Category Archives: Writer

Sinatra’s swinging for Jihad

One thing that’ll always stay caught in my memory nets is years ago my ex in California had this theory that Frank Sinatra’s soul was meant to come back as the AntiChrist because he had anger issues;  I guess she had some insider knowledge she got from listening to Lady is a Tramp backwards; I never tried it;  she had a mystical link or two going so at the time it seemed a reasonable theory; another reason I steer clear of those gorgeous young ladies of Scientology handing out cards in Times Square; I’m impressionable; I’m like hot tupperware; I’ll bend but eventually I’ll snap back into place; it just may take years;

I just finished another solo piece, based on my finding my birth parents;  it’s Yellow Alert around this household so push push push and then give birth to these quintuplets; the thought of working tomorrow is heinous to me and I’m sloshing about wildly in a quiet fervor of moving forward in life; it’s all good but the amount of grays on my little beard are keeping score;  it’s not whether I quit; it’s what I wear when I do and what parts of my body will be showing when I dump off my laptop;  will they be something basic cable would pixellate?  I don’t know;  what next? what next. what next$#^,=.

A couple of lines from and for Lona; haven’t had a chance to work onPoint of Venus. Sorry my dear.

The lines of the world can be found running down the sides of your body;

somewhere behind your legs where they bend at the shins are mournful liquids where eels of harmony and discord swim alongside each other and when you walk you both calm and ionize the air around you;

I can hear the ocean breathing inside you; it is more sacred than the Talmud; it is the forgotten clay of the Bible molded together to speak through your breath. 

The Bermuda Triangle of Reaganomics, Puberty and Catholic Sex Education

Inside of this unholy trinity lies my adolescence floating and bobbing in a sea of shy virginity, personally named acnes and intense, lubricated and watery and strange shame filled encounters in my bathroom with the Philadelphia Eagles cheerleaders along with enough bathroom cleaning product air residuals the Scrubbing Bubbles started reciting the Constitution to me in German.

While living in Indiana, in 1983, I was left alone with the Catholic Church once a week through CCD, and forced to take Sex Ed;  last year when I visited my family I found the text book used and read parts to my mom, who was horrified and said ‘If I had known that’s what was in there, I would pulled you out of there.”

I was, and still am, shy. I was, and still am, a psychic and sensitive perfectionistic sponge; I was, and still am, a man with enough Scorpio in his chart to have Sex Machine spinning on my internal juke box like Kennedy’s eternal flame at Arlington, never off, never off; orgasm is at minimum a five syllable word; In India, one more common practice is to look at a newborn’s birth chart to measure the life path, tendencies, etc… if they had looked at mine, they would have said ‘Keep this Sexbomb away from the Catholic Church. Very very far away. If so, he must never ever be allowed to become Sexy. He must never become SexyYoda.’

Below is a snippet of the classic “Reverence for Life and Family: Catechesis in Sexuality’ by John E. Forliti, D. Min. which looks like Democrat, Minnesota but is not;

In Chapter 6: Challenges to Integration, section 8, he states:
In its pastoral care of young people who experience masturbation, the Church advises the following guidelines:
First, avoid the extremes-the one extreme which sees masturbation as something “normal” and not having any moral content at all, and the other extreme which sees it as totally degrading and morally reprehensible. The truth lies somewhere in the middle;

For a repressed Catholic dude, not too bad;

Now, let’s skip to Chapter 10: The Choice for Chastity, also section 8:
The three main sins against chastity for the unmarried are masturbation, premarital sex, and homosexual activity. Masturbation is sinful because of its selfish orientation and because it is against the norms of marriage…

Imagine the delight of my 13 year old eyes reading these two passages and making my equipment want o blow up like Fem-bots;  does the Catholic Church pay reparations for attempted psychological sexual homicide? I took everything to heart; thank God my loins were smarter;

Blurry American Line between poetry and prose and comedy and the Infinity +C

Yesterday I went to an open mike inside a downtown Brooklyn diner; outside of myself, the age range of the participants was from early fifties to a very lively 92 year old man who sang and soft shoe tap danced his poem/song/dance as it was something he created the night after he lost at the Kentucky Derby in 1942, I think he said, sometime in the forties while I was still a young man in my last life; hell, we probably drank together then;  I read two poems, one a straight on love poem poemy poem and one I just ripped off a couple of weeks ago in response to my internal resistance to Twitter as a form of communication with people that may or may not actually be there; I don’t even like emailing when I have something important to say; they seemed to like this poem, which I consider more a rolling commentary slick than a poem; my old internal Professor Crustaceous with the slight British Accent and horniness for form and rhyming disapproves; It reminds me when I lived in San Francisco and within a week I went to an open mikes for poetry and after the poem someone from the audience yelled ‘do a haiku on the penis’ which sounded painful but I rambled off something and they howled; and then at my standup open mike someone yelled ‘bring the guitar back on stage!’ when they didn’t care for my humours;  I realize genres can be a distraction when pursuing a career;   you just want to breathe out, breathe purely;  you can’t please everyone but pleasing someone is a good start;

So when all genres are soaked up whatever’s left is the unknown;  Infinity + C; in math, because of the  imprecision of finding an area under a curve (known as integration), +C is the amount the formula can’t estimate when going from -infinity to plus infinity, even if you know the formula; looking back I find comfort in it;

Here’s the poem I read, maybe someone else can tell me if they would call it a poem;

Dating the Internet

Hi Internet; they say this is a conversation;
I’m very shy Internet. I didn’t even know what gender I was until I was 13. Imagine my surprise.
I spotted you the moment you walked into the bar with Al Gore.
or in these tip-toey days what they now call a lounge; How often do you meet someone in a joint like this who looks the same the morning after? Outside of unrealistic films, that is…
I love the coolly emotionally detached
house music they’re playing; I have a sudden craving for a Stoli and lime and a pedicure.
I guess I am ‘bot.’
let me buy you drinks
’til I look like taylor lautner’s abs;
I know you’ve probably seen enough of them all around inside you Internet; Can I call you Nettie? Allright, I guess not.
Let’s go to my place; it used to be a Radio Shack;
sometimes I hear the ghosts of crappy remote control cars at 2am.
we can split an Amy’s frozen burrito
and try to find the bad stitching on my slightly damaged Calvin Klein boxer briefs
I got at the discount store for $6;
nice 2 play game with someone else other than my dog! She cheats though I let her.
Midnight hangs around here til 3am some nights;

Are you a vegan, Internet? No I know you’re not; hell you’re probably powered by pink slime; that’s ok. I’ll cook your meat and pretend it’s kale. I can overlook it.

Let’s get the elephant out of the room:
If you steal my kidney when I’m passed out, get a good price;
send me photo of Tony Stark keeping it in a glass case as a Christmas ornament.
so I know it went to good home;
didn’t end up in perfume bottle or vaccine. Tks!

Yes, I thought of joining Occupy
cause I have anger; would use it to get arrested and increase my chances of getting laid when I’m bragging about it like the dude in the juice bar ahead of me the other day, so much the wheatberries in the jar sprouted. Would that turn you on?

Relationships are this gorgeous achy necessity…it’s in one of my scripts; maybe Harvey Weinstein needs a kidney?

I guess I got blind spots; some have gravitational pull of a black hole; stick your hand in someone’s blind spot you might turn into infinity and pull out a bag of love letters at the same time. Have you ever been in love Internet? If you have a thing for the International Space Station I can tell you long distance relationships don’t work unless you don’t like committing;

They call me The Breast Whisperer. I can hear the screams trapped in them created by the men who think they rule the world. Allow me to earn my nickname. In those moments, I am most definitely not ‘bot.

I know you feel a guilty about ruining the art of conversation; It’s not your fault; I know a good therapist; Maybe my little ache and your cluttered little techno-ache can clang together and create more than a cliff bar, a latte, a fake phone number and some nasty tweets the morning after. Please don’t give everything I say to you to the FBI. Must you remember everything? See you on the prowl, Internet. Stay free.

Spiropractic adjustments and the toastmouths

Most of the time things happen in the world and then things happen inside the inner world and they seem like they pop along independently each other, only to drop by and flirt for a few minutes or have a quickie at the least famous motel in town and then you feel in snyc with what you’re saying and doing with the inner world that tumbles around  inside, curling and flaring and crayola-ing like the surface of Jupiter being stirred with the knife of your own conscious whips;  and that’s most of the time, at least for me;

Then some days things happen and then things happen inside and they feel linked together strongly by leftover cable wire used to build the Golden Gate Bridge with a splash of Canadian Orange paint.  Some days things are strong and curious and unquestionable and you feel right and pure and adjusted, something knocked back into place like having an inflatable anvil fall on your head and suddenly remembering where you dropped your keys twenty years ago or what you whispered to your dying wife three lifetimes ago; tonight, after dealing with a weekend of professionally frustrating situations, I met two men at Whole Foods who were fascinating, a little intimidating, and some sort of energy level that jarred something back into place.

One of the gentlemen, a musician, stared at me and uttered a rhyme about creating art and living art and rolling in the largeness of life like heaven and earth were mixed together in a mad confusing beautiful compass of expression and change pockets of grandeur; OK, I’ve souped up what he said but the crux of it reminded me of something, I guess to let it rip; Nothing is by coincidence; I was deeply livid, deep in the pond pissed, over my screen partner casually canceling and his words dropped a match;  as Mickey says,
“Kid, you’re gonna eat lightning, and you’re gonna crap thunder! You’re a greasy, 145 pound Italian tank!”

I’ve never crapped thunder but it sounds like I would never need toilet paper so I’m ok with it; one thing is for certain, a good dose of rage relief coupled with a random stranger epiphany adjustment can really hit the spot and open that large jellybean mouth of life.

Another snippet from my patiently waiting novel Point of Venus; I think I’m going to have to hire someone to sketch Lona, the main character, designs in the book. I want to include the sketches as part of this novel, which is written partly inspired by fashion, healing myself, joy of writing, interplanetary fashion, and romantic prophecy as based on a dream I had several years ago and I am since affected and caught with flashes of the future; we’ll see how it pans out, out of a lion’s mouth or in it’s stomach; Happy Dimanche:

She heard heartaches, she heard young lovers who had known each other since grade school fight through years of growth to become what they always wanted – one. One story after another and when she had reached the last whisper, the man’s voice, her strange mirror angel, and she could hear sadness in his voice, like an echo inside a page, and she allowed the scroll of that diamond to melt into her skin, to swim into her bones and settle, thinking that what might be left is an imprint, a map to guide her, to cut her dreams in pieces and glue them together to form a broken bell, a broken bell to ring to create that aching opening that makes one awake like a predator for a moment, to hold that broken bell in the hand of the heart and let it ring for something, feeling the human heart as a pile of broken bells that mesh together to create a song that burned inside Lona. His bells rang inside her bones and made her feel like a skeleton of soil and embers that made her realize what a diamond really was: a fossilized Promise to be Thawed. Her bones felt covered in pieces of lips that history stole and replaced with filler; one whisper led to thousands and Lona slipped out of her trance and her body shook. 

Quiet insurgence

I ate chocolate covered espresso beans by conscious accident and intentional subconscious brushfire; now my extremities feel like a classic Warhol painting looks; when  lately I’ve had moments with my solo material of stepping into hyperdrive at later hours and sometimes a little Jolt Cola equivalent can help or sometimes it can be too much like now; oh well;  all of the projects are brimming at the same time;  I pulled my back out over a month ago trying to prevent a bull rush of a dancer on stage from falling down and the muscle near my sacrum tweaked so loudly I could hear it do I’ve been laid up;  it makes me cranky and when I’m laid up, my dog’s laid up and she’s been limping now;  pets psychically link to your energy;  today’s the first day I felt the engines start to rev and when I got my my dog was hopping around like a firecracker; it soothes me as at her age when she slows down I start drifting into thoughts of her ascending into Doggie Heaven via the giant spinning bagel. I am not ready for the giant spinning bagel to descend upon my household and have a carb-overloaded Jesus Dog take my little squashie away;  hopefully as my back heals completely she will too and chunky Jesus Dog can go to Dunkin Donuts two blocks away and chat about the Rapture with the seventh day adventists who hold their meetings over crullers;

Th achy back has forced my to screw my butt into the chair and wrestle with my material;  and like every artist I’m pretty certain there’s grappling with walking away from survival into  a faith door, the floating faith door that follows me around and maybe it opens or maybe it’s locked or maybe it doesn’t exist but I do know that it’s squeaky and noisy and anytime I move away from what’s death, what’s callous and cold and old in my life there is noise;  the noise of life, the little blasts of compromise that come from behind;  some areas are bleak, some are coated with sugar, and some float on barbed wire but the door stands and floats;  as soon as my back clears, I’m back on stage;   and I can wear my sexypants; this is my purpose in life; this is what the gods whispered to me right before I populated my mother’s womb: Lee, you must ride these sexypants to glory; this is your purpose, for which you were built; if you don’t all the dead talk show hosts will revolt.

I am on OKCupid and honestly I had forgotten what a grueling process it is to reject and be rejected;  I have soft clay heart that beats strongly but in in Swiss time precision;  people look at my ad and I look at theirs and I feel badly not responding to those who rate my ad 4/5 stars but when I see they drink heavily or like dating raccoons or having sex while having raccoons watch I get a little discerning;  I am looking for one person in particular;  it’s scary marbles out there;  one woman said contact me if ‘you’re not an asshole with something to prove.’  That paints a bleak picture of my gender;  I’m giving this site seven more days; after my juice cleanse when my bowels are  as slick as a waterslide I’ll be clear  about it;

I leave with a clip I wrote on the back of a figurative napkin in a bar sewn together by thoughts with dreadlocks; from my novel in progress:

Lona swam through the store as men dropped to their knees and for a moment, Lona could fly through each diamond, as if she could read them like tea leaves, wrapping their history around her torso, searching for the answer and after a few minutes of this spontaneous musical number, as men became dancers around her, in velvet vests singing like blooming ostriches their mandate of passion and giddy malaise without their object of hunger, one of the men had proposed to another man’s girlfriend;

Renaissance II, with hygiene

In getting my play Whorapy  on its feet I want to do it organically as possible; bring people in slowly and mix and match until there’s a common communal wavelength that brings the highest possible resonance aesthetically, emotionally and spiritually to the piece;  today I just cast the third part of the eleven I need;  it’s great to build piece by piece; I’ve never been fond of cattle calls, not for this sort of piece, at least;  so now eight to go.

The next step is finding a home to build Pussyhats, the speakeasy where most of the play takes place; it is a play and will be a film; last night catching pieces old black and white film at a bar, I saw how the camera was subtly and constantly in motion and following the actor s they moved in any direction;  maybe I’m sensitive to it, biased towards the era but it seems actor and camera were more of a tango than tug of war or chop boxing match;  I would like to incorporate more of that ye olde tyme style to what I and my crew create; first, though, Whorapy  as play. My acting teacher said that thirty years ago TV was at the bottom rung of the writing spectrum and now TV is superior to film and theater which are more ho-hum; I have a passionate auto-corrective mechanism to change that sentiment, that pattern;  maybe theater is dead or cryogenically loitering until it’s thawed for a new generation of glorious divine human madness; I don’t know the answer but I do know, from when I directed my last play in 2000 in San Francisco, people either loved or hated it;  I want people to have an experience form the moment they step into the building;  theater is an event, a phenomenon and I hope twenty years from now acting teachers will say theater  won;t even have to say theater and film are in Renaissance; it’ll be dripping down the walls I feel lucky to have found the actors I have to this point, I look forward to the next pieces floating into the goo I call art.

In two weeks I hope to have the Frenemies  video complete.

In two weeks I plan to be on stage talking about history of dental floss or birthmothers or conspiracy theories or whatever bubbles out of my mouth and being without burning my tongue.

I can say I can live with never drinking again; I had three quarters of a glass of wine last night and had Dystopian dreams and today feel like a twenty year old Candygram; so, no more.

Zombies are Raw Foodists

After averaging .0000005 zombies per episode the season finale of The Walking Dead finally hired more than three extras and there was massive zombie mauling;  as a fan of good TV I guess I’ll start there; given that I gre up watching massive amounts of TV and the TV Guide was imprinted on the insides of my skull it is, as I’ve said to friends and fire hydrants willing to listen, a marvel I can read and write;  I know TV shows that lasted half a season. I am Manimal,   I also just invested enormous amounts of time watching the TV show Lost. I loved it except for the last half hour when all the characters gathered in a Church and it turns out they were all dead instead of living in a parallel universe from quantum jumping and twisting wonderfully set up by the writers and then shat on by the ending.  i was disappointed to say the least.  I’m into alternate realities as I believe we’re borrowing from them without knowing it, especially when I need good advice from myself and I can’t get it from the Myself that’s wandering around here, though the attraction is obvious.  I may write a different ending to the show and do it with puppets; it’s like spending time watching all three Star Wars and at the end one of Ewoks unzips and a young boy emerges and starts playing a flute and all the characters disappear into his ear as he plays; some ridiculous shit that makes little to anti-sense.

I met with an animator/editor tonight for the Frenemeis video; I think it’s going to look great when it’s done and more important, ionized perfectly enough to cause the galactic alignment to pour space bucks right into the trust fund for the film’s budget tummy.

I’m moddy and slightly chaotic in crunchy and fruity colors and soundbytes; I know this about myself;  looking forward to lighting up the catacombs with someone else in mature and childlike ways with compassionate renegade hands;  tonight in strology class when my teach asked ‘how much do you give up of yourself in a relationship?’ one of my classmates said ‘nothing!’ which made me laugh in a  way when laughs are really pity tears candy coated for the folks in the room and my teacher said ’50 %’; he’s talking from asrtology and chart analysis; and as there’s a little struggle between what is love and what is mating on earth seem to gnash a bit at the teeth I wonder if that percent fluctuates from moment to moment from 50 to 897% to infinity percent.  I want to close that gap between what I call Close the Hatch on the giddy inner madness to mate and the Light full of Sex that makes saints blush;  there has to be a blending, to swim and walk at the same time.   I am dubbing the next phase of life LeeTrek III:  The Search for Meaningful Sex, or Spock.

I threw my back out last week while rehearsing for a show where I had to support a very strong dancer  who had to throw herself into me, like doing completely illegal squats; I have ultimate respect for dancers; they’re football players without helmets as far as what they do to their bodies; and they’re strong as three of me tied together.

one last one; mr personal trainer, who is French Haitian descent and very robust, went to Florida on vacation around the same time as the shooting incident down there; he said he felt pretty tense walking around down there;  another example of the glory and magic of guns and racism blended together to create 1953.  Hopefully the Mayans will sweep this junk away when they show up come December.

Frenemies in Action and Appendage Dissertations

I’ve started to look at footage for Frenemies and I have to admit I’m excited, especially after having to deal with the State of New York’s Youth Nazi Party Junior Spokesperson and Fake Streetsweeper and then some Novia Scotia crosswinds and temperatures;  after two hours of grappling with Final Cut and technology in general I’m going to hire someone; otherwise my computer will end up in several quadrants of the universe;  I have little patience of passion for software language mastery;  I’m the petulant artist with a passion for romping through the dingy maelstroms of the human condition in disco clothes with great naughty words scribbled on them so I don’t have much patience for how to get a graphic to explode into tiny notes between shots;  I have awe and respect for those that do and am now going to pay someone to prove how Awesish I am towards them;  it took me three days to come down from the organic high of filming and am ready to swerve back into grappling with all projects; when I go a few days without writing I get a bit cranky on top of my normal Martian mood climate.

I will say that I am excited to finish this little promotional video;  Monique, who plays Kate, is very talented and I feel good as we head into the next phase of attracting money like Oprah; otherwise I’ll do what the Federal Reserve does and just print a bunch of fake money, except I’ll have portraits of all the same Presidents except with facial expressions right as they’re climaxing; it will be sexy fake money, unlike the real fake money we currently use; still, I’d love to have a loads of that fake real money in my bank account so Frenemies can be filmed with as much original vision as possible.

 

 

There are times where I wish I could clip the intercontinental transdimensional cable wire that runs from my brain to my penis; hotwire my ethics so I can take myself for a spin; something won’t let me sleep around anymore;  my penis is much smarter than me now; I don’t know when it happened; maybe it got tired of laying around ignored all the time and got an online degree at the Phoenix School while I was sleeping; but I cannot just ‘get laid’ anymore; my penis, in a lecture circuit to my other organs, has turned them against me and now it only rises when prompted by some inner sanctum uprising of the soul, streaking through the Valley of Aches and shouting madness at all the souls around until its echo is swallowed and returned better than when it left my groin;  it can make for lonesome nights but there’s something deeper going on and all I can do it is let it wrestle  until there’s nothing left but feathers and organic orgasms.

All I want for this evening…

…is to hear the song I haven’t written yet, preferably in a key I can sing.

I would also love, for one Sunday, in one Catholic Church, for Jesus to materialize in the flesh out of his statue, walk onto the altar and tell everyone in order to reach heaven they have to eat a tub Nutella in the nude while watching  America’s Next Top Model.

There is a magic in life where, once every cell is committed to a path that is purely from the heart, you begin to meet the people and have the experiences that will catapult you, hurdle you joyfully down that new path. A fragrant serendipity that saturates every area of your life. That is what I fill my imagination with now.

Something wonderful is about to happen…

 

Sliding scale morality

As an adoptee born in Pennsylvania where I am not allowed access to my original birth certificate I find it funny it’s warped inside an abortion issue where the idea is that life begins at conception; unless you’re adopted; then it begins conveniently once you’re taken home. everything before that is plastic shit; not even real feces that can be recycled and used for mulch to grow wisdom tulips for the next generation; this is Monsatto sponsored chemical dung that can only sit in the garden for the next six Mayan cycles and do nothing for the world around it;  if life begins at conception, then it’s time to make that rue apply to everyone;  I think what they should do is just put a UPC symbol on every woman’s uterus so the Uberstate can monitor when life begins inside of it or if it’s just echoes of pleasure pudding from joyful sex in which case the uterus will be confiscated; why be coy about the issue here.  when I think about how much nonsense I had to go through to find my birth parents due to this legislative Candy Land for Sith Lords it make my man uterus crinkle and spit.   So which is, life at conception for all or for none?  Oy vey, I’m voting for Dr. Kervorkian for President. Al Pacino as Dr. Kervorkian for Vice President and Bill Hader  as Al Pacino for Secretary of Defense.  I’ll run everything else.

I know it’s a Presidential/Summer Olympic/NY GIants Super Bowl champions year and so usually it’s easy to get caught in the froth of red vs blue or grinkle vs drunke or whatever other Boolean analogy we have to make it seem like we have much of a choice; this year feels strangely quiet, like a rhythm is being missed for something larger and that brings me comfort because it means that underneath the usual patterns of fervor of spitting on the opponents lawn there’s a resonance in the soil, a humming that will seep into the feet quietly of every citizen of at least this country and cause eyeballs to shake loose theirHoliday Inn 1953 canned Eisenhower blankets and allow themselves to sway like blades of grass, together swaying with one wind but each in their way as nature does so easily;  I think there’s a  whole new currency flowing underneath the money we call money now and if you crack open the pyramid on any dollar bill and withstand the crooked tears and the angry mob spittle you’ll hear and see what lies inside: gold ole turn of the species wisdom ready to blow through modern times;  I can’t vote for either of the two candidates this fall presented by Duff Beer (Duff Dry, Duff Light.. all from the same tub); vote for new resonance;  vote for the achy heart winds that sit in our wounds waiting to be blown across our souls for healing, a vibrant sex that will heal the crack in the Liberty Bell, that will spill out what hasn’t been written in the Constitution by the imagination’s little orgy dance with the unknown hymns inside every child, every animal, every creature that walks this country.

Of course, if we don’t fess up maybe Jesus will come back and kick the sex right out of us.  Ah, we’ll see.