I was reading some Dostoevsky stories yesterday and for some reason I think they rendered me sleepless last night. His equal measure of passion and sloppiness really appeals to me and I often find myself intensely relating to his characters -- no matter how ridiculous or unlikable they might be. Like the former cavalryman in "The Meek One," who is so clumsy and unlikable and so principled and cowardly. He refuses to defend the honor of his regiment when one of its officers is publicly slandered, and then refuses his opportunity to make up for this gaffe because it involves entering into a stupid duel -- an admirable position, really. His buddies at the regiment sound like wankers, obsessed with honor as a kind of social sieve. But then the man, who has since retired from the regiment in disgrace and taken up the ignoble profession of pawnbroker, admits that his initial reluctance to defend his regiments honor was not pragmatic. It was not even based on fear of being challenged to a duel. He didn't do it because he was afraid of looking ridiculous. Then the pawnbroker decides to marry a completely destitute 16 year old girl who has been pawning her last meager possessions at his shop, and he's so utterly socially incompetent he doesn't realize how much he has denied her in creating this marriage of survival until she jumps out the fourth floor window of their apartment -- Russian icon in hand -- and dies, after coughing up a mere handful of blood.

His stories cover this raw, very personal terrain that is very rocky and hard to navigate. People are constantly misunderstanding each other, constantly beginning to say things and then.... oh-but-you'll-never-understanding. He really understands humiliation and shyness as a fundamental motivator and then he throws in these deceptively intense situations into the mix and a story that seems to be about a regretful pawnbroker turns out to be about the horror we can achieve through our blind desire for happiness and our inability to understand when we are and when we are not sharing something fundamental.

I found myself reliving old conflicts as I read through this, clenching my teeth and asking questioning my own motivations. Is pacifism a principle, or merely a fear of looking ridiculous? Do we simply live to create situations in which we can excel? How great a motivator is fear of being ridiculous, and how great a liberator is it to be the clown? I guess that's what I was mulling over in my head as I lay awake last night... how much more ridiculousness should I allow into my life? There's an awful lot already, make no mistake, but in the early hours of the morning there seemed to be a way to allow more into my life, while at the same time allowing less: Genuine ridiculousness; not something controlled. Really, truly running the risk of falling flat on my face without a clownish posture to fall back upon.

Melissa sent the gang (Karaab, Mike, Nick, Anna) a poem this morning.

Engendered by my slipping
To sleeping in the twice-crooked
Curve of your arm, I'm dreaming
Of warm nights seeping
In through windows
And some soft song sinks
For awhile, glides across
The moon and back

This, she claims, came from a stairwell outside of her office at the University of Washington.

I always get a special thrill coming across lost works. As if these heartfelt but unedited writings are simply the first to go to their ultimate reward. I mean, isn't this the fate of all human creations -- no matter how hard we try to preserve and to worship the works of the dead, won't they all end up crumpled and forgotten in a stairwell somewhere? Won't the sun burn out and the universe shrink back in on itself someday? Won't time stop ticking and the atoms run out of energy and then all these marks and notes of human passion, won't they all be in the same heartfelt place?

Links of the day: Canadian's apparently don't know their left from their right. Another argument for Manifest Destiny: In the US you don't need to.

Apparently Christopher Hitchens has a piece in the Atlantic this month bashing Churchill. I haven't read it, but I listened to some pompous PHDs on local PBS talk about how completely wrong he had gotten his facts (like for example, his assertion that Winnie the Poo read Churchill's radio addresses because the great man was too drunk to do them himself). With Hitchens, the accusation of "too drunk" is particularly sharp, considering what a boozehound Hitchens himself is. You can find out more about his alcoholic proclivities and family history in this fun article from the Guardian. My favorite part is his comment on Bush:

'Eyes so close together he could use a monocle, abnormally unintelligent, could barely read at all, "rescued from the booze by Jesus" - and if there's one sentence that would piss me off more than any other, that's it. But one can look on the bright side and say it proves that anyone can be president.'

Anna and Janie are in the kitchen right now, celebrating her birthday by rolling dice and drawing cards for tomorrow's lottery draw. I don't like the odds, but at least they have a plan. I didn't realize that 88 was a hate symbol until today. Here is a link explaining a whole mess of hate numbers.

I see that Mike's furious blogging continues. He had a particularly interesting post yesterday, connecting Exorcist II with the current Catholic troubles. I agree that Richard Burton's performance is great because he seems so creepy. He's so zealous in his pursuit of the Devil that you can't help but feel that he may be causing half of his own troubles. The idea that goodness attracts evil is actually a pretty Zen concept. What makes Boorman's film a work of horror rather than Zen philosophy, is the fact that he doesn't really discuss evil's power to attract good. That is where christian morality really seems to fail us. Though Christ was clearly attracted to sinners, many Christians have a hard time seeing this as a virtue of evil. If there were only good, good would not really exist. This is why Zen teachings have more appeal for me than many Christian approaches -- because they do not aspire to a state of denial.

As usual, my vicious goading has born fruit. Mike is updating his blog now, so check it out. I'm sure the thousands of visitors that flock from a filbert.net blog-link will serve as inspiration to cancer-curing-Mike.

He as a link to a hilariously vitriolic Web site based on an idea that's sure to run out of gas within the next 6 months -- if it hasn't already.

When I was in school the teachers were just tacit participants in the ritualistic mindfuck that marked my early teen years. It's good to see that the educational community is getting organized and finding new and pro-active ways of messing with kids minds. Hopefully we'll see more of this as our educators finally realize that school is about more than just standardized testing.

Take note: Just because you play a mob boss's son on TV, it doesn't mean you can get your witnesses wacked.

And you thought Crocodile Dundee 3 sucked? Have you heard of the Croc Hunter Movie coming this summer?!! Crikey! With Bruce Willis as executive producer and Croc Hunter Steve Irwin listed as writer and star, I have only one thing to say: Danger. OK 3 things: Danger danger danger! (disclaimer: I am actually a huge fan of Crocodile Hunter and will see this movie on opening day).

Apparently the Catholic Church has decided on an abrupt change in policy.

OK, gotta go. Anna and Janie are home from the beach now. They've been living a kind of Beach Banjo Babylon existence since she arrived and I'm extremely envious.

I took a fish head out to see a movie

Janie's in town, and Anna's banjo lessons start today. This should be fun. One of my favorite things to do when Janie's here is the New York Times Sunday crossword. So this morning I shelled out the $5.15 to buy a NYT, and what should I happen to find in the Arts & Leisure section, but a letter from our friend, Mike Gregory clarifying the minutae of the varied and variegated career of Bill Paxton. Congratulations to Mike on cracking the seemingly impenetrable code of NYT letter aesthetics. My version of the same letter (something along the lines of "Whoa! That'd the dude from Fish Heads man!") would have met with the dust bin like a magnet to steel.

Another great bumberklutz, Pete Davison, has made a great contribution to today's reading. When he and Leni surprised me with a March end-of-drinking visit, Pete had been hitting Ebay about as hard as a 14-year old script kiddie home on detention, and he had the presents to prove it. He gave me about four of them, including a dice-based bowling game (Stupid strip bowling. I'll never live it down) and a July 1971 issue of Playboy Magazine. The magazine's a great read, particularly the advertizements, which are all for booze and shitty stereos (apparently the "I'm in a bag" look was a popular fashion statement for women in 1971), but even better is this 13 page interview with John Cassavetes. Check it out.

I've got my traditional Chicago cold today -- a few days late, but crappy nonetheless. Every time I visit Chicago, I get sick. It's uncanny. My first cold of the season, too.

Maybe it's the illness, but I had a strange thought this morning. Anna had bought some toilet paper last night. Four rolls in a cellophane package with a picture of a happy baby shrouded in a pink towel on the front. I'd seen such images before, but this morning, swaying before the toilet in my cold-addled state, I had to ask myself, "what is this image trying to convey?" Babies don't use toilet paper; they wear diapers. Is this supposed to say that using this product is like wiping your ass with a baby? Or maybe they mean that you can feel that same kind of care free joy in defecation you last felt at the diaper stage because no matter how big the job, this roll of toilet paper will take care of the mess. I don't know, making someone who craps himself the poster child of a toilet paper company was a strange decision.

Looking more closely at the packaging, I see that they've disposed of the very popular "toilet paper" appelation, and gone instead fo the upscale, "Bathroom Tissue." As if you somehow use this product in the bath. If I were running the show, I'd take it down a notch to "Rest Room Tissue." That seems even further removed from the reality of the situation. I'm not sure how toilet fell into such poor standing in the US, perhaps because of its unpleasant onomatopaeic cadence, or maybe because of the nasty memories conjured up by the word "toil." I've always found it funny, though. The shitter is the last place I think of when I feel like a rest.

Of course the ultimate irony in this baby-centric packaging is that it's potentially lethal. On the back it reads: "Warning: to avoid danger of injury or suffocation, keep this plastic packaging [with the baby on the front] away from babies." There are also a few butterflies hasitly sketched on the bottom left corner of the back. As if, there was some internal marketing debate raging inside the company "It's like wiping your ass with a baby!" "No, it's like wiping your ass with a butterfly!" "Baby!" "Butterfly!" "Oh fuck it, let's put them both on."

I see that the Washington Post has finally decided that Osama Bin Laden is missing. In fact, they make it sound like the US could have had him if they'd been willing to send ground troops into Tora Bora. I stick with my theory that nowhere is the best place for him to be right now, from America's perspective.

Oh no! They've cancelled Ally McBeal!! What will I do next year when I want to watch unlovable self absorbed anorexics wander listlessly through the streets of Boston listening to crappy middle-of-the-road white R&B?

Here's my vote for most infrequently updated Blog.

Anna and I returned from our trip to Chicago yesterday -- a day later than expected. Another day has passed since then, and I still feel a bit tired, hungover, and socially burned-out. We were in Chicago for our good friends Jason and Marla's wedding, which was a good deal of fun. Anna read that Corinthians passage [1 Corinthians 13, 4-13... and J&M were married on 4-13-02. Coincidence? I think not], and though there was a bit of controversy as to whether or not she stared down Jason during the lines, "Love is not arrogant or rude," she read the lines so beautifully it brought me to tears. In my 30's, this has become an important Biblical passage to me, and it was very moving to see my pretty Anna reading it in front of all those well groomed people.

In my book, having a good time seems to involve a prodigious amount of drinking, talking and not-sleeping. By that reckoning, it was a wonderful vacation.

By the standards of convenience, it was not such a great trip. Our flight from Chicago to Las Vegas was delayed due to dust storms (very Star Wars) in Vegas, and despite National's assurances (a panicky and unpredictable airline with questional ties to the gambling industry. Not recommended) that we would make our connection, we didn't. So instead, we spent the night in Las Vegas, after first wandering around McCarran Airport with a quiet but very nice Chinese man who didn't speak a word of English. It was one of those, go to the wrong deck for the shuttle, go to the right deck for the shuttle, find out you have to call for the shuttle, decide not to wait for the shuttle, go to the wrong deck for a taxi, get in the taxi, have the taxi driver get lost, stumble into the hotel and ask for a toothbrush kind of ordeals, but our Chinese friend handled it with great aplomb. I would have been nervous and angry, had I been in his shoes.

After a quick belt of freshen-up-o-the-flask, Anna and I hit the Strip, convinced that our bad luck had been exhausted.

It had not.

Just got back from my debut as a Telegraph Hill Dwellers Board Member -- a dinner and art auction at the Italian Athletic Club. I joined my neighborhood association to become better connected with my immediate community in North Beach. I feel so intensely connected with this area, I've always wanted to know it more intimately, but this event was trippy. It was fun, but overwhelming. At one point an old lady there said, "You look awfully young to be the newsletter editor. Are you sure you're up to the task?" I told her that my youth might not be such a bad thing, and we shook hands. I felt like saying that becoming the newsletter editor was the only way I could convince my dad to let me borrow the car on Saturday nights. This will be an interesting job.

So I have a thought about our man Osama -- who nobody seems to want to mention anymore. From the US's perspective, what would be the best thing to happen to him? If he's alive, it's a black mark on the US -- he gets to taunt us and make us look impotent. If he's dead, he's a martyr. If alive, we'll probably kill him and make him a martyr, or at least a symbolic political prisonner. But if he's dead and buried in a shallow grave in some cave in the Afghani mountains, then he is the least of all possible things. A threat we must be ready to combat; a silent leader, disconnected from his cause; but not a taunter, nor a producer of videotapes nor planner of evil. Just a silent impotent symbol of whatever evil we decide to combat in the Middle East... or elsewhere.

Here's a book I want for Christmas.

And another.

Quick question: Will next Sept. 11 be a holiday in the US? It'll certainly be a travel holiday for me.

Speaking of travel, next week this time, I'll be in Chicago, at Jason Marty & Marla's wedding. Anna will be reading 1 Corinthians 13 4-13 at the wedding, which is actually a Bible passage that has been rumbling through my head for about a year now. Personally I relate to it more as maxim for life than as counsel for a married couple, but it is so intensely poetic, it works both ways. The Bible has been so thoroughly discredited by the rabid embrace of zealous idiots that it's easy to forget that it contains some profound wisdom -- a thought that is even more disturbing when one considers is tragic misuse by organized religious organizations. Ever wonder why priests are celebite? Power: So their only heirs are the Church itself.

Speaking of the Catholic Church. This was a good April Fool's.

And speaking of great thinkers, here is an interview between Gene Simmons and NPR's Terry Gross. NPR will not host the interview on their Web site, claiming that Simmons would not give them permission to do so, but after listening to it, I think Terry Gross definitely comes out as the loser in this debate. Here are some highlights. This really captures the problem with Gross's program, "Fresh Air:" Too Much Fawning. When Gross is not fawning, she's simply not an effective interviewer. Obviously Simmins is an egomaniacal jerk incapable of separating the state of "knowing a bit" from the state of "complete mastery of a subject" (at one point, I thought he was perhaps on acid, but in retrospect, he was just trying to be smart). There were soooo many opportunities where Gross could have completely cut him down, but she was unprepared for a confrontational interview and, worst of all, she had clearly underestimated her opponent before the interview began. No doubt, she expected this to be a repeat of her pointless interview with Aerosmith's Steve Tyler, where she fawned fawned fawned as he told her of the harsh truths and spiritual salvation that comes through years of hedonistic Rolling Stones copycatting.

This Siegfried and Roy photo show is kind of creepy. I'm thinking of turning our bathroom into a Siegfried and Roy shrine. I'm just not sure whether I should go for the celebrity-worship tiger theme, or broaden out into a whole homo-teutonic thing, or just clean the fucking toilet. Most likely, I'll follow past patterns and do nothing.

To whit...

Busy filing stories right now. This never ends. I visited Lisa Landeau last night, who informed me of her plans to return to Paris. Her best friend Karine is returning to France next week and I think she feels that her San Francisco experience has run its course. We had her and Mike's wedding reception in our house back in October of 1997. I remember steadying Mike's nerves in our kitchen with a belt of something strong and then driving him to City Hall in that beautiful fall San Francisco sunshine. He was so nervous, and Ray Charles was singing "Making Whopee" on the car stereo. After the wedding, we all piled into the Cutlass and drove through Chinatown to ABC bakery to pick up the wedding cake (ordered the day before). There's a great photo of Doug Buttdorf (who introduced Mike to Lisa), Dave Dow, me and Mike in Washington Square park on the day of his wedding. We look like such a solid group of guys, Mike a little overwhelmed by it all, but as present as he's ever been. In the park on his wedding day.

Another sign that the times have changed.

Here's a sign that my pal Billy James is the coolest person I know. This guy went to acting school with James Dean, did PR for the Doors, hung out will all kinds of serious music business types and then moved up to the Bay Area and got *way* into high tech PR. He was my mentor when I first got into the industry and I love him dearly.

Now here's a sign that Celine Dion might not be human. Thanks to Mike for this clip.

Mike and Melissa and Pete and Leni surprised me with a visit for no apparent reason last weekend. What a time we had! It felt a lot like the kind of visits we would have 10 years ago. Crazy, quick, intense, and then *bam* you're back in the real world. In my case, the real world was a 4 day long Java convention, which was almost as intense as the weekend preceding it. Then on Friday I had a meeting about the Semaphore -- our neighborhood association newsletter -- which I'm now editing. That should be a really interesting project. Ever since I went to Burning Man last summer, I've really felt motivated to become more connected with my commnity. 624 Filbert is now officially the place I've lived the longest of any resicence I've ever had, and I feel more like a San Franciscan than anything else these days.

In the middle of that crazy conference last week, Anna and I decided we're going to do a biography on Bill Raulston. He's the man who built San Francisco, and -- most importantly -- first envisioned our city as a world class metropolis, and I think his character fundamentally informed the character of the city. Of course neither of us knows anything about making documentary films, but that's what makes the project interesting right now.

Last note. I've got to start playing this game.