mmmmccclxxxv

Host Initiates Discussion Regarding Messy Coloring

Do you mean as a metaphor?
If the answer you’re going for
here, should you, of course, be
going for a particular answer

from me...are you? If the ans
wer that you’d like to hear is
by chance that it would mean
to me that you are asking me

to think outside the box, then
kudos. I mean, sure, that’s the
first thing that came to my mind,
but in all honesty, for me there is

nothing metaphorical about color
ing outside of the lines. I’m so
messy with visual arts, and cray
on coloring is absolutely no except

ion. On the other hand, the already
at least once elevated metaphor of
thinking outside of the box – is the
box a cubicle? is it your house? – or

it could go further: Is a box simply
where we each just normally exist?
Does it equal routine, normalcy
and/or boring? Is it a prison meta

phor? Either way, it’s all pie in the
sky stuff, which, and no, we don’t
have to discuss what a pie in the
sky is, how literal, how figurative,

how imaginative, except when I 
hear the phrase I have always 

imagined one of mom’s apple pies 

way out there, spinning around like

a flying saucer, only something
so delicious for a potential and
eventual encounterer. Unless
it was taken as a mode of agg

ression. Let me just tell you
the difference to me. Color
ing outside the lines is 
messy and awkward and

insecure me. Trying hard
as I might to make some
thing pretty. Never able
to do so beyond perhaps

ugly-functional. Thinking
outside the box, on the other
hand, is always looking out
for that fresh approach,

disproving everything old
is new again, disproving
there’s nothing new under
the sun, giving one (myself;

others, perhaps) a new per
spective at something they
either were on a never-end
ing attempt at finding, that

new way of looking at something 

ordinary or, better yet, that way
of seeing something they are
either always looking at or

never even knew existed, or
anywhere on that spectrum,
that is either poignant, enter
taining, enlightening, odd,

out there, that has potential
to be an obssessive thought,
perhaps become a quest,
something that quenches

a thirst and gets one exc
ited about a thing, that can
never be unlearned or erased.
Like imagining coloring out

side of the lines a metaphor for
thinking outside of the box, say.
Making my messiness meaning
ful. And I am certainly all for that.

mmmmccclxxxiv

Late Night Talk Show Celebrity Interview Poetry?

That’s a very odd question,
all things considered, but a
good one, and I’m happy to
try to come up with an answer.

Except how can I? My life has
been a peaceful one. Sure, I
get upset when tides turn this
way or that and when idiots

scream stupid shit from their
podia. And yes, most of my 

life we’ve been in one or more.
But I’ve never been anywhere

near the front lines of any of
those, nor any other, and so
they are more out of sight
out of mind than anything.

Which speaks volumes, does
n’t it? Says horrible things of
me. Worse still, I avoid the
news when it gets real. I mean,

and when does it, when it gets
anywhere near a front line, say, 

when a journalist is in harm’s way,
anywhere near it, I turn my eyes.  I

am so sorry. And yet I feel strongly
that this problem that hits so many 

in ways that I cannot even try to see
should be the only thing on the minds

of every one of us. Of all people on
this war-torn planet. At all times. At
least until all such aggression, and
the death and all of the horrific

symptoms of it are eliminated. How
utterly depressing to realize that
getting from here to there is
assuredly nothing I will ever do.

mmmmccclxxxiii

He’s Certainly No Dick Cavett!

Where do they come up with these
insipid questions? he’s thinking. A
dude who came of age in the 1980s,
this guest had the concept of brand-

forward down to a science.  An art.

He knew people who watched QVC for
hours, usually only half-watching it,
but it was on the television. He still
doesn’t understand how it is legal
to have prescription drug medication
advertisements run all hours of the day
and night now, not just that fifteen or
thirty minute commercial after the last
talk show ended back when he could
first officially stay up that late. What’s
he thinking?! Who is going to care
what my answer to this is?! That’s
when it dawns on him that maybe
the questions were meant to make
him seem insignificant, to bore the
fuck out of the audience, of the how-
many-ever millions who tune in. I’m
a freakin’ rock star! he reminds him
self before saying out loud Hell no!
and lifting his butt out of the un
comfortable chair and storming
right to the curtain, zipping between
the host and the audience whose

every mouth was agape and at 

the ready with their own response
to the dodo query about whether

or not they had ever purchased

anything from an infomercial, and

if so, what was it?

mmmmccclxxxii

Life Is Like an Interview Question

Forrest Gump could do that
much better than I could. Do
you know that I did not even
like chocolate until I was in

my late 40s, I think? I mean,
I’d eat it, especially in peanut
butter cups. But I’d be so angry
at the proliferation, the monopoly,

of chocolate flavor in the cereal
aisle, in ice cream stores or free
zers, and in candy bars. But to
your question, my box would be

the oddest most radical assort
ment you could possibly imagine.
Juxtapositions of flavor that would
be variously profound, disgusting,

astoundingly aphrodisiacal, a pick-
you-up, a hypnotic, a hallucino
genic, one perhaps in the shape
of a brain that helps you focus,

one that has you sleepwalking
shortly after ingesting, one that
has you sleeping after indulging,
with no sign of a hangover of any

kind the next morning, one that
has you overindulge upon swal
lowing, in whatever ways one
might imagine overindulgence,

one that ages you, one that turns
you back into a kid, one that makes
you get tall, you know, anything you
might find in Alice in Wonderland.

And that’s just, as they say, a small
sampling of the box of chocolates
that would be mine, were I to have
one of my very own.

mmmmccclxxxi

The Interview Arrives
at the End of the World

That’s a daunting one,
and one that has be
come so difficult for 

me to even think about.
Is it not sometimes
better to just place
one’s hands over
one’s eyes and ears?
(I’d never say that it
was, but doesn’t it
get exasperating,
whether sitting on
your laurels or jump
ing into the fray, it’d
be too much for me,
being an activist, a
real activist, not a,
say, I live in San 

Francisco wannabe 

activist, no offense 

meant to my fair
city or to its inhabit

ants, of course.) I 

can’t even watch 

a live political 

debate, myself.

Anyway, as I

was saying, 

sometimes 

I think the 

only thing
that’d teach 

us all a real 

lesson, that

would make

the best kind

of change in

the world, is

Armageddon
itself.

mmmmccclxxx

When Asked for a Preference

     I won’t let the sun go down on me.
                              —Howard Jones

I have to laugh at that question. It
just reminds me of something that 

gives me a jolt, how when friends,
people who know me, suggest that,

of course when I’m going through
something that at that moment is
a fairly extended hell, for example,
I mean I’ve had some tough times,

and friends would read these, on 

occasion, folks who know me (it 

used to happen), and say I should

n’t be so...nostalgic is a word I would 

use, but, backwards-looking? the funny 

thing about nostalgia with me, and that

word rings more sweet than bitter, right? 

I can look back at times when I was a

horrible mess, weeping at every turn, 

say, and think, Weren’t those the days?,
I can, and they were, looking back fills 

me with such pleasure, an uncontrollable 

smile forming, I can’t help it. And those
days, even though they were horrid, I 

tell you. In reality. Or so I thought at 

the time.... In retrospect some were

hell in actuality. I can see that.
I came of age, well, I came of
age in my late 30s, at the earliest.
But.  I was an adolescent at the end

of the 1970s, the cusp of the 1980s,
so people my age either glow for disco
or for, say, Duran Duran, The Thomp
son Twins, Howard Jones – well, I’m

dipping a bit into obscurity, but that’s
where I am, and always was: the pre
sent as it aims like a madman at the
future. So when you ask which I prefer

most, sunsets or sunrises? I like dusk.
I love walking through a quiet city at
four in the morning. And when I’m
working, when I have a regular busi

ness hours weekday job, which has
been my paid career, which, thanks
to one of those not so great times
I almost got shut out of completely,

for several years, basically, but I’m
back in one now, and it’s energy for
me, and it’s awesome, say, to get
up at three in the morning and just 

do this tap tap tap or scribble scribble
for an hour or three before heading
into the office, somewhere in the
between of which the sun in my

vicinity will start to seemingly float
like a fishing cork upon the bay
for a while until the sky takes it
as its own for a few bright or,

perhaps, foggy hours. Either way,
if it’s straight above or starting its
descent or seemingly about to drown
in the Pacific, it’s all about where it

is. And where it’s going. For me. I
can find some happiness remember
ing where it’s been, who I was then,
but only in relation to who I am now,

and, well, just as importantly, how
that has me aiming toward some
body I want to be later, tonight,
tomorrow, next year, however

long it takes me to get there,
if I make it there, will I make
it there? I’m a now guy on the
move, always have been. And

yet, in answer to your question,
I have to say, and this may be
more about where the sun winds
up, for me, when it winds down,

but I am a sunset guy. Yeah,
I prefer sunset. I’m a morning
person, but the beauty of a sun
diving into the Pacific tells the

truest and most beautiful story
as far as I’m concerned. Go figure.

mmmmccclxxix

Interviewee as Artist or Art?

I can’t think of a work of fiction
that I’d want to model my life
after, at least not at the moment,
and that’s not the way I think when
I read. When I read something so
vibrant and so aspirational for me,
it’s not the work of art that I aspire
toward. It’s the artist.

mmmmccclxxviii

The Interview Comes Upon a Taboo Subject

It isn’t an unusual question,
and that’s a lot of the problem,
right? It’s jarring, brings me
back to my days look for a job

after being abandoned—yes,
I’ve got issues, and I’ll say it
plainly, without a hint of drama,
although perhaps now I’ll never

even know how true it was—after
being left for dead. (Oh, she is
such a drama queen!) I didn’t
die. It’s more about the time

frame you’ve given me that is
most triggering. Because, I
mean, everyone just got
weird and just slithered away.

Because I got weird. Because
of being abandoned, left for dead,
and all of my people just—pfft!—
evaporated. That’s my people,

still, that’s who I have, with
whom I now talk, party, dance,
play card games, go hiking,
gossip: vapor. The gang’s all

here! Oh, but look what you’ve
made me do, Barbara. And I
swore I wouldn’t. That was so
long ago. And the tables have

turned. But clearly it is still quite
meaningful to me, I’ll always be
so stumped, so confused, so hurt.
The more time that passes the less

sense it makes. Are people really...
this flimsy? Does the investment of
time, good and bad, intimacy, such
engagement, in the end, mean so

little. Thankfully, no. There are
exceptions. So how have I changed?
I can’t tell you. I was always a skeptic.
And I was always an optimist and a

romantic. And I suppose that I’ll
always be a believer. But I almost
gave up on humanity. How have I
changed? I’ll never give up again,

that’s for certain. And I’ll be even more
discerning. But to believe in humanity
and to believe in a human are two
separate things. I can believe in

humanity, but with individuals, in
the end, no matter how realistic,
how logical, how discerning, the
best I can possibly offer is hope.

mmmmccclxxvii

The Title for Which I Am Perishing

Is what I thought the piece
was called, but then I looked
again, more out of curiosity
than disbelief, because,
after all, I wrote it.

mmmmccclxxvi

I did this because

I was planning to go for
a long walk on what looks
like a beautiful day, but
sat here instead thinking
of these few lines to send
to you.

mmmmccclxxv

A Day in the Life of a Flounder

Which is what I’m calling this piece
inspired by a graphic that I just saw
in my feed on LinkedIn which was
entitled “A Day in the Life of a Founder.”

It looks to be a riff on the graphic of
the evolution of man that starts out
with a stooped ape-like figure and
winds up an upright human-like figure.

Except in this case it starts out as a
standing but slightly stooped human-
like figure that gets more stooped
then is seated with its hands over its

ears but by the end is sitting prostrate
on the floor with its head bowed as if
in prayer or obeisance. You get the idea, 

surely. But what’s funny to me about

this is that, well, I’ve been getting notices
from LinkedIn about jobs commensurate with
my experience (as they say). When I’m not
doing this (and, rather, getting paid), I’m

an Executive Assistant, by the way. Have
been for over 30 solid years now. That’s
my plug, in case you’re hiring. Haha. Any
way, the funny thing is that for some reason,

for several months now, LinkedIn has
been sending me, in addition to Executive
Assistant (and commensurate) job listings
on pretty much a daily basis, listing for jobs

with the title “Founder.” Founder? Really?
Who advertises for a job with the position
of Founder, I wonder. Wouldn’t the Founder
have not only found that job on their own,

but have founded it, so to speak? Seriously,
I am so intrigued by this conundrum that I
haven’t even opted out of receiving them. So,
much to my amusement, they keep coming.

mmmmccclxxiv

The Myth of Choice

I choose love. I choose
recognition. I choose en
gagement. I choose world
travel. I choose to be ex

actly who I am, within the
bounds of logic and reason
able law, with no repurcuss
ions. But how many people

can I love at once? Or even
in a lifetime, individually? It
cannot be just one other per
son because I’ve lived and

there have been a few. And
for what do I want to be rec
ognized? Or how? By my
face, my gait, my shape, my

occupation(s), my preoccu
pation(s)? My so-called mis
takes? And what kind of en
gagement am I choosing?

Sex? Small talk? Convers
ations that go well into the
night while we’re all stoned
or high or drunk or coffee’d

up sober? Or do I simply
mean affianced? And where
in the world am I traveling?
Anyplace else than I’ve been

before? With what means?
Sometimes we have no choice,
or we don’t have many. Isn’t
freedom lovely? Define free.

Better yet, define good. What
are the qualities of a decent per
son, my grandiose aspiration (to
be one, to have one, to know

many). And what’s bad?
Name a bad quality that is
also tantalizing to otherwise
decent people. What are

my options? Well. Choice
being lovely and all, and
mine, is it a pickle or an
honor to get to choose

the qualities that mean
decency and those that
equal evil? I see three
paths before me. I pack

my bags filled with chains
and locks (their keys have

long been gone.  Which path
looks happier (another word

that needs its own architect)?
I make choices, build walls
and doors with bars that are
heavy and so hard to move.

This is no world for the in
decisive. And I am so ex
hausted with all of these
choices; this freedom.

mmmmccclxxiii

Let me think about it.
                  —Ida Corr

I just need to get
myself level-headed,
yeah, that’s what I—

Give me a second, I
don’t say out loud be
cause there isn’t any
one here. The phone

rings. Is there a tele
phone? Are there rings?
Where can I find a dial
tone? Ancient questions
which make me ancient.

And if I were level-headed
in the first place, would I
find myself in such need?
Of a second? Of a dial
tone? Of a ring? Oh, see,
now I remember. We gave

up on level-headed years
ago. In ancient times.

Do I pick it up to answer?

For a minute there I thought I—

mmmmccclxxii

As The Interviewer Dives Deep,
The Interviewee Contemplates
The Deep End.

I have no idea how to answer that
question, really, how would I know,
but if I were to think about it, I can
say it has been pretty drastic. I’d
like to hope it’s been growth, it has
been progressive evolution. But,
again, how am I to know. You
ask how I’ve changed in the past
five years and I was for certain
already on the other side of
something that was nearly
impossible for me to get through,
but yet hear I am. I can say that
each year, I mean, if I look back
to the previous year, if I really
think about it, at least over the
past five years, I feel mentally
healthier than I was the year
previous. So I’ve been healing.
And maybe healing just means
growing, maturing. I think I’m
a better person, but that doesn’t
make me feel much better, I have
to tell you. It’s certainly a good
thing to feel healthier than I was
a year ago. But the surprise is
that the healing keeps going,
that I keep looking back and
thinking, wow, I have my
wits about me so much
better than I did a year
ago. So I don’t know if
that means that things
are okay now, or if I’m
only halfway there or
what. And when I
start thinking that
way...well, it feels
pretty bleak, time
feels wasted. Like,
what a waste. But if
I just think about the
fact that I feel so much...
healthier than I did a year
ago, and the fact that for
the past five years, more
than that, really, I’ve felt
that way, upon reflection,
then if I just stick with that
feeling, it’s all good. Right?

mmmmccclxxi

Nerdy Interview Repartee

We were just talking about
science fiction, right? That
used to be about as nerdy
as one could get. But don’t
nerds rule the world, now?
I figure any way you slice
me that’s about all you’d
get, and I’m fine with that.

mmmmccclxx

A Galactical Question Arises

I’m a big fan of science fiction.
I used to read a ton of Heinlein
when I was an adolescent. And
I’ve been a Trekkie since about
the very beginning. But I’d have
to tell you that I have absolutely
no desire to leave the atmosphere
of this planet, not in this lifetime.
There’s a lot of beautiful reasons
that those books and shows and
flicks fall within the realm of
what we call fiction, as far
as I’m concerned. My
pioneering days are
over, I’m pretty sure,
and I’d rather remain
as grounded as possible
throughout whatever future
I might have waiting for me.

mmmmccclxix

Interview Question About Relationships

Of course I haven’t. If it were
really one-sided, why would I
be there? I can say imbalanced
is something I’ve experienced.
One might say that everything
is such. And that the goal, and
here is where I come in, is to
strive for balance, that nirvana
that one can never quite achieve.
But one-sided? If I was getting
nothing out of it, why would I
ever be a part of it?

mmmmccclxviii

Personal Question During Interview

In that way in which, you know,
you’re making a sandwich, but
you’re making it in public, like
at work, and there are coworkers
coming and going and/or waiting
to make sandwiches of their own
and it’s not really a sandwich, let’s
say it’s a bagel that you’ve just
toasted, and there’s only one
toaster so there’s a line of
coworkers waiting for their
bagel (and there probably
aren’t enough bagels to
actually go around) and
you open up the cream
cheese and there’s just
a smidge left – and all
of these coworkers
waiting for you! –
and so you take
the teeniest,
tiniest nib of
the cream cheese
with the knife that
was set out so nicely
next to the cutting board
for the bread (atop which
is a long toothy knife to
slice through the bagels
and quite a few bagel crumbs),
and it doesn’t even spread all
the way over the bagel. In
fact it barely gets from one
edge to the hole in the middle.
So. If it were a sandwich,
it would be the thinnest
sandwich ever. So, to
answer your question,
that is how thin I
generally spread
myself.

mmmmccclxvii

True Crime Podcast Interview Topic

The genre’s not that appealing to me.
If I’ve got to be subjected to such things,
I prefer it hammy and whodunnit, like
Agatha Christie in all-star washed up cast

flicks from the 1970s. There’s always a mansion 

(unless you’re on the Orient Express, so I guess 

there are viable exceptions that’d keep me 

satisfied). But if I were doing one of those

silly whodunnit dinners, it’d have to be a cut
above, nothing terribly trite. How to solve
that problem, I’ve no idea. I certainly wouldn’t
literally die, or have a guest actually murdered,

but an actual dead body might be just the
thing. Where’s Quincy when you need him?

mmmmccclxvi

Karma Kawestion

Do I believe in it? Of course. Some
days are good and some days are bad.
Sometimes you’ve earned that good
or you’ve earned that crappy day,

and sometimes the bad guys get away
with the murder of the dead guy who,
while alive, was nothing but nice. And
look where that got him. Or look where

he got. So, sure, some moments are
lucky. Some years are lucky. Some
decades are the absolute fucking worst.
We take the control that we can, but

there are no guarantees we’ll nab a goal
to which every ounce of our focus goes.

mmmmccclxv

Easy Interview Question

Oh that’s very easy, you
try to look them in the
eye as you pass them by,
smile as earnestly as you
can, and say “Hi there!”
and maybe, if they res
pond, something like
“Thank you. Have an
awesome day!”

mmmmccclxiv

Guest Humps Host

Sure, of course I would do
that. I wouldn’t even nec
essarily be picky about its
location or even its design

or layout. I mean, it’d be
cool if it were clean. But
sure, I’d swap mine with
almost anyone. If I really

got to choose where? Well,
there are lots of places that
come to mind. Some areas
that I’ve been to, like Venice,

yeah, or Hong Kong, though
I’ve a feeling I would not love
that place as much now that
the mainland has retaken it.

Tokyo, for sure. Or places
I want to go, like Lima,
which would be quite handy,
or Bangkok or someplace

in Vietnam, Laos or Cambodia.
Or Barcelona! Or Iceland!
Or Montreal, although I’ve
been there. Twice. The

most beautiful men in the
world. My birthday just
happened, by the way.
And I just watched

Day Drinking with Seth
and Julia Louis-Dreyfus.

mmmmccclxiii

Guest Stumps Host

Anxiety. Because
then I wouldn’t
have any.

mmmmccclxii

The Extended Interview

     And it’s also a picture of an artist that’s...not creating their art,
     which is the scariest thing in the world.
                —Richard Linklater (of Bernadette from Where’d You Go
                   Bernadette, a novel by Maria Semple)

I’m not sure. What is my dream. I have lots of them.
And if I have lots of them, then, isn’t the primary dream
just to create and be; to make art. To be. To exist in the
best and most pleasant way possible, and that can’t be all
the time, pleasant, best, because that’s impossible, hence
the need for the goal. But is the goal the art that gets made
or is the goal to be the artist that makes these things? How
much of a problem is the creator problem? So that dream,
these dreams, the creator one, the artist one, the being
an artist dream, that never ends, as far as I can tell. Being
a part of that, the art, what gets me going, being able to say
“I’m someone that makes that,” or better still “I made that.”
Very problematic, especially with no other context. So, what
is that? And what does it matter, anyway. Because is that
really the dream? Of course it isn’t. That is a means to an
end, a way toward the real dream. Which is really quite
simple, isn’t it? I mean, for me. My dream, and no, it will
never end, is engagement. It may not go without saying
that whatever it is that I might create, well, the hope is
that it is something that propels. Toward a greater good.
I can say that. It’s true. But nothing propels or can propel
toward a better way than by involving oneself with other
humans in an intimate manner. Or creating something

that engages others or, hopefully, engages me with other

people.  That is the goal.  Engagement. On all levels. And 

in each of these levels, at each moment, whether subtly 

(because you can’t go hard every single time) or hammer-

on-head redundant, it is always, always, always intentionally 

and strategically as deep as you can get. Go all the way. 

Being impossible, like nirvana, as I always say. But it’s 

still the goal. It’s still the dream. Do something with that. 

And that never dies. Never.  Or not, at any rate, until I do.

mmmmccclxi

Another Question

Are you kidding? Maybe this is the
real problem. How would others
approach this question? Can we
get some sort of poll? Let’s
just start with murder. If
given the opportunity,
absolutely not.
How can
this even
be one of your questions?

mmmmccclx

The Next Question of the Interview

If money were no object? Oh, I’d elope.

mmmmccclix

The Question That Stops the Show for More Than a Moment

Don’t ask me that. It’s been ten years
of nothing but the future. Having no
present is death, don’t you think? I
certainly do. Nothing but future
(goals, what would have seemed so
easy in the past, or doable, with age
become more and more difficult to reach,
and then impossible), looking back on the
past, which held so much future but, more
amazing was the now of it all. The now 

of almost everything. Or it seems that
way presently. Due to the distinct lack 

of anything resembling life occurring 

at present, given that it’s just me 

here. There is potential, but that 

potential weakens into teases, 

taunts, and inevitably...

mmmmccclviii

The Next Question During the Interview

I’m not sure if I believe something
that most people don’t. I’d say I
probably do. A lot of things, more
than likely. But that’s not what I
thought of when you asked that
question. Nope. What I thought
about is that I believe in something
that seems completely eschewed by
the general public, whether or not
they actually believe in it or not.
But I believe in what is notably
seemingly proven wrong over
and over and over again by
individual after individual
that make up what we
call humanity. There
are such long stretches
of time in which I see so
much of this thing I believe
being seemingly proven wrong
that once, and for a long enough
duration, let’s say during the worst
part of my life, which would, well, is
easy for me to know when that was,
but we can just leave it at that, I
totally began to disbelieve. I lost
faith. To be more clear, I lost faith
in humanity. It’s not that humanity
little by little doesn’t continue to
try its best to prove wrong that
there might be any good left
in any of it. But something
did happen to me. A human.
A human that is good. That’s
all it took. And so I’ve got it back,
this faith in humanity that I almost
lost for good, or thought I had. And
for that I’m so grateful. Because
how many days might I awaken
and continue to be in any way
alive, believing no good existed
in people any more. So.
Who knows if most people
do or do not have this belief,
this faith. All I know is that
almost each and every individual
goes about trying to disprove the
good in themselves, and so very
convincingly. But I still believe.

mmmmccclvii

The Talk Show Gets Colorful

Well, it’s gay. Or representative
of queer and all of its various
thisses and thats. Which smushes
a lot of stuff together, but I’ve grown
over the years to appreciate that
smushiness. Especially as I’ve
become less problematic in the
eyes of the bozos than some of
those with whom I’m smushed
in there with. There was this
really weird Bonanza episode.
Gosh, when I mention shows
that old these days it begins
to other me in the worst
possible way. I keep
thinking about how I
hope that such things are 

going to be kept in the 

archives, as there’s no hope 

they’ll remain in any general 

psyche. Not that this is a problem. 

And anyway, can you imagine Roy G. Biv
as representative of you or me in, say
1963? We can go earlier but we can
certainly go a lot later, too. And who
knows about the future, see, the steps
back that are being taken could keep
moving further and further into
decline, out of reach, out of joy,
far away from pride? It breaks
my heart thinking what pride
might possibly evoke among
any general population or
especially among any
marginalized population
tomorrow or the
next day or in
the next
century.
But back to the episode.
Hoss, I think, had been
transported to a land
that seemed obnoxiously
Irish, and there was a leprechaun,
and I think an incessant attempt to reach
the end of a rainbow to get a pot of gold.
It was always almost within reach. Ben
and Little Joe, was this his name, Pa from
Little House on the Prairie a few years later?
Even Lorne Green, the patriarch of this all male
family was involved in this Saint Patrick’s day
episode by the time the show came to some
end wherein the previous hour was surely
somehow wiped clean. So there’s that
notion, that representation, which as a
child would be my only answer, I suppose,
where it was nothing but a colorful map
that got you almost to that big pot of
gold, the hope of suddenly waking
up and being rich. Out of nowhere.
Of course, also, there’s the calm,
the peace of it being what remains
after the storm, no matter how
mild or how damaging; that

great big beautiful sign that

the storm is over.  If 
it ever really is.

mmmmccclvi

The Interview Continues

That’s an easy one. What
gives me hope is the younger
generation. But by that, I mean
nothing above the age of Generation Z.

And yes, a curse on the generation
between us and them. I mean,
neither you nor I need to curse
them, they’re already quite there.

We like to say that the world depends on
these kids, as we’ve fucked things up enough,
if they even have a chance. Well, I say they
have more than a chance, they are going

to thrive, as they now do, and remain the

heroes of this godforsaken planet. Not 

to mention my life depends in many

ways on one in particular. Which isn’t 

an entirely different subject. But
don’t think I’m going to give
you any more than that
at the moment. Nope.