The GOP idea of reform eludes me. They bounce Tom DeLay, under indictment in Texas for campaign cash shenanigans, and go for a “reform” candidate to replace him. They elect as their new majority leader a guy who handed out checks from big tobacco on the House floor. Huh?

Yesterday, my friend Higgins amused me whilst we were talking the War on Terror. As you know, we’ve spent $300 billion on the Afghan and Iraq wars and Osama bin Laudin and his No. 2 are still making videos taunting Bush and America for our inability to position a drone Predator in a place that can kill them. Higgins shouted: Osama’s a CIA asset! He’s always been a CIA asset. How do you think they produce those videos?!? Lest you think Mike’s lost his mind, Osama was most certainly a CIA asset during the Russian occupation of Afghanistan. Lest you think he’s completely sane, if you follow his thinking then you must believe that the CIA knew of or participated in the 9-11 Twin Towers tragedy. Where you fall on that scale is a litmus test of paranoia. Of course, just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean they AREN’T out to get you. Hmmmmm.

I went to see Woody Allen’s “Match Point” Thursday night with a new friend, the formerly Goth Cindy. Saw her again last night at Paseo. The movie was good, but somehow didn’t meet my expectations. Very twisty at the end. I can’t tell you what the problem was, but there were times I thought it moved fairly slow. Formerly Goth Cindy gave me another lesson in male-female relationships. She’s talked both nights about her most recent X. When all topics lead to another man, it’s hard for me to get my mojo working. Something tells me: “move along. This is not the droid you’re looking for”. I’m OK with that. Hmmm. Now that I think about it, what other choice do I have?

Last night was gallery opening night, the first Friday of the month. Sorry to say, I didn’t see much that excited me. I wanted to buy a Denice Duong small piece at JRB, but grandma bought it out from under me. I was hoping to score a birthday present for Mom, who has her special day very soon. Oh, well.

Don’t know the band’s name I heard at G Spot late Friday, but the band and the art I looked at last night was parallel. Competent musicians. Technically very good. The young woman had a good voice, kind of sweet. They played a good bit of blues. However, there wasn’t anything blue about the blues as they played it. It was empty of the angst and troubles the blues is all about. Landscapes. Maybe good brush technique. Maybe even wonderfully photorealistic. No heart. No soul. No emotional tug, no intellectual challenge. Flat and empty.

NEWS FLASH: As I write, Sinatra has finally consented to poke his head out of doors. He’s exploring my front courtyard as I write this. He reports many new and interesting things to smell. Small things are moving. There is a tree. Film at 11.

Friday morning, went with The Gary to Norman to the funeral of Leslie’s husband, J.W. I’d met J.W. a few times, but I mostly went for her. Leslie is someone I’ve known literally 40 years. At one time, she was practically a fourth sister. The very first time I laid eyes on her, she was in the 7th grade and doing a poem for speech class, Lord Buckley’s “The Naz”. She did the same poem at the funeral. It’s the perfect piece for the daughter of a jazz musician. I love you, Leslie, and you are in my prayers.

NEWS FLASH: Magnolia trees drop mouse-size and shaped seed pods. They roll when you paw at them. They don’t smell like anything in the house. You can pick them up by the stem, as if the tail of a rodent. It’s fun to fool the human into opening and closing the sliding glass doors. Film at 11

Tonight, I’ll play poker with my buds and Sunday I’ve been invited to a Super Bowl party. It’s nice to have friends and things to do. My life is a pretty good life, all things considered. On the other hand, reality is setting in and blogging must cease while I do my chores: laundry, dishes, make the bed, go to the dry cleaners, hit the grocery store, blahblahblogblah.

dinner was smallish — about 8 — at iron star and then there were five of us at my house for a movie. then i went to flip’s and saw the artist Lance, brother of Todd, late of GSpot and Paseo. They’re doing fine, although they experienced the death in a motorcycle wreck of their father about 4 months ago. Hadn’t checked in with them in a while and it was nice to catch up.

my office is still in the midst of redecorating and I can’t really work there and I sure as hell don’t work at home.

But I blog.

I find time to do it more often than not.

I expose my life, my thinking, my humor, my associates and activities as well as sharing some political crap and the occasional funny thing I run into while scanning the news channels.

Higgins’ Laura, in her cups again challenged me at every turn, confronting each and every statement. She also asked me a civil question. She asked “Why?”. Why do I do this?

Hmmmm. Self Absorbtion? Nah!

Duh!

I’d like to think there’s more to it than narcissism.

I think there are times when I write well. No matter what any of you readers may think or understand, I’d write for the blog just this way if there are none of you or a host. Writing is a skill and must be used every day to hone the craft of putting words together. Of carrying a thought to conclusion. Of seeing what works and doesn’t in the way of metaphors and long sentences and short bursts.

Which really works best: long paragraphs or single sentence terse Hemingway-esque breaks for the white space readability?

I write what I know and all I really know is what I see and do and experience. There are no boring times, only boring people. There are no boring places, either.

This life I write is of my own creation. It is my art. It’s fictional as hell and full of lies and half truths and embroidery for literary effect. AND ITS TRUE TO THE BONE.

I am the grandson of Kerouac and the son of Hunter S. Thompson.

I’m a memoirist and this is my memoire to the world.

I am near Northwest Oklahoma City’s Proust in the midst of a Remembrance of Things Past.

Pass me a madelaine while I read you this passage from Faulkner or Twain, both of whom I have wrestled for half a century and know the smell of their sweat in the Deep South humidity.

The conceit of this is that all this lying and fictionalizing and shading somehow keeps me more honest about who I am and what I do. If I don’t like what I read, I look for some serenity and have a barometer of my emotional temperature. Which is a long way round the bush to say that this is how I can stay cool. I can observe my behavior and thinking and not just react to it. ]

The voices in my head that sometimes appear are fictional and real at the same time. I get conflicted easily and I really am a scared six year old boy at times. I defy any honest man to deny he knows exactly that fear of which I speak. I don’t know what women think, honest or not.

I think men are brave in exact measure as they are afraid.

For me, this is an act of bravery. Of a willingness to be honest with myself, if no one else.

Laura challenged me that same night about a statement I made: Wisdom is knowledge plus bitter experience.

It is better for me to be transparent than to do as I did previously, which was to shade who I was to fit the expectations of others. For me, this is wisdom gained through bitter experience.

The practice of deceit has a cost I am no longer willing to pay. Wisdom. Bitter Experience.

The truth is almost always better than a lie. Wisdom. Bitter Experience.

I must practice my art or lose it. Wisdom. Bitter Experience.

Knowledge, even knowledge of wisdom, does not become wisdom until you can live according to its truth and teachings.

All of us have been taught: A kind word turns away wrath.

It’s true. I’ve seen it work. I’ve done it and seen the result.

Very wise knowledge. Why do we still lash out?

Think about the times you’ve delivered that verbal gut punch only to later wish you’d toned it down.

If one’s goal is to be wise, it would be wise to universally adopt that practice.

Myself, I can’t do that if I’m off kilter.

Think there’s a connection?

There you go, folks. That’s it. That’s why I write this blog. This is my therapy. This is how I find out how to stay centered. This is my classroom for my life, not just my self absorption. This is where I learn my lessons. If I do something shitty, might as well get it out there. I don’t always like what I do and how I’m thinking. That’s a big hint. If you want to do what is right, first you must stop doing what you think is wrong. If I’m ashamed to put something in this blog, then I’ll have to stop doing anything I’m ashamed to do.

It’s just blogblah!!!

If it makes you uncomfortable, look away. I sometimes do.

I had a good time last night at the Edgar Cruz-Reuben Romero flamenco show at Galileo’s. The music was wonderful, the crowd excited and the dancers were beautiful. I was fascinated by the arched back and red costumes of the dancers — there’s a visceral sexuality about it despite the fact that the dresses come to the floor. The dancers’ hands were like birds flitting about, very beautiful. The music, driven by conga drums, very masculine. Of course, being as much a showman as musician, Cruz played Bohemian Rhapsody and the Mason Williams hit, Classical Gas. Their finale, Maleguena, powerful, and the denoument, Fire Storm, passionate and moving. A very large woman in a red dress sang the Spanish standard about getting lots of kisses, Bessa me mucho ( ? ), with the voice of an angel. Saw lots of folks I know, but sat with Higgins and Laura, The Oz and Sonic Sharon. Too bad for you if you missed it.

Anybody watch the State of the Union speech? I’m hoping that by next year, I’ll have learned all the words to the Horst Vessel song and Deutchland Uber Alles so I can join in the celebration of Der Feurher’s speech. Although I think my coloring’s all wrong for brown shirt and red and black accents, I really love those butch high topped boots.

It’s NOT Fascism if WE do it, you know.

Well, gotta pay some bills. See you at Paseo dinner and movie night.