Replying to Saturday’s rich harvest of Comments: bmo, clearly you do not live in Berkeley or the San Franscisco Bay Area anywhere, where a phrase like “corporate-generated reality” would draw nothing but a yawn or a pang of nostalgia. No, it’s hard going, being a crackpot nowadays. And remember, I teethed on C. Wright Mills; this conversation is old. Come to California (said in the mellifuous tones of whomever, years ago, said, Come to Jamaica.) (Was it Geoffrey Holder?) (See, the corporation lives like a little yammering spider in my head too.) Read the rest of this entry »

For some time now, certain Boulder-ites of my acquaintance have been arguing the case for their … town? is Boulder a town? … being the center of the hip world. Or is it hippie. I am confused. But aren’t we all … the adrenaline crash, well, let us just respect that adrenaline is a powerful, powerful drug. Kindness starts with the self.

But you can see how stressful this has been, living through a Historic Moment and all. People are handing the let down in all different ways. Some are listless, some depressed. Some are in wonder that Arianna can go on—I notice more celebrity crap turning up on her front page every day—but wasn’t the Huff Po the perfect vehicle at the perfect moment. Read the rest of this entry »

A comment left on my FISA-Obama post just a few days ago:

You mean Barack Obama is a mortal human? No Way! Get outta town! … These people who were surprised by his FISA support have not done their research. He confirmed John Negroponte and Condoleeza Rice for their respective roles in the bush administration. He voted for the USA patriot act, too. Guess What? He would still make a better president than McSame.

Which, while funny and true, goes only partway there. Let me take you down (the Beatles said that) … the rest of the way.

Keith Olberman’s recent memo to Barack—this whole thing is so under my skin. And you know what that means. Yes … someone is deceiving themselves. Someone is telling less than the truth—many someones. Not that I’m suggesting they’ve got a clue. Read the rest of this entry »

It was just like the old days. People chaining themselves to things. Draping themselves with rolls of film. Okay, I forget the significance of the film, but it was raining buckets, do you hear me, buckets, when these brave souls heard the call of duty. When you chain yourself to something, remember: no lunch, no bathroom breaks. That’s revolutionary commitment! Chairman Mao would be proud. Oh, wait, that whole Mao thing went belly up.

Read the rest of this entry »

What the fork was I bitching about? There has been this badge up at Listics that took me forever to mouseover … and when I did, whoa! Of course now it’s long gone—I told you, I operate on Icelandic time—but there’s nothing easier than helping yourself, on a Mac. Just drag that sucker to the desktop and it’s yours. Unless of course FP has some kinda weird license on it. Copyright I get. That other stuff, no. It’s not that I don’t believe in the Good, or that it springs perpetual-like from the heart—I simply cannot stand anything that smacks of PBS.

So, after finally remembering what is thing was on my desktop—Frank! What greater honor, what higher accolade! I just do not know.

That Frank is … an old hippie, is what he is. Not, of course, wholly unlike oneself. Old not in years—well, maybe that too, depends on your perspective, you child—but to have been a hippie is to forever after shed traces of that far-away state of heart, of mind …

Dear HST, you can still see the line where the wave broke, from Grizzly Peak. On a good day you can see over the City and, way out to sea, to the tiny peaks of the Farallons. The water is so bright.

What I have always thought is that the wave never broke at all, but rose higher and higher til it curled over San Francisco and fell into the Pacific, disappearing into the ocean. So that, really, there was never any end. Not for me, not for Frank, or Annie … or a hundred thousand other souls.

The wave may grow smaller as it ripples outward in both the ocean and the dusty dimension of time, may seem to have disappeared … but that is illusion, dear man. You know as well as I, waves do not die.

I write to Hunter Thompson even though he is dead. To get jacked that high, daily, in order to live, to write, the thought tires me near to death. Cool as that kind of life was, it was also unsustainable. Which became instantly clear the moment any of us tried to raise kids. One of the sadder scenes I remember from the mountains was coming across a camp of completely stoned people, who never looked up … and their bewildered, dirty children, who ran alongside the car like beggars, peering in at my kids. Hi! Where you going? What’s your name? When really, they were scared, lost.

If I’m talking to HST again, there must be gonzo about. Which is at least half hippie anyway—at least for those who had edge. In Berkeley, we had edge. Hey, some of us still do. There’s me … there’s Dave Winer …

Edge as opposed to those drug-addled flower children in the Haight—present company excepted, Annie.

So here you are, dear href Frank. My public thanks. I’ve never received an award for being a pain in the ass. (Unless of course we count my divorce decree.)

You’re the best,
Zo