack, which is moody as all get-out, but it really helps in setting a tone.

Jazz works well, but I think that is dependent upon the time of day; smoky, moody-ass jazz just ain't for the morning. On the other hand, neither is some Beethoven. No, I find jazz perfect for the nighthawk hours. I listened to a lot of jazz while writing Dryline Rhapsody, in particular Sonny Rollins, Hank Mobley, Coltrane, Stan Getz, and this crazy be-bop CD I found at Borders.

Yeah, but what about the morning? Spanish guitar or some airy George Winston (for when you're feeling particularly northeastern), or Italian porn music, which works well with these lengthening days; it gives writing a sort of continental flair. (I'm actually blocking out the next Dryline Rhapsody project, which is set in Europe. See below.)

There was a great Brian Eno record that came out in the mid seventies called Discreet Music. It was this wonderful, sparse, repeating roll of loveliness and mansionlike heights. You can get it on disc or maybe at iTunes (not sure). But it goes on for about 45 minutes through four movements that are just beautiful. It really vacates the mind for storytelling. Check it out.

So, yes. Listening to movie soundtracks and jazz records is very helpful in remembering how to emote a plotline. Just take a listen to the original 1933 score of King Kong and you'll understand. In fact, take a listen to anything Max Steiner did (Casablanca, Gone With The Wind, etc.). That was musical storytelling at its best, and jazz is the modern soundtrack of the human condition.

**Project Update**

Rewrites and edits to The Last Camaro have been taking up my time lately. I don't mind. There are prospects there. Meanwhile, I'm kinda stoked to get the complete manuscripts of Dryline Rhapsody and North of Here to the agency in NY. Stay tuned.

Peace.

T.A.M.
dryline.rhapsody@gmail.com

Let's Go, Murphys!

2007-03-07T09:38:00.000-08:00

I had a dream recently wherein some small Asian dude was trying to sell me some reefer. It was in a park setting. He tried shoving the stuff--which resembled cat shit--into my shirt pocket. As I was trying to push him away, he whips out handcuffs and goes, "I'm a cop. You're busted."

I knocked him out with a devastating roundhouse to the temple and booked outta there, then woke up. Later, I Googled dream interpretations about marijuana and one description suggested that my consciousness is expanding.

Look at me, Keanu! I'm Timothy Leary!

Now, I've dreamt of flying, reading, driving, swimming, fighting, etc., but I've never been busted by a narc, nor have I ever dreamed of drug use. As I've mentioned in previous posts, drug use is political more than anything else these days but since I don't do drugs like I may have when I was a delinquent, who am I to say.

This past week Kennedy and I went to the Dropkick Murphys show in Anaheim. It was, as expected, loud and raw. The Briggs was one of the opening acts. They're a fantastic L.A. punk band. Go out and buy their record right now. And the Murphys, of course, ruled; this was the gazillionth timed I've seen 'em; if you haven't caught the show, you should. Guitarist Marc Orrell is out of his f*ckin' mind up there! But the place was filled with angry Southland toughs, all of whom were pretending or perhaps were Irish to some degree. There was a lot of stout spilled.

As we were going in we passed a small band of punkrocker juveniles who were hustling cautiously along toking on some weed. Now, of course, Kennedy and I are in our 40s; what the hell are we doing there? Well, we're of Irish ancestry, and I'm at least a New Englander, like the Murphys. But as we passed the high ones, they kind of got all quiet and freaked out; they're smoking pot; we look like cops.

I almost wanted to say something just to freak 'em out. I'm sure if I could dust off some of my drug-encounter memories from the (gasp!) 80s, I could pull out a scenario that involved some older, wiser-looking dude bent of giving me a brush-with-law start. But I didn't. In the end, kids have to be kids; it was Saturday night; you're crashing on your buddy's floor; tomorrow's always a day away.

**Project Update**

Back in the studio, actually, working on my CD. What? I never mentioned that? Yes, I write songs. Folkie, alternative stuff. It's pretty good stuff, too. It's been too long but I still got it. More on that later.

Peace.

T.A.M.
dryline.rhapsody@gmail.com

The Ides of March, And All That Crap

2007-03-05T19:58:00.000-08:00

History gives us the Ides of March, and I'm only too thankful because, I mean, without it where would tragedy be?

Fallen-down aqueducts of the mind. That's what March delivers me. And it was this time last year in March that I did the first read-through of Dryline Rhapsody. I was exceedingly proud; it was the third completed manuscript in my oeuvre. (I'm channeling Andy Santiago because I've redressed myself as Dean Oakland once again to take these characters to Europe for the second Dryline Rhapsody book. You'll be hearing more about this in the coming posts.)

Yes, and I've spent the better part of this past year shopping the damn manuscript around to several dozen literary agencies. And I've voiced whatever concerns or revelations in this blog (thanks for being consistently amazed, btw). And I've gotten good feedback. And it appears I'm close to signing with an agent in NY. So, there's that.

Book writing is difficult no matter what. It's a broad, sometimes ruthless, world, publishing. It's a carrion crawl, really. Agents are inundated with manuscripts all the time--what the hell do they need mine for? They got chicklit slush to get through, so get lost, kid! But I know it's good; they send it back unread. Ah, well. Their loss. I ain't sore about it. I mean, it's a book. This is what happens.

So, in order to allow for some semblance of sanity, I started another to rekindle Dean and Andy's disillusionment. (More Dean's than Andy's. Suffice to say they're in Europe and not all the way in the money but as absurd as two middle-aged wine fools can be; Andy's going to buy a vineyard and Dean's going to be the observer that he is. And you'll be able to say you heard about it here first.)

But getting back to writing. I liken it to the elimination of noise words from the world. We're on the West Coast. It's a loud place at times. It's a place to find roots, not to put roots down. I did just that with Dryline Rhapsody just as I started to with West Coast Hearts, which is a slow project, to be sure.

Books are like villages built from fallen down aqueducts. And if you know what the hell that means, let me know.

**Project Update**

See Above. And thanks for dropping by.

Peace.

T.A.M.
dryline.rhapsody@gmail.com

A Tale of Two Blondes (and One Mickey)

2007-02-20T11:44:00.000-08:00

Ah, Jesus, here we go. Now we're down two blondes in the world and I'm not sure I can make it.

No sooner had I dumped my Britney Spears detritus off at Goodwill, she goes and makes the most ass-kickin-I'm-desperately-battling-some-sort-of-demon-I-don't-know-I-may-have-also-done-it-'cause-I'm-mad-at-my-mother statement of all time! Wait--you mean the Oops, I did it again, Britney? The bored school girl?

It begs the question: Do you really want to work as a PR agent in Hollywood?

I don't know, man. Whereas Anna Nicole looked sophisticated in her swaggering straight-blonde way, Britney just looked sorta--what's the word I'm looking for?--trashy? Post-separation anxiety-esque? Medicated? F*ckin' crazy?! Yeah, toss that one in there too, for good measure.

But I wouldn't expect any witch hunts here. Years ago they went after Mickey Rourke for being, well, Mickey Rourke. The difference is when you're Mickey Rourke and the only dirt they have is you trashed an apartment in West Hollywood (but somehow, miraculously, the bathroom was still in one piece), then literally fought your way back because you are in fact the greatest actor in the world, the public loses interest.

But when Anna Nicole shows up slurring and blotto at some red-carpet event, you can't really look away because you might miss something. In a strange way you're witnessing yet another lesson from Hollywood.

Britney's truth-is-stranger-than-fiction fiasco was classic, and sad. "Empty" is really the word that comes to mind. And the 7 pm pundits cover this stuff like their lamenting the loss of a loved one. I sure as hell hope my crazy train at least goes out with a spectacular explosion.

**Project Update**

I shaved my head on Saturday. Well, it's not really shaved. It's just very short--but the stylist did use clippers. When the paparazzi asked why, I said, "I milk sadness from the firmament," then proceeded to get a tattoo of my attorney on my hip. I don't know; these voices just tell me it's okay to do so. In terms of Dryline Rhapsody, it appears I'm close to getting it signed. There's also interest in North of Here. Stay tuned--and stay sober for crissake or they'll cancel your limo.

Peace.

T.A.M.
dryline.rhapsody@gmail.com

Long In The Tooth

2007-02-12T17:09:00.000-08:00

Whoa. The thing about getting old is that you just get old. But some of us can still rock the house!

We're talking, of course, about The Police who opened the Grammys the other night. God bless 'em for being around, although we've all endured at some point Sting's melodious candor over the past 20 years; yep, not only could this guy make some men feel really, really dumb, but he could also have sex for hours in your girlfriend's imagination and still pull passages from Fear and Loathing.

Bastard. Well, I'm glad his sway over women never bothered me...

But holy crap, some said, they rocked! Of course they did. That's what they get paid to do, man. So maybe getting older is just something that happens in your head. I mean, look at the Stones. Then it was announced that The Police are re-forming for a mondo tour, and it appears that--wait for it--Van Halen are doing the same, AND (not that I care--in fact I really don't) Rage Against the Machine are back and better than ever!

The interesting thing about all this is that it reminds those of us who grew up with this stuff that it really did happen; the 80s were more than haircuts and bad beer commercials, more than Pee Wee Herman and all that nonsense. I think it was even more than Madness, if that's possible...

I was talking with my brother about this the other day (he and I go on for hours about the 80s because like an old cat we miss it when it sleeps in the corner all day). We marveled about the freedoms and we only say this because we're older now. Youth is king. End of story. We're in our 40s, getting nostalgic, increasingly long in the tooth and forgetful at times (maybe not so much him but me sometimes). Yes, and I've been my own version of Hamlet; not sure about my brother; he'd be more like Rosencrantz.

Which is another reason that My Chemical Romance's latest effort is excellent. You've heard it, of course. The record is The Black Parade. It's heroic, bombastic, and invokes midnights. It delivers just enough of those comicbook memories to return me to what I'll forever call my adolescent fevers.

But fevers fade. These days so many of us spend way too much goddamn time at some cubicle desk messaging the hell out of the world. Small wonder we flock to see our long-in-the-tooth heroes rockin' America again. Good to see you guys again. I'm glad it wasn't my imagination. And speaking of good recent records from fattening types from the 80s, check out New Order's Waiting For The Sirens' Call. Very excellent. It puts me right there in my own John Hughes movie.

**Project Update**

So, as oft happens, I began to write a story in my head this morning, a sort of sci-fi thing that is as yet untitled but which involves (duh!) time travel. The central question is If you could go back to observe, what would you look for? I know what I would do. It would be summertime in New Hampshire. Either that or I'd take that left turn at Albuquerque. Dryline Rhapsody, on the other hand, having read it again, remains an amazing document that continues to make the rounds. Stay tuned.

Peace.

T.A.M.
dryline.rhapsody@gmail.com

The Future Arrived Too Soon (And It Looked A Lot Like Google)

2007-02-08T09:28:00.000-08:00

In a recent New Yorker article--a magazine that is clearly going to take a stand on issues such as writer's rights and copyright law--Jeffrey Toobin skillfully delves into the next crisis in publishing: from a digital point of view, who owns what and when do they own it?

They call it the Google Book Search. It's reportedly going to cost several hundred million dollars and take decades to achieve. Indeed, from the annals of lore, it should replace Alexandria as the library to beat, or be the next one to burn to the ground.

But some in the publishing industry are crying foul. They say that because Google is literally copying books into a digital database that they are committing copyright infringement. Most are saying there will be a settlement. (I know we covered this in recent posts; I'm reacting to the article. It is a fascinating subject, if you're at all interested in publishing. If you think I'm just repeating myself, well, get off my cloud, man!)

I tend to agree and disagree on this one. And here's why. I work in search marketing, and have for more than five years. I've worked at the #2 search engine in the world, on the inside in editorial content, man. And I can tell you that search engines are designed to make money. It's that simple. So, like anybody who is also involved in publishing, I'm skeptical. Why the hell else would Google do this? In essence what it winds up doing is creating a brand new Internet of information--something I've been predicting for a while.

On the other hand, it's blatantly clear that the last group of hangers-on to embrace the new digital reality is book publishers. This, of course, is a painful reality for booklovers such as myself; I mean, yes you can in essence have several thousand books stored onto disc, but can you take it to the beach? Can you take it on a plane? Can you laze about a summertime meadow reciting to a loved epic romantic poetry from a disc?!

Seriously, what do you think? Should the world's most successful search engine make available every published book in the history of the world? Is this as benign as the folks at Google say it is? I mean, maybe we're wrong about the advertising giant; they say they didn't get into it to make money; does anyone, really?

On a more sobering note, Anna Nicole Smith died. She was 39. She was...oh...I don't know...a model citizen, I suppose? Yes! She was that, and a whole lot more in recent years. All of Texas mourns, as do parts of Alabama and Massachusetts. God rest your soul, Anna. You're a babe. Aw, damnit! I said I wouldn't cry!

Goodbye, Anna Nicole...Though I never knew you at all...You had the grace to hold yourself...

**Project Update**

I wonder if I should start my own online publishing company? Seriously. I know words, and know some of the best editors this side of Needles, California! I could call it T.A.MorganBooks.com. What do you think? Then you can submit you manuscripts, and I could have them edited and distributed online as an RSS feed. Hmmm...

As always, you can get me at dryline.rhapsody@gmail.com. I'm always there. Otherwise, see ya up the road.

T.A.M.

Naked Wizards (And The Horses That Love Them)

2007-01-31T11:10:00.000-08:00

I'm convinced that actor Daniel Radcliffe's agent's a genius: Harry Potter's gettin' birth-naked on stage on London's West End this winter.

Not that I really care, but someone does, and it's an awesome career move. Think about it: the most famous wizard since Merlin in the buff, in a story about a stable hand who develops erotic love for horses. Wicked. Weird. Strange. Curious. Umm. I'm out of adjectives.

Surely, some mothers will in all likelihood boycott further Harry Potter movies. But let's not forget that some kids grew up in that time, too. Some kids are falling in love with Hermione Granger as I write this. But I mean, really, who the hell cares? They're actors. This is what they live for.

Equus, written by Paul Shaffer, stage-debuted in 1973; it was filmed four years later. Apparently inspired by the story about teenager who mutilated horses, Shaffer set about defining what lead to the crime. The play won both the Tony Award and New York Drama Critics award for best play. Shaffer is also the author of Amadeus, a brilliant play later filmed, starring wonderfully acted by Tom Hulce.

Honestly, I don't think anyone's going to remember the young actor in the buff 12 months from now; with so much media these days, it's a wonder you remember what happened last week. I mean, do you remember what film won Best Picture last year? I sure as hell don't--and I'm sure I saw it in the theater.

So, who cares? Actors act. This is what they do. Let Harry Potter get naked. Better him, I guess, than Ron Weasley. Still, I wonder if Ms. Rowling is going to be in the audience...?

**Project Update**

Dryline Rhapsody will do for literary fiction what Daniel Radcliffe will do for the London Stage. And if you can figure out just what the hell that means, let me know. Meanwhile, keep those cards and letters rolling in.

Peace.

T.A.M.
dryline.rhapsody@gmail.com

More Visions of Johanna

2007-01-25T17:13:00.000-08:00

I went back and re-read much of what I'd written of Dryline Rhapsody, trying to return to the mindset I had when I'd penned it. As I recall, the manuscript came together over a period of nine months. I think there were intervals that summer when I didn't work on it, for whatever reason. I don't remember why now, but toward the end of that year (this was in 2005) I hastened the ending of the book. And by February of 2006 that draft was finished--some couple of weeks ahead of schedule.

I have since cobbled together a few other chapters that could work in the project. I'm testing them out right now with my editor (God bless her patience!). So far no complaints.

Writing is a study in variations. It's not always fun, but mostly revealing. It's revealing in so much as it's a testament to how much you've paid attention in the past, and how much you're willing to look as something in another light.

My astrologer friend suggests that now that the bullsh*t is over I can get back to actually enjoying writing, which I don't think I really did when I was working on Dryline Rhapsody; I was in the middle of goddamn divorce at the time, and a lot of that madness was shoehorned into the manuscript.

But that was then. Reading it again, I can see through the narrative to where my mind was heading, and to what it was I was trying to say--not so much to the world but to myself. One day when you read it to, perhaps you'll take something away from it. Maybe it'll change your life. Until then, though, I think these Visions of Johanna will have kept me up past the dawn. But, man, what an all-nighter it'll be.

**Project Update**

Admittedly, I've been inching through West Coast Hearts as well as a couple of screenplay rewrites. I'm going to make an accelerated push with getting placement for both North of Here and Dryline Rhapsody. In fact, I may self-publish the former to kickstart the S.O.B. That way you'll have an opportunity to get a signed copy, and babe, that's gonna be worth its weight in gold one day.

Thanks for dropping by.

T.A.M.
dryline.rhapsody@gmail.com

Down at the Crossroads

2007-01-10T09:20:00.000-08:00

I haven't thought about Delta blues guitar legend Robert Johnson in quite a while (I think he's among these posts, going back a few years) but every once in a while I load that disc into the player and listen to the haunting. Surely, some hauntings are necessary.

The story goes that Johnson sold his soul to the Devil, who in turn gave him the Blues... You can believe it to if you've ever listened to those old scratchy records. So much depth there, so much seemingly broken humanity.

Of course, so many musicians trace themselves back to Robert Johnson, and to Delta Blues. Son House, Muddy Waters, to name a few. Contemporary musicians point to him as well, such as Clapton and Hammond.

But is it the legend that is so interesting? Though I don't think that Johnson stands the chance of being forgotten per se, his legend certainly lives on. I mean, it seems to me that that sort of tale is often recounted in the lives of so many 20th century men. But kids these days, well, they're inundated with enough messages and distractions as it is; Johnson's world is long gone. That river's washed out.

Yes, and we are hounded by our demons. Whether Robert Johnson chose to make his real--or have his demons destroy him--I really can't say, since I'm like most people in that I know his story from a distance only. It's glamorous to consider self destruction. It makes for an interesting if sad narrative of one's life.

But Robert Johnson was an inventor more than anything--and we gauge this based on those who followed in his footsteps (and depending upon who you ask, that means every kid whoever picked up a guitar and found themself awash in the mystery of a minor 7th chord); he is a trailblazer for a musical style that didn't ask for one or maybe didn't need one; the music moved in the landscape, and the mythology followed.

But, again, that world is long gone. Those crossroads the stuff of legend. The sounds, though, remains. If you haven't heard the ghost in the delta, you should.

**Project Update**

Despite this incessant cough, I am managing to get some work done. I'm a multitasking madman lately--juggling screenplay revisions with novel revisions, and the first draft of West Coast Hearts. The other projects continue to astound, as I've gone in to tweak both Dryline Rhapsody and North of Here. There are a couple of agencies in NY who've expressed interest. Meanwhile, there's you. Keep reading.

Peace.

T.A.M.
dryline.rhapsody@gmail.com

Madrigals & Main Streets

2006-12-19T16:19:00.000-08:00

I started the journey A few years ago that would culminate the drafting of a novel called Dryline Rhapsody, and would change the lives of a lot of people, not the least of which my own. Through that adversity I prevailed. And whether it was written in the stars is a matter of spiritual debate. But as difficult as it was, here we are, and here you are, and it's another year passed.

That one Christmas day two years ago--the first one I spent alone in my entire life--was the among the strangest of my life. I woke up and just kinda sat around all spaced out then went to Pasadena and grabbed lunch at a diner in Old Town. It was a beautiful day, and the diner was near empty. And in my mind I put myself back to the snowy, wintertime, piano-stroked Main Streets of my youth, wondering foolishly if I could stay. But that wasn't an option. In my mind alone, but not in reality.

That night I worked on some stories and at least a couple of songs. And almost immediately I felt better. I had jazz to listen to, there was some wine left in the glass, and the peace and quiet of the day had filtered over into the night.

Then I ambled back to my 9-to-5 life. Poof. Just like that it passed. As it turned out, mine was only a small life in a world of so many other lives and problems. I lived to see another day.

But as I often do, I digress. Another Christmas of my life, and I just beat it on down the line. I try not to make it too much of a point these days to dwell on the past. It's not a very healthy thing to do. When I was writing the bulk of Dryline Rhapsody I was so very much caught up in a moment--this moment, the one we're in right now. The immediacy of it, and all that crap. But that is so incredibly necessary, otherwise the book would've never come to fruition.

So what was this year? It's not over yet, to be sure. There just a few more weeks until 2007. So much can happen in that time. But I've got a working list of how this year can shape up, a list of my goals as it were. Have you given it any thought?

I guess if I had to I could sum up 2006 in just one word, albeit plural: preludes. Everything leads to something. And it's what we do along the way that counts--whether it's just sitting staring at the wall or climbing a mountain, you're doing something, and Lord knows it's something human. And that is why we're here in this ever-shrinking world: to do something human.

**Project Update**

A few weeks have passed without working on the various writing projects and this is a good thing, otherwise I would've been totally fried. I'm reshaping parts of Dryline Rhapsody for this next round, and am adding material to North of Here. You'll be able to purchase that one in 2007, so stay tuned in, man.

And as always--thanks for dropping by.

T.A.M.

Infamy

2006-12-07T09:02:00.000-08:00

My father enlisted in the Army during the winter of '42, right after graduating from high school. He was 17 at the time but they took him anyway. The War, of course, was going on for America for about a year; for most of the rest of the world it had been going on at least three years.

It's understood that some wars are necessary. I can get broadbased and say that it's human nature to go to war, that perhaps we evolve through violence, and the romantic notion of war is really the cry for peace. Even with the advent of the Internet and mass media, we can see the other world's wars, and they don't seem to make sense. Why? Because so many of us have never even touched (but have been touched by) war.

Movies make wars convenient. They make them convenient because of the three act structure, the compression of time, and collective current mythology.

Pearl Harbor is seen from an even greater distance these days. I do not think they'll be constructing any sort of lasting memorial in Sadr City at the eventual end of our involvement in the now Iraq Civil War.

I once said to a Vietnam vet that if I could go back in time, I would like to see what the Tet Offensive really looked like. He quickly corrected me (I was green college kid taking a host of Vietnam history classes), noting that by then nearly 40,000 soldiers had been killed in the fields and jungles of Southeast Asia. He didn't think it was such a good idea.

So, no. Heroics and infamy are for the ages. Even though it could be argued that most wars don't make sense, the current ones make the least amount of sense. Here's to wishing the troops get home safe.

**Project update**

Continuing work on West Coast Hearts, and have begun to revise parts of Dryline Rhapsody. I spent part of last week tooling around Napa and the Bay Area getting fresh ideas. It should broaden the novel in the end.

Peace.

T.A.M.

We Were High Once

2006-11-27T17:36:00.000-08:00

Yes, I'm sure we were very high then.

In the late autumn of 1979, Pink Floyd released The Wall. I remember being at some kid's party and that record was playing in the background. And this kid kept talking about how there were actually three parts to this strange song called "Another Brick in the Wall" (like that meant anything) Of course we hadn't really discovered drugs (I was just 13), but surely this record was the gateway to that postwar good life.

There are plenty of reasons to listen to this record these days, the likeliest of which being disillusionment, which transcends the ages. And, of course, the music. It's quite a document.

But seriously, if you came of age then and every picked up a guitar to learn the misty opening of "Hey You" then this post is speaking to you. I rarely think you could even attempt to make a record like that these days. I reckon you can't even get that damn high anymore.

So what does the record mean to you?

To me The Wall talks to me of dusty winter afternoons. It shows me the snowstorms that have been and surely won't come again.

To me, the record is very cold. I don't think it's worth listening to in the summer.

I learned to play some of those songs on my acoustic guitars, which admittedly came in handy in college when the stoner next to you torched up (yet) another doob.

At best, The Wall is an outstanding soundtrack that, when filmed, achieved a notoriety beyond so many cult movies at the time. At worse, it's almost silly at times and, I've read, hard to understand. Not sure if I agree with that, but it ultimately is an excellent snapshot of the end of a crazy-ass decade.

So I ask: is it possible to be that high anymore? There certainly is cause to be but since I haven't been in so long, what the hell do I know? Do cities look the same as they did then?

We don't need no education was our mantra. We don't need no thought control. Now that's some relevant shit, man. Yes, we were high then. We were in Cadillacs on the Moon.

**Project Update**

Infinite patience. That's this week's project update. It's the slow season, after all. So Dryline Rhapsody will likely go through another soft draft. And West Coast Hearts continues into the cold, Southland winter nights. I burn fearlessly.

T.A.M.