"I'm a nut, but not just a nut."

A fine selection of quotes from the lips of Bill Murray can be found towards the bottom of his IMDb bio page. These are mostly on the subjects of wealth, fame, entertainment, and Oscar, and give insight to Bill's thoughtful, everyman way of looking at life. As an incidental side-note, Bill played the titular character in The Life Aquatic with Steve Zissou (pictured here as the left-lobe-earringed seafaring documentarian) in which Seu Jorge (pictured below) played a supporting role.

Obrigado!

This is in my opinion, some of the best music in the world right now. We saw an excellent show at The Knitting Factory last night: Seu Jorge. In his words, "Welcome to Brasil Music." A Music that gets into your cells and moves you from the inside out. You might recognize this man for his role as Knockout Ned in City of God or as a member of Steve Zissou's crew in Wes Anderson's The Life Aquatic. I also highly recommend the Life Aquatic soundtrack, which includes several David Bowie covers performed by Seu Jorge.

The music of Cru is powerful, beautiful stuff that makes you happy to be alive. I can't say enough about it.

Nanoo-Nanoo

click the photo, read the article.

Dream: Epic Party Kidnapping

I'll try to write this fast. This is one of those, where if you don't write it fast enough, you forget half of it.

Party. Lots of friends. Parents. Mom and Barry. Samuel L. Jackson. Valentine. V has movies to show. Movies he made. One I was in, I don't remember being in. Comedy. Really off-color. I played a Chinese guy. Very exaggerated, but frighteningly realistic. My face was so contorted, it didn't look like me. Underneath the contortions, I think it really looked like someone else anyway, but everyone recognized it as me. I can't remember any of the story, but there were maybe a couple vignettes, like sketches. Hilarious. Everyone was in an uproar of laughter. Some were in shock.

Sometime before or after this event, I was sitting across from my bro at a small table, having dinner. He said something about his being concerned with his legacy. It was funny, because right when he said that I was looking at a part of a newspaper sticking out from under placemats & more paper, at a headline or subheader that had the word legacy in it. I made a comment about it and pushed it under the other stuff.

I said, "Well, I think maybe an important part of a legacy is whether the person enjoyed life." This wasn't exactly it, but similar. I could tell this resonated with him. It was something, I almost didn't have the nerve to say, but went for it, and now it was out. I sensed things becoming emotional, but it was a good feeling at the same time. Each of us said, I think, one more thing, but I can't remember what.

After the movie-watching, the crowd trickled down to the lobby (apparently we were in a hotel). This was much like the Culver Hotel, but we were definitely in another town. A new town. We were complete outsiders. And while the hotel was sophisticated or pseudo-sophisticated, I started to get some strange sense that we were city-slickers, sticking out in a real country bumpkin town.

As people were making their way outside, I had a brief conversation with Antonio about V's movie (by the way, for some reason we were at a big party in a park — like Golden Gate Park — and standing by a tree). I thought it was so great, but he could definitely benefit from a marketing person. Someone who knows marketing. Or just someone with a lot of connections. Who could make a call to MTV (as I put my hand to the side of my head, thumb and pinky out, to signify a phone) and say "I just saw the most hilarious animation (now it was an animation). You have got to see this... bla bla bla." Antonio agreed. He started to tell me a sort of anecdote regarding his dealings with getting a video game idea sold/made.

Back inside the lobby, most everyone had made their way outside and were doing some kind of conga-line or some shit. I got trapped inside for a moment. I don't remember who I was with now, but there were the two of us and someone who worked at the hotel, a real artificial, dated character. Like an old radio personality come to life. Slick parted blond/strawberry hair, big toothy smile, tuxedo. Everything on him was shiny. He was trying to convince us to do "Karaoke" although it was with a live pianist. I was really tempted. I imagined singing all my favorite standards. But I had to get away. Everyone was out there.

As I looked out, and they were doing their conga sort of routine in the road (it was night, by the way. very dark out there), I saw a jeep drive up very close behind them and turn on his high beams. These really were like beams coming out of the headlights and directly into the crowd of friends. I got distracted by the oily character again, and when I looked back to the window, everyone was gone. Now I really had to get out there and see what was going on.

Later, outside, no one in sight. I started wandering down a road. I had a bad feeling. I was almost looking for a place to hide, but looking for my party at the same time. As I walked, it seemed there were gradually more people walking with me. Then I saw the Jeep. It was cornering us. I don't remember how, but we were kidnapped.

We found ourselves in some building with a network of hallways. Like a school or a hospital or that sort of thing. I became aware that I had entered a mind-set, sort of like a sheep, accepting that I had no power and that to rebel would surely result in death. I was at a crossroads, then. Do I take action and try to shape the outcome, or just wait and see how it ends. If I did the latter, it most definitely wouldn't end well.

So I (somewhat hesitantly) began to take action. I started yelling at the kidnappers, giving them shit. Trying to point out how totally powerless they were, psychologically. But I think I actually said things like, "W-W-W-What the h-hell do.... think a-you're dooing???"

It was that torturous dream speak, when you take initiative or become confrontational. You really want to have full confidence. That's the only way it will work, but you're scared. You're scared as hell. And the words just don't want to come out. You open your mouth. You try to push them out, but only a whisper comes.

Something happened. It was like we all started acting something out. A scene. Suddenly there were many more people there. We were acting as though we all were getting shot by automatic weapons. Writhing, as the bullets thumped into us. There was even blood. Where did that come from? It was a seamless effect.

In writhing, first vertically, then horizontally, I think I bounced my face off the floor. This hurt. I was pretty sure I split my lip. I managed to get permission to go to the bathroom to take care of it. While I was in there, I realized I had an opportunity.

I didn't come out. I almost did a couple of times. It was tempting to give up my rebel effort, but I stuck with it. I just held the door closed as tightly as I could. There was no lock. There wasn't anything to prop it shut. But it did open inward and there was no handle on the outside, so I just pushed and pushed. I heard commotion. They started to get impatient. One of the kidnappers tried to push his way in. He got the door open a couple inches, probably a few times, but I still managed to keep him out.

I had my cell-phone in my pocket. This was the real action I was afraid of taking. Calling 9-1-1. I would put my hand in my pocket and fiddle with the phone. Even run my fingers over the numbers. 9... 1... 1... 9... 1... 1... They would hear me making the call and then I'd really be in trouble. Maybe they would just decide to open fire on the door. I'd get hit for sure.

Somewhere around this point, I drift out of sleep. I can hear Jamie talking to someone in the other room. I drift back into sleep.

This time, I'm one of the kidnappers, talking to a man who seems like a manager-type figure for whatever this building is we're in. He's cooperating with the kidnappers. They're talking about me. He says he'll see what he can do about the situation.

As he goes to the door of his office, my POV shifts to his. He looks across the hall, toward the bathroom door. Near him is an empty glass pitcher or vase. A large one. He throws it at the bathroom door and it shatters. He closes his door to a crack and waits.

From his POV, I see the bathroom door open a crack and there is my face peering out. Just part of it. Pretty much just half of my face as I peer out with one eye. My face is low, as if to be more incognito. A tired expression in my eyes. Dark purple rings under them. Then the realization that from my POV as the manager, I am doing the same sort of thing. I am imagining what I must look like to myself. Perhaps the other me (the one in hiding) is seeing the same thing I am. His own face staring back at him.

Dream: Centipede Possums

Centipede sized mammal, grey hairs like the bristles of a pipe-cleaner, but soft, crawling across the bed. I picked it up and held it in the palm of my hand. It stayed there. It seemed like I was sharing the bed with Jamie and another couple, or they were in the vicinity. We were trying to figure out what this thing was and where it came from. When I
looked back at my hand, it had grown. Now I was starting to recognize it. "Oh! It's a possum!" I said with a tinge of horror, even though it looked more like some sort of rat or guinea pig with long spiky hair. I think it had little buck teeth. Then I noticed another one. Small, like when I saw the first, but when I picked it up, it started to grow too. Like they were feeding off of my touch. I put the both of them down on my bedside table. I was starting to get worried. Where did these baby possums come from? I said something like, "Where there are baby possums, there's a mama possum," and "Great, we have possums
living in our..." Did I say house or apartment? I don't know. Then a memory came to me of two possums that had turned up indoors. For some reason we never did anything about them. It's those possums, I thought. I imagined them hiding somewhere, the mother possum surrounded by squirming bristly buck-toothed things, trying to nurse. I got up — I'd been sitting up in bed this whole time — and I started looking around for some way to get rid of these two baby possums I'd found. I didn't have it in me to squash them, although it did cross my mind. I started looking for something big enough to catch both of them in. I looked back at my bedside table and they were gone. I kept looking. I found a tall ceramic cup, roughly the size of a pint glass, and I started looking around the room for the babies. There were small piles of clothes scattered around my side of the bed. I tried to sift through them a little bit, somewhat afraid of what I might find. Then I saw one squirming around, its back end sticking out from some article of clothing. I picked it up. Scooped it up with the cup, rather. Then took it out of the cup and looked at it. Hmm. These things are looking more like cats, I thought. Wait a minute. This is a cat. Jamie and I agreed. It looked like Stripe, but much younger and smaller. Stripe is about four to four-and-a-half months old now. This kitten looked about 7 or 8 weeks, maybe. But we'd seen this kitten around, eating the cat food, hanging out and doing kitten things, etc., but we had confused him with Stripe. Despite the difference in size/age, we just assumed he was Stripe. Too busy, maybe, to give it much thought. We decided that he was a neighborhood cat that had snuck into our apartment/house, perhaps repeatedly, mooching off of our love and food, sometimes staying for days at a time.

Moving Below Sea-Level

In honor of the beautiful city of New Orleans, which has suffered this terrible flood, I am reposting a piece I wrote after a visit almost two years ago.

October, 2003:
A week in New Orleans. Bed in the Bywater. Bikes to the French Quarter. A girl's bike with crooked handlebars. Jackhammer. Up every morning. Breakfast and Coffee. Croissants. Garden Balconies. That Friendliness. Sun's Rays. The Breeze, Louisiana Air Conditioning. Heavy Raindrops dripping from a bright umbrella. Babies. A girl's life at three months. A boy's life at a year. Mother's giving suck in the kitchen, in the bedroom, in the living room, in the restaurant, on the bus. Flood-wall at the levee. We're moving below sea-level. The succulent air. The Back Yard. Elephant ears, four-plus feet wide. Green vines. Dew-laden tufts of lawn. A thorny bush. A lizard eats a wasp. The Bayou. Iridescent dragonflies. Cypress trees and knees. Wild Hemp Weed. St. John's Wort. Thus, the Snakes, the Frogs and the Gators on their bellies smile. The turtles drop into the water like stones rolling off of stones. Egrets slink behind trunks, roots, reeds, stalks, blades, folding, raising, stretching, dipping their articulated twigs in and out of soft ripples, their downy bodies nodding in time. Back in the city. Stray cats live and multiply beneath the floorboards of a local Police Station. Merchants gather at the square, flipping cards and kissing brass. A bench at the Big Muddy. A long train passing holds you captive there. Upriver, Lafayette No. 1. Tombs built by Yellow Fever. Some broken open, exposing dusty artifacts and mortal ruminations. Magazine Street boutique. A necktie. A candlestick. Looking for a pint. Mossy brick and dank canopies. A streetcar. A taxi. Tastee coffee. Stories by candlelight and hot baths. People are buzzing. Expectant, yet calm. We bare witness. A blur of cream silk and flowers. Gold, pearl, silver, platinum. Joy and revelry. Music and dancing. Feasting and drinking. Jazz. Swing. Swamp Pop. Rockabilly. Folk. Spotted Cat acoustics. Gravelly Savoy. Pounding hammers, scraping nails and bass-strings clapping out percussion, meet with the sound of horns. The room wags, nods and bounces, joints tied to an unseen hand. Partners twirl and kick, posturing, fingers spread, mouths agape, all toothy smiles and wide-eyed oh's. A woman. The old flapper girl with white hair. She wears it short and pinned. Her waves and curls turning around her head like the lapping of a serene sea against pale rock, cracked, lined, but worn smooth. She sits at the bar. I see her in a periwinkle frock, white gloves, a long string of pearls. Old soul with a young heart. She knows the moves.