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It is hopeless for the occasional visitor to try to keep up with Chicago-she outgrows his prophecies faster than he can make them. She is always a novelty; for she is never the Chicago you saw when you passed through the last time.

---Mark Twain, "Life On The Mississippi," 1883




My cell phone rang this afternoon. A vaguely familiar caller id: "So what're you up to tonight? Any interest in going to Hyde?"

Oops. Another person I "neglected" to inform. "Uh, I'm in Chicago. Moved back a month ago. Sorry 'bout that. I was in a rush to get out of town before my rent shot up 65%."

Yep. Five years in LA erased in the blink of an eye. [Or, rather, on a manic 36 hour door-to-door drive from LA-to-Chicago.]

"Do you have a job yet?" "Nope. Out and about interviewing. Using a couple different high-end recruiters. In all likelihood I'm going back to a firm; sell my soul for some much needed liquidity. It's not ideal, but I'm sick of poverty and lethargy."

"Where're you living?" "I'm crashing at my folks until I get a gig. Basically everything's in storage (including the TV) awaiting my newest semi-permanent address."

"Do you miss LA?" "Not really. First, I'm living out of a suitcase so it more-or-less feels that I'm just visiting (even after a month). Second, I'd genuinely been planning to leave town at the time I left the studio; although, I initially hoped/expected that New York would be my next destination, Chicago made much more practical sense given the variables in play at the time I had to depart. And, most importantly, I certainly don't miss the metaphorical "where" I was in LA. I've made way too many major mistakes over the past several years; this honestly may be my last chance to hit the reset button without significant repercussions or residual blowback."

"What mistakes? What the hell are you talking about?" "Not here. Not now. Maybe never. Then again . . ."

Feliz Cinco de Mayo

Beberé hoy mucho tequila no debido a un día de fiesta estúpido pero porque en fecha esta mañana, soy un tío por el primer tiempo.

Pop Psychology 101

I'm never surprised by people. Not pleasantly. Nor shockingly. Nope, not ever. My expectations are always met. Reasonable or not, there is virtually no deviation from one's character, patterns and history.

To shoplift from Robert Frost: Given the easier of two decisions, it certainly ain't tough to predict which path will be taken. True spontaneity and unpredictability are such rarities that I'm beginning to believe they don't really exist.

Damn. People are way too easy.

Behind the blue door

Awaiting tonight's House (Part II of a supreme cliffhanger), I sat through "Notting Hill". Although Julia never looked better, and I dig checking out both the semi-infamous deviant playing the 12-year-old Actress and the divine Ms. Mortimer playing the aptly named "Perfect Girl", what always draws me into the film (and why I own the DVD) is Hugh's group of friends. I envy the dinners, the banter, the history, the comfort and, mostly, the camaraderie.

All right, time to go watch my show. Alone.

Tick Tick Tick Tick Tick Tick Tick Tick etc.

Given the concept of ever diminishing returns, shouldn't drastic action be taken when one reaches that point in time where the utility of the status quo is exceeded by its opportunity cost? Stay tuned . . .

More than a bit disquieting

Throughout my current six month stretch of semi-voluntary unemployment, the only thing consistently motivating me to leave the house is my daily yoga class. As a result, I'm not quite confident in my ability to undertake a seamless reentry into civilized society. At least my body's tanned, rested & ready...

Fuck me. What the hell happened to the last twenty years?

The above is my blurb from Mrs. Kennedy's links. I was going to write something wonderfully pithy about how depressing it is that someone I've never met did such a masterful job encapsulating my essence in only eleven words, but, as it turns out, it came straight from the horse's mouth.

All this transpired, mind you, when I found a link to a nice article about my old pal Mrs. K, which prompted me to check and see whether she had euthanized my link. When it comes to my existence, I guess Mrs. K is a tad more of an optimist than I. And for that, all I can say is

Thank you.

Sometimes it really is just the little things.

Those are tears of joy, my friend.



Ron Rapoport sums it up brilliantly:

It was because there are times when it all comes together. There are times when the sun shines all day, the boss gives you a raise, the girl you've been afraid to talk to invites you to dinner, the dealer gives you the ace you're looking for, and even the Cubs fan sticks out his hand and says congratulations.

There are times when after waiting and hoping and praying for so long, the White Sox win the World Series.

Thank you Ozzie. And Jerry. And Kenny. And the entire White Sox organization.

But, most of all, thank you Dad . . . for that first trip to Comiskey almost thirty years ago and every single game thereafter.

For those of you who forgot to buy me a birthday present [a/k/a everyone but my mom]

I want this.^*



But seriously folks:

Take the money you earmarked but failed to spend for my 32nd and donate either here or here.



^*Men's Large [Thanks, Scott]

And that's where the similarities end...

I just found out that I share my birthday with the incomparable Mr. Marcus.

Now, sharing a b-day with the [still] lovely Ione Skye is certainly more my speed.

It sounds to me as if they're just pissed that he spilled the beans

Pat Robertson calls for the assassination of Venezuelan President Hugo Chavez and all the State Department has to say is that the comment is "inappropriate."

Let's see . . . Chavez is a two-time democratically elected pseudo-socialist who constantly criticizes U.S. policies toward Iraq, terrorism and developing countries. We applauded - and likely funded - the failed 2002 coup attempt against Chavez and would like nothing better than to Monroe Doctrine him out of the hemisphere. And it's not like we don't have a bit of experience when it comes to terminating Latin American heads-of-state with extreme prejudice. (See Allende, Salvador; Chile, U.S. intervention in)

Robertson Suggests U.S. Kill Venezuela's Leader [via NY Times]

It might just be a case of the Tuesdays

A good friend/partner-in-crime just finished telling me all about his weekend:

Friday- Drunk.

Saturday- Stoned. And Drunk.

Sunday- Wired. And Drunk. And then Stoned.

A different sketchy friend told me all about his weekend when bailing out on an invitation to a private SFU finale screening:

Friday- Drunk. And Stoned.

Saturday- Drunk. Stoned. Drunk again. [Random call from 22 y.o. Russian plaything.] Rolling. Stoned.

Sunday- Stoned. ["What time is it? Six-thirty? For real? Dude, I didn't get to sleep until 9:30 this morning. Do you have any vicodin at your place?"] Hydrocodoned.

If I'm not mistaken I left my apartment for a grand total of 75 minutes from Friday night through Sunday and ingested a grand total of one Pacifico during that span. Although I envy their level of activity, I certainly don't want that existence. I really truly don't. There must be a happy medium, right? There has to be. When you subsist in a world of extremes how do you avoid the all-or-nothing, binary, zero-sum existence and simply enhance your every day.

Well, I'm all ears.

Mourning has broken

The official obits:

Nathaniel Samuel Fisher, Jr.

Nate Fisher died of natural causes on Saturday, May 21 at the age of 40. The Fisher family struggles with the profound loss of their beloved son and brother. Nate also leaves behind his wife Brenda Chenowith and his precious daughter Maya Fisher.

Nate was born January 8, 1965 to Nathaniel and Ruth Fisher in Los Angeles. His warmth, sense of humor, and adventurous spirit earned him friends everywhere he went. After graduating from Bonaventure High School and attending U.C. Santa Cruz, Nate traveled through Europe and later settled in Washington State, where he managed the largest organic food co-op in Seattle.

From a very young age, Nate searched to find beauty in the world. He had a deep respect for the earth and the people living on it, always striving for honesty in his relationships with others. Nate found an outlet for his natural gift of helping those in need when he joined his brother David to run the family's mortuary business in 2001.

A memorial Service will be held on Monday, May 23 at 2 p.m. at Fisher and Diaz 2302 W. 25th Street in Los Angeles. Private burial to follow.

David James Fisher

Born January 20, 1969. Died at the age of 75 in Echo Park. He was proud owner and operator of Fisher & Sons Funeral Home of Los Angeles for over forty years. After retiring in 2034, he went on to perform in dozens of local theater productions, including Weill and Brecht's "Threepenny Opera," Rossini's "The Barber of Seville," and as Ebenezer Scrooge in Dickens' "A Christmas Carol." David leaves behind his partner Raoul Martinez, his beloved sons Durrell and Anthony Charles-Fisher, his sister Claire Fisher and his three precious grandchildren Matthew, Keith, and Katie. In lieu of flowers, donations can be made to the Southern California Opera Association

Claire Simone Fisher
1983 - 2085

Born March 13, 1983. Died February 11, 2085 in Manhattan. Claire grew up in Los Angeles and studied art at LAC-Arts College. She worked as an advertising and fashion photographer and photojournalist for nearly fifty years, creating several memorable covers for Washington Post magazine, W, and The Face. Claire often exhibited her work in New York and London art galleries and in a time when nearly everyone else in her field had turned to digital scanning and computer-driven imaging, she continued to use a silver-based photographic process. Claire began teaching photography as a faculty member at New York University's Tisch School of the Arts in 2018, earning tenure in 2028. She's pre-deceased by her beloved husband Ted Fairwell.

It's more than a bit disconcerting that entire lives - lives we've known so intimately and in such detail over the past five years - can be condensed into such heartless, functional paragraphs. Inevitably, there, too, go us all. No matter the roar of our every breath, the end, at best, is a ripple.

As much as I hoped/prayed/implored that Claire's Prius would be the end (and the beginning), I'll concede that I share the sentiments of Jess, Spence and, in particular, Heff:

In fact, the whole overwrought montage was at least half ludicrous, and almost half lovely. But that precious ratio - which recalls the balance of silliness and beauty in Trollope and some of Hardy - has always been the show's strong suit, a 19th-century tone ingeniously invented and confidently maintained over five seasons. It's rare that a sensibility remains so unified and so unshy on a fancy soap opera; melodramatists too often get scared of being called hysterics and betray their genre, blowing it off for dumb stunts or trying, in some 11th hour, to sober up and turn manly. But the producers of "Six Feet Under" never cared about impressing the "Wire" or "Deadwood" audiences. They had their ratio, and they saw it through. "Six Feet Under" was a beautiful series, and its finale will suffice.

Goodbye, farewell and amen.

Lunar Park

The fictional BEE has a fictional ex-wife who fictionally starred as Phlox, one of my all-time favorite fictional characaters, in a fictional motion picture adaptation of one of my recent favorite fictional works written by one of my favorite fiction authors.

It appears that the new HP will continue to decorate my coffee table for another couple of weeks.

Check out Tony Scott's review of Lunar Park, Bret's 30-minute chat with Michael Silverblatt on KCRW's Bookworm and an audio excerpt of the novel read by the author himself.