LA Weekly

One of the questions of our day, at least in this field, is whether or not anybody reads anymore. Apparently it's not a rhetorical question. I read an interesting piece, I think it was in the New Yorker, not long ago that said humans aren't genetically predisposed towards reading. It's a learned behavior, and we could be coming upon a post-reading era. V.S. Naipaul has said much about the death of the novel. Newspapers are increasingly becoming incubators for online content, under which the imperative is shorter, shorter. Life is increasingly busy, or so it seems, and the energy and attention for reading is becoming harder and harder to come by, etc.

Lately, though, I've found a real solace and enjoyment in reading. So much so that I barely watch TV anymore. In the past half year I've read more than I have in a long, long time. I can't even recall all the novels I've read, but here are a few: Dirty Work by Larry Brown; Solo Faces and Light Years by James Salter, Rhythm of the Road by Allbyn Leah Hall, LA Rex by Will Beal, an LAPD cop, and most recently Tree of Smoke by Denis Johnson. I'm currently reading The Road by Cormac McCarthy.

Each of these books has been an experience unto itself. I've lost myself, at a time when I need to, in every one. James Salter and Johnson's latest have been particular revelations. In fact, DJ's book is enough to revive one's faith in the novel as a vital form all by itself. It's sprawling, complicated, vivid and transcendent all at once. If you ever thought you had nothing left to read about our Vietnam experience, please do yourself a favor and read this book. Of course, the themes are applicable to current times.

I'm not sure what I mean by sharing this, except I'd like to know how you out there feel about such things and what you're into if you are actively engaged in this supposed anachronism. Either way, I hope you make time for it in your lives.

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I don't mean in general, but specifically yesterday's show (March 27). Jonesy's guests were Justin Long (the guy from the Apple commercials), Har Mar Superstar and some other dude whose name I forget.

Listen, do anything you can to download this show. It was the funniest fucking thing I've heard on radio in ... maybe my life. Sometimes, when the right combo of people, mood, topics, riffs gets going, radio can be magic and that's what happened yesterday. It doesn't happen that often, not even on Jonesy's Jukebox, where it is more likely to happen than in other places, but where just as often the show can be almost arrogantly bland. Yesterday's show, though, was an example of how and why Jonesy's Jukebox can transcend the rest of bullshit, canned/contrived programs.

The magic came from spontaneity and a lack of self-consciousness and some amazingly hilarious riffs on There Will Be Blood sung to the tune of Anarchy In The UK and other ditties. I didn't think there could be legs left parodying that fairly ridiculous performance by Daniel Day-Lewis and the stilted dialogue that makes it so ripe to begin with, but I was wrong. New heights here. Tears of laughter type stuff.

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Bush commemorated the grim milestone of 4,000 U.S. military deaths in Iraq by vowing that as long as he's president he'll make sure "those lives were not lost in vain."

Can anyone tell me what that means? How will those lives not be lost in vain? What of the 30,000 U.S. military men wounded, thousands upon thousands of them gruesomely? How will their sacrifice not be in vain? What of the estimated 90,000 (conservatively) Iraqi citizens who have died in this debacle. What did they die for?

In order to answer that question, you have to ask yourself another simple one, one which defies an answer: What is this war about?

Can you answer that?

Now try this: What was it ever about? What does victory or loss in this war mean?

Unfortunately, these lives Bush spoke of are dangerously close to being lost in vain. Iraq is a mess of almost irredeemable chaos and probably the best way for these soldiers' lives to not have been lost in vain would be for Bush, Cheney, Rumsfeld, Wolfowitz and all the other liars who callously and arrogantly played with these lives to be held accountable for their crimes. Then, this debacle could serve as a lesson as to what should happen in a true democracy — the rule of law and truth prevails, even at the highest levels. But, lives lost in vain is what happens when you cook up an illegitimate war under illegitimate pretexts. Guantanamo, Abu Ghraib, Haditha — these things are almost sadly inevitable when the whole thing is bound together by lies and corruption, moral and otherwise, and painted over with stubbornness and pride, with the absolute deficit of the most heroic trait a man can have: admitting a mistake and making amends.

Lives lost in vain is what happens when our elected officials and our citizens cower before bullies and demagogues. Lives lost in vain is what happens when lives are played with by those demagogues and autocrats.

So, it comes apart. Continually. You can't patch it back together with a revolving door of new generals and commanders as those bound by honesty and integrity resign in succession (U.S. Central Command commander Adm. Fallon being the latest).

Currently four cities in Iraq are at war with hard-line Shiite cleric Moqtada Al-Sadr's militiamen. This following a rise in suicide bombings over the past few days that has left scores of civilians, Iraqi soldiers and a handful of U.S. servicemen dead. The so-called Surge is, as it always has been, a smokescreen. Just like the second battle of Fallujah — remember, the one that broke the back of the insurgency?

The dark truth of this abominable war lurks behind these periodic smoke screens: there can't be a victory or even a good end to a war for which there never was a true or valid point to begin with.

I reserve most of my outrage over this for the spineless Democrats we elected in 2006 to end this terrible nonsense. The Bush administration are simply morally bankrupt criminals. The Democrats are something worse altogether: cowards.

Indeed, let's not let the lives of these brave men and women be lost in vain.

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Not long ago, I wrote about how I was going to miss Bill Richardson after he dropped out of the Democratic primary race. Man, it was good to see him this morning as he endorsed Barack Obama. This guy is fantastic. Everything from his style -- love that goatee thing -- to his self-deprecating sense of humor, to his realness. The guy is a gem. The best part was when he plainly and convincing said that above all else he came to see what a good guy Obama is while they were both on the circuit. Most endearing was the story he related about how during one of the debates he was engaged in conversation with Obaman and missed a question directed to him and Obama whispered the topic, Katrina, in his ear, allowing Richardson to answer the question and save face. That's one of the things that rings true about Obama, he seems like a good guy. Richardson, too. This is a plain-sense, man-in-full, who doesn't take himself too seriously while taking the challenges that we face entirely seriously. I'm not sure his endorsement amounts to much with the voters, but it's still refreshing to see two real people involved in trying to change the direction of our politics from the bogus direction its taken (the passport breaches are the latest example of the kind of politicization of governmental agencies that is more symptomatic of fascism than democracy) to something meaningful and true.

I hope whoever wins the Democratic nomination, and, please God, wins the presidential race, finds a place for Richardson high up in the cabinet. Secretary of State, or even Veep would be nice.

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I'm a bit shocked and awed by Obama's speech this morning in the wake of the trumped-up "controversy" over highly selected, out-of-context past remarks by his pastor, the Rev. Jeremiah Wright, Jr., comments that dare to suggest Black Americans might be a little pissed off.

What I'm shocked and awed about is how brave Obama's speech was. While distancing himself from the more incendiary incantations of the right Rev., he didn't back down a bit and said he'd no sooner disown his pastor than he would his sometimes bigoted, white grandmother. Then he went on to give one of the most engaging, heartfelt, rational and learned speeches about the real issues of race I've ever heard. There was no grandstanding or demagoguery, but calm and considerate truth. It was the ballsiest display by a politician I've seen in my lifetime and if you take the time to really listen to this speech, you'll learn more about the real burdens of our racist past and present than you ever had before (my post of last night touches on many of the themes Obama addressed in his speech:)

Obama made a big gamble with this speech. He trusted you to be able to accept a black man who isn't going to assuage your secret fears and prejudices, but will trust you enough to handle the truth. You liked him when you felt there was enough cream in his coffee. Now that you know he's not only beautiful, but black, too, how do you feel?

Here it is for those of you who missed it.

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Why is it always up to black Americans to apologize and make amends for America's bloody history of racism? Why are we so shocked and threatened when a leader of a black community, in this case Reverend Jeremiah Wright, Jr., Obama's pastor, airs grievances with that bloody history, and speaks in metaphors the way preachers do, referring to America as the "US of KKK A?" What am I missing? Did America suddenly stop becoming racist? Did we suddenly stop racial profiling, putting black men in prison at exponentially higher rates than other races, giving them longer sentences for lesser crimes, barring them equal access to capital, health care, education and basic services -- the basic building blocks of community? Have blacks been suddenly granted access to an equal stake in our society while I was asleep last night?

This furor over Reverend Wright's remarks is flat-out bullshit. Leaving aside for a minute my personal feelings that organized religion, and especially those of the Christian variety, is inherently a fucked up crap fest, ask yourself what black man or woman with a brain wouldn't be aggrieved, pissed and on the verge of insanity? For some reason, though, we don't grant the justifications for that anger, which are prima facie and as real as death, but expect blacks to heal the wounds of our collective guilt and are offended when they don't politely accept the burden. No, of course, I'm not talking about you specifically, but, yes, I am talking about us.

It's not true that we're in a post-racial society or era. We might be getting there slowly, slowly, but we can't be until stories like Barack Obama's are not so incredibly remarkable. No group --no matter how you want to blather about your great grandaddies coming over here with nothing, etc., etc., blah, fucking blah -- came here the way African Americans did. Their history here is entirely distinct and entirely a bloody, blight of shame on us. But it isn't their history. It's our history and we have to stop trying to deny the truth behind the words of people like Reverend Wright. No other group has been so systematically degraded and deprived of the basic rights of and access to our society (um, like family, property, community, equality before the law, capital, education...but I repeat myself). And while the achievements of black Americans in this culture actually defy all odds considering, it's more a credit to them than to a narrative we can collectively lay claim to. Would that it were different. But it isn't and history can't be shed in a minute or a year or a campaign and can't be revised because we wish it to be so or because we say it is so. It just is. And it can only be made, not remade, by creating new history and new narratives and if that process has begun, it's only just and barely begun.

Not to mention where was all the outrage when born-again Christians preachers, mostly white, were calling HIV God's revenge on gays, or were saying Bill Clinton was Satan and the UN was the devil's workshop and the End Times were nigh and that 9/11 was payback for our permissive, liberal society and was heralding The End, Hallelujah. I didn't hear your outrage then. Funny how righteous and clear it is now over this tempest in a teapot.

Now, of course, with the good Reverend, you have your excuse and you won't be satisfied until Obama can step-n-fetch-it to your satisfaction, 'til he's satisfactorily broken.

And when that happens, will we then be post racial?

Watch Barack Obama's March 18 speech here.

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Several weeks ago I wrote in the LA Weekly about how the Democrats could lose the presidential election despite the country's yawning yearning for a change of direction away from the horrific, incompetent, lethal, toxic, once-in-a-lifetime disastrous, and, I'm now almost certain after having seen his recent dancing and singing performances, very drunk, Bush regime. ("How The Dems Could Blow It Again" ).

Now, they've all but done it. And by they, I mean the Clintons. Hillary and Bill and their no-low-is-too-low-to-go in order to get what they want posture is sucking the lifeblood out of this potentially historic moment. When they're done, quite possibly the only historic thing about the next president will be his age. Congrats, Bill, Hillary and Clinton bagman, Terry McAuliffe, you've devised the perfect strategy to wreck the Dems at a time when more folks had become energized -- and I do mean had because you can feel the the energy and optimism (call the combination hope if you want) sapping every time the Clintons suck it dry with their cynicism. Remember these are the guys who won the White House in '92 by selling the soul of the Democratic party, turning it into the empty compassionate conservatism that now passes for liberal: tastes great, less filling.

Clinton is no longer employing the kitchen-sink strategy; she's employing the crapper strategy -- take it all and turn it to shit. Currently, taking a page out of Lee Atwater's and Karl Rove's book, it's the shit of race baiting. Congratulations, Hill, you've managed to bring race back into the middle or a contest involving a woman and a black man that had for a minute looked like it would transcend racism. But the Clinton's started playing with the race card, like fire, back in South Carolina when Big Bill began tickling this country's latent, racial nerve-endings (It wasn't evoking Jesse Jackson; it was the condescension with which Bill evoked him) and continued to do so in Ohio and Texas (What fool, you want a black man answering your crisis call at 3 a.m.?). In the process, he once again fulfilled what Black America, for good reason, has come to expect of powerful, supposedly liberal white folks-- use them and lose them.

Blacks had as much to do with Bill getting in office as anything. And the Clintons are doing everything they can to use Obama's blackness against him. The latest outrage is Clinton campaign operative Geraldine Ferraro, she of the '84 Mondale-Ferraro ticket, saying that Obama is only in the position he's in because he's black. Good work, assholes. You just lost, even if you win. Especially if you win.

Not only is it outrageous and absurd (if there's any segment of our society that is not afforded its share of privileges, it's black men) and not only does it fly in the face of the Obama's objective success (you don't finish top at Harvard Law because you're black), it's so cynical it's lethal. It's the kind of gutter politics that turns people off, that smears the whole thing, that deflates what was once elevating, that takes the wind out of the sails, that makes you think "fuck it, this sucks." I quit.

And that's exactly what the Clinton's want. They want you to go home. They want this movement to be deflated. They are getting beaten badly up there where the air is fresh and hopeful, they want to bring this back down to where it's stale and suffocating. In the process, they are tearing up the party, the millions of newly registered Democrats, and the hope that something transformative, transcendent can happen, because Hillary, despite being the first serious female contender for president, hasn't yet proved she's transcendent. No, instead, she's proved she's a Clinton. She's not going to quit, so don't you.

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Now that you know where you're hard-earned tax dollars are going -- to bust high-end prostitution rings serving high-end clients such as Client 9, aka New York Governor Eliot Spitzer -- don't you feel safer? Aren't you glad this is where federal resources are going while our ports are so porous a Chinese frigate could dock at Long Beach for a week before anybody would know. Isn't this exactly what we want our public money to be spent on while our public schools crumble and our populous becomes more and more idiotic -- exactly what the fear-mongering demagogues in office preying on your ignorance want.

Look, I get the inherent contradiction in Mr. Clean, who investigated a high-end prostitution ring or two in his day, getting busted for spending thousands of dollars for the company of well-appointed call girls. Worse, call girls whom he allegedly paid to cross state lines to provide their services, a violation of a 1910 law prohibiting transporting prostitutes across state lines. And now that he's probably finished, the robber-barons he went after while serving as state attorney general in Manhattan couldn't be happier. Nor could blowhards like New York state republican leader James Tedisco. One measure of basic intelligence is the ability to hold contrary ideas in your head without losing your mud. In this case, that would mean grasping that Spitzer could be a well-intended, well meaning anti-corruption reformer who believes in equality before the law no matter how rich you are, but could also be a flawed, fallible man, like you, capable of mistakes. Without being able to perform those mental gymnastics we tend to throw out the metaphorical baby with the bath water.

I'm not sure who Client 9 really is. Crusaders are always worthy of skepticism and Spitzer was a righteous, some would say self-righteous, crusader who didn't seem to have a lot of forgiveness in him, though some would say he had plenty of vindictiveness. He sure fucked himself and the weirdness of it all, getting nabbed by doing the things he used to nab people for doing, and by leaving the trails he used to catch people with, suggests some Shakespearean torment or at least Freudian psychology...Or, maybe a cigar was just a cigar in this case.

Why, as with drugs, prostitution is illegal, I have no idea (just look at the horrible state of anarchy, chaos and deprivation in Holland!). I'm not saying prostitution is a victimless crime -- the women employed in the industry are there for a variety of reasons that span the gamut from relatively benign to incredibly dark. But wouldn't decriminalization, as it would with drugs, take a lot of the criminality and worse-case scenarios out of the equation?

But it remains against the law and Spitzer definitely seems to have broken the law, and proved either hypocritical or truly impulse-control-deprived. But for Chrissakes, don't we have something better to do than devote federal resources to breaking up $4000-a-shot call girl rings? Maybe the lesson for Client 9 is that what comes around goes around. It's just a shame that in this country what goes around so much is a waste of time and talent.

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I went surfing at Bay Street in Santa Monica this morning, which means I risked my life, not from the size of the waves (not very big) but from the super stanky water out there right in front of the high-booty Shutters and Casa Del Mar hotels. As I write this, I can feel my glands swelling, my skin itching, and toxic pus forming in my tear ducts (not unlike the one in the picture that accompanies this blog).

But that's not the point (though it should be for somebody -- can't we do something to clean this shit up? I mean, it's why people come to LA). The point is, I met a friend for brunch afterwards at Casa Del Mar...wait that's not the point either. The point is, while we were lounging at the beach in the early afternoon, she asked me what song I'd be if I were a song. For some reason, I said "She's The One" from Bruce Springsteen's Born To Run album.

I thought about why I said that for a minute, and I realized the song had all the elements in it one would like to think of as being a soundtrack to one's life. It's starts out with a mysterious and sexy echo-chambered piano intro which seems to foretell of excitement and drama, like delicate fingertips gently tickling your spine. Then, the vocals come in over the piano, sounding kind of like Elvis might if he wore a leather jacket (for real) and hung out on the boardwalk drinking beers and acting tough. Nothing but piano and a few well placed, stripped-down E and A chords for the entire first verse:

With her killer graces and her secret places that no boy can fill
With her hands on her hips, oh, and that smile on her lips because she knows that it kills me
With her soft French cream, standing in that doorway like a dream, I wish she'd just leave me alone
Because French cream won't soften them boots and French kisses will not break that heart of stone
With her long hair falling and her eyes that shine like a midnight sun
Whoa-oh, she's the one
She's the one

In the second verse, the song breaks into a kind of funked up, Bo Diddley beat with the vocals in the background sounding like a half-desperate superhero, on fire and befuddled about what vexes him -- not sure what to do in the face of such power, but going in there anyway.

That Thunder in your heart
At night when you're kneeling in the dark
It says you're never gonna leave her

By the time it ends, it's all howls and grunts and power-chord guitar slashes and saxophone wails....Oooooooh, she's the one... tightly wound, ready-to-break, almost out of control. Caught somewhere between punk and funk; defiant, demanding, vulnerable and pleading.

It's fucking sexy. Make what you want of Bruce Springsteen, and I have to say I don't make a lot of him these days, but he sure as hell nailed it with the Born To Run album. And it's the songs you don't hear so much about that make it truly great -- whether it's flame-throwers like "Night", passion plays like "She's The One" or epics like "Backstreets", which is probably the best song on the record (yes, better than "Born To Run" or "Thunder Road"), or the proto-Tom Waits "Meeting Across The River" the record is defined by its unabashed passion and romance. Not like flowers romance, but like booming, big-idea, fuck-you-and-everybody-else-saying-no, or you can't, type of romance. Youthful romance, but not naive youthful romance, more like the kind that gives you the energy and balls to say this is likely to all fuck up, but I'm going to give it a shot anyway. The kind you have not before you know better, but before knowing better stops you. Some damn good shit, and I highly recommend it if you want to feel alive, which means feeling possibility.

After you're done with that, check out The Wild The Innocent and the E-Street Shuffle, which is where a lot of the ideas and characters that come of age in Born To Run start feeling their oats. Forget being a soundtrack, the two records make one hell of a screenplay.

Only the great thing about this one is that it's up to you how it finishes.

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It was sad to hear of Patrick Swayze's condition. In case you haven't, he has pancreatic cancer. Pancreatic cancer is just about the worse kind you can get. The survival statistics are not encouraging. My father died of it. My uncle miraculously survives years after having a procedure to remove a big chunk of his pancreas due to pancreatic cancer. Every time I hear that phrase -- pancreatic cancer -- I get chills. Having seen what it does up close, to say I wouldn't wish it on anyone is one of the largest understatements I could make.

I started thinking about Swayze's career. He's made some iconic films -- Dirty Dancing, Ghost, and even Roadhouse and Point Break. A lot of them have been sort of B-grade, but they've hung around in the pop culture ether, become points of reference. There's even a comedic parody play that did well in New York and is now showing here, still I believe, that is an homage to Point Break.

When Dirty Dancing came out, I was dating a woman who related closely to the lead character, Baby, played by Jennifer Grey. She was young, beautiful, Jewish and stepping out. In some ways, I was her bad boy, as Johnny Castle was to Baby. I was a hard-ish living Irish boy from the, relatively speaking, wrong side of the tracks. Only the roles were kind of reversed. She taught me much more than I taught her. I was more of the naif.

When we broke up, I went into my Roadhouse stage, spending a lot of time in, relatively speaking, roughneck bars and getting in my share of scraps. A few years after Point Break came out, I first moved to Los Angeles. Sometime after that, following some moving around, I came back and stayed and took up surfing, something like Johnny Utah did. I had been into snowboarding prior to that and related to the adrenaline-rush ethos of that film.

It would be a stretch to say I had my Ghost era, but, suffice to say, I can relate. All those films have iconic moments in them that have become cultural touchstones. For this, Swayze, who might not be the world's greatest actor, but certainly found a way to be relatable in all his roles, can be proud. These are the ways pop stars become part of our social fabric. And Swayze certainly did. Whatever happens, he lived a life.

Here's wishing him and his family the best.

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It's too bad, in a way -- in a big way, that Obama didnt' score a knockout blow this evening. In fact, he so didn't score a knockout blow that the whole thing is now wide open even though Clinton doesn't have a mathematical chance of clinching enough delegates to put her over the top even is she sweeps the remaining primaries. Her net gain from winning Ohio, Texas and Rhode Island is going to be just a handful of delegates. And, in the end, Obama will still be ahead in delegates and, most likely, popular vote. What sucks is that Obama couldn't put a spike through the Clinton vampire and now she's going to suck the blood of all the newly engaged voters who want change over fear. (And if you doubt fear is the fuel, revisit her ludicrous "3 a.m. who do you want to answer the phone" ad. Me? I want Ghostbusters).

But still, it's hard to argue that she should get out of the race having just won Texas and Ohio. If she wins the upcoming Democrats-only primary in Pennsylvania, the party is going to be even further than it is now, which is pretty damn far, from any clarity on who should be the nominee. Obama will have more elected delegates, but maybe not enough more, and Clinton will have won the key big states -- New York, California, Texas, Ohio (possibly Pennsylvania), etc. Clinton also won, previously, Arizona and Massachusetts. With Florida and Michigan basically being null and void as they weren't contested states (Obama wasn't on the ballot in Michigan), though Clinton claims victory in both, the picture is muddier than ever.

What seems most clear in this murky scenario is that the voters might not end up choosing the nominee. Both candidates will have good arguments as to why they should be it. Clinton can rightfully claim she won the most important states, including some key swing states, and especially Ohio, and Obama will likely have a slight advantage in delegates and popular vote.

So, what happens next? The argument will probably come down to an intangible -- who has a better chance to beat McCain in the general election. The problem with that is that it's strictly conjecture. And the conjecturing is going to be done by the amorphous entities known as the superdelegates and the party leaders. Nobody really knows who either of these entities are. The super delegates are supposedly party elites, but their makeup is a strange brew, and the party itself doesn't really have a transcendent figure. Except possibly Al Gore, possibly, and the two candidates left in the race.

I have no idea what will happen, but I'm pretty sure the fight dragging on isn't good for the Democratic party. McCain will sit back collecting money and fodder, the Dems will look like a squabbling bunch of unruly children, and the thing that we need the most, a Democratic victory, will be put in increasing jeopardy.

As Charlie Brown would say, good grief.

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I had a private lesson on Saturday morning at my boxing gym. I sucked. It was the first time I've sucked in a long time. I had been getting better and better all the time, but this time I really sucked. I was slow and had no power and couldn't get anything going on. I asked my coach to bash me around a little in some light sparring, thinking that would wake me up, would summon the reserves of fortitude and defiance that are often there for me when I need them the most. They weren't. It was devastating. I felt like I had deserted me.

The boxing gym has been a safe harbor, a place where I felt I was at least progressing steadily in something. But not that day. When my lesson was over, I went to the stairs outside of the gym and sobbed. It took awhile for it to stop and I wondered what the hell was going on. A feeling of hopelessness and regret took over. I felt defeated. Not by the boxing, but in general. My sobs were big, they felt eternal. I thought to myself: this is the pits.

Probably what I'm writing here is better left for a journal entry, but I'm writing it anyway because writing is what I know to do. And the truth is, I feel at a loss. At a loss as to what to add to the public dialogue that makes a difference. What does make a difference? What the fuck do I know? And is anyone out there, anyway? So, this is what I've got.

I'm scared. Scared that I'm solipsistic, self-absorbed, self-pitying and don't have anything to offer that is unique or worthwhile. This isn't a fishing expedition, this is just what I'm feeling. I'm unmotivated and possibly depressed. I'm ashamed of wanting. Which makes it hard to get. It's a scary place to be at my age and it's not a place I reckoned on being. But there it is and here I am.

There's a difference between living and existing and sometimes the true terror at the center is the seduction of succumbing to the pull of mere existence. It takes energy and courage and openness to really live. And sometimes it can be a challenge to find those reserves. Some people would say I'm facing a spiritual crisis. Maybe I am. My relationship with God, as it were, has always been combative and for a long time I've felt like that was the way we both wanted it. Now, I'm not so sure. Maybe all that was just another word for ego.

I've felt like this before -- lost and unsure. Not knowing where I'm going next or what I'll even be. We all have. It's easy to remind oneself of one's blessings, and I have many. An embarrassment of blessings. And it's easy to be embarrassed in the face of those blessings by feeling as I did on Saturday morning. But sometimes even that exercise, of being embarrassed by one's sorrow, can seem shallow and false. I felt the way I felt and denying it doesn't make it different. Or go away.

Now, I remember what my father would tell me at times when I've felt like this before. He said, okay, so you're at the bottom, don't beat yourself up about it, at least you know where you are and which way to go. I'm not saying those words or that idea makes anything better or different, or this is me getting up off the canvas, coming out swinging. I'm not prepared to make such absolute declarations, and wouldn't they be corny anyway?

Really, I'm just saying hello.

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