Thanks to Frank, I just now realized that the latest content had not been appearing. Bug fixed. Enjoy the past few days worth of posting. I'm feeing better today healthwise and in general after getting 12 hours sleep and seeing Sasha (who as it happens has a show tonight, 10pm at Sin-e: 148-150 Attorney at Stanton in the LES, plug shill plug).

And while I'm trying to stay clear(er) of politix than I have been in the past few days -- too much stress, I tells ya -- I did find this a welcome addition to the infosphere: rumsfeldlies.com.

I've fallen ill, as is somewhat traditional after Ren Fayre. It's a long weekend, and I'm apparently not quite on the upswing of recovery. Things are starting to change, rearrange in my mind more. I'm working as well I can considering my compressed cranial state. And until I do and write something of more consequence, go look at Where is Raed. Salam Pax has managed a mega update that spans most of the war. From the horses mouth, people.

Oooh, oh! oh! And in case you just can't get enough of the twins, here's proof they've been supporting terrorism. Come on, you remeber this.

I'm back, but still not quite in action. I slept in very late -- worst travel day ever -- and then managed to go through all my old email and stumble down to Bilzburg for a peacewilliamsburg event. Mainly I went because on my walk back to my house from the airport I saw a flier and noticed that the Trachtenburg Family Slideshow Players would be there and I've wanted to see them for a while. It was a good evening. I especially liked Jennifer Miller's Allen Ginsburg light bulb eating act and Jeneane Garaffalo's "pushing 40" political satire. She's sharper now (to me) than she's ever been, especially now that she's not exclusively making fun of herself. It's a better performance tactic: let's the audience love you a little more.

The event as a whole was impressive. I still think my generation is going to eat the current crop of gen-xers alive when the chips are down, but these kids are allright.

Also, I've a full grop of tales from my trip to tell you: leaving new york is hard, suck my coolo chica, port wine relaxation, sunny friday breakdown, poop jokes at the trap, puke rock/samba participation, lamp array, the tall fashionista read my website, someone dosed my drink, rome is burning, we're getting old, the blazers always loose, young republicans, dirty and wounded in suburban Portland, and the long trip back.

All that and more over the coming weeks. I'll probably write them up as non-blog pages attached somehow to the previous Ren Fayre reportage.

In addition to that it's time to put the screws to it. There's a ton of work to be done, art to be channeled, friends and love to be made; yep, time get the old praxis machine humming yet again. We've been stalled out for too long here. Pump the gas twice, spark the ignition, let the clutch out easy...

There's a kind of romance buried within the stinking hung-over puke-crusted heart of punk rock. We dance in circles and fiddle while Rome is burning, and people are too paranoid and unsure of themselves to step out of the trance. It takes five seconds to decide. Lamp-Rey silliness threatens to capsize the whole affair, and I can't seem to spell worth crap. Keep it together. All will be told. It's been a good weekend so far and now the Blazers are on. It's opposite year, so maybe we have a chance.

Comments anyone?

I'm gone to Portland, Ren Fayre bound. I'm sure you'll get by quite allright without me.

So I struggle for relevance, trying to keep everything spinning the way it needs to spin. Axiom went off last night and I'm bouied by the whole thing. I love it. People share. People laugh. People hook up afterwards and have sex. It's a real thing, and it gives me strength and passion and a sense of well being.

Also, for anyone thinking about or running a website, a piece of advice. Letting your yankee doodle sweetheart know about some other girl you hooked up with -- even if it was way back when, before things were serious -- via the public internet is not likely to engender good feelings. Maybe I have a secret inner subconscious thirst for scorn. Dunno. But here's the real story of Sasha and Josh.

And now with Janes Addiction pumping new wine into my exquisite corpse, I feel like exploring a new trail. I feel very high on life, but maybe I'm just a day tripper. I want to be more than I am, and maybe that starts with leaving the house more, with not disclaiming so much, with full automatic guns blazing honesty. The road to utopia is charted with the ability to open it all up.

Other News

I know this is all over blogdom, but William Gibson is discontinuing his. His reasons are apt: it hurts his creative process. This gives me pause, for I can feel that all this content I push out might stand more of a chance if I were patient and considered and coelesced my energy. Food for thought.

Finally, a website and concept I know and love and don't link to often enough. If you're looking for soul, splash around in the storytelling pond of the fray.

Long winding conversation with Sasha last night, in spite of me being not quite comfortable in my skin. The turnover has prompted the long-comiing love page update. Go forth and burrow in the sortid details of my pretty little life, you beautiful gossip monkeys you. I'm also writing a revealing little story to tell tonight at axiom about my 23rd b-day and Watkins.

Right now I positively feel like I'm living the dream: sitting in my backyard with the wireless internet connection running strong, exercising my right as an adult to have a gin and tonic after lunch. It's good to be alive.

Posting and checking email from the Science Museum here. We just saw a little play about the life and times if Nicola Tesla and a planetarium show on the edges of space and time. Big thoughts. So my mind is crackling with notions of nature, design and the way it aught to be. Taking over the world a so forth.

Boston is nice. Quaint and historical, a bit metro-lite to this New Yorker -- cops coming to break up the quietest party ever and a transit system that seems like a toy -- but oozing with old American charm nontheless. Madeline's show was amazing. My mother purchased a big canvis entitled, "Welcome to the Monkey House," which contains portraits of many of my hippy-fam friends (and me in the corner!). Lots of beautiful work.

I'm off to Boston on the Fung Wah. It's a bit of an East Coast Monkey Rally, and I'm bringing up Sasha to show off. Blogging will be minimal to nonexistant until Monday, but I love you all.

Started in on the new Bill Gibson (Pattern Recognition) last night, then stumbled across this blog of dubious authenticity chronicalling the travels of a young woman on the run from her powerful family today. The anonymous nature reminds me of restlesslord an anonymous blogger who purports -- not that I doubt his authenticity, but you never know -- to be an older british man with a 20-year-old American girlfriend (and was also the first person to blogroll me). Parallels with "the Footage" in Pattern Recognition are developing rapidly in my mind, getting me cooking on the future of life, the internet and culture (as always). That man is tapped in to something fierce.

I like the new book. It's got the cadence and quixotic/specific sensual description that are Gibson signatures: "the dire and ever-circling wolves of disrupted circadian rhythm." Unlike his previous work it's present-day and not, as of yet, really about saving the world. I'm in awe of his facility with language. Dog Solitude. Long Chain Monomers. The Sky Was The Color of Television Tuned To A Dead Channel. Beyond style, what I've always loved about Gibson beyond style is his ability to project human emotion and ideosyncracy into rather inhumane surroundings, with interesting narrative and metaphysical results. I hear he used to be into acid -- though now like many vetrans, he sends a cautious message. Strange how so many of my interests, idols and literary heroes seem to intersect. Here's Gibson and Burroughs. Here's Gibson and Keasy (and Cassady). Somtimes this makes me feel banal -- just playing the bohemian version of six-degrees -- other times hopeful, like there's an actual throughline to all these things I appreciate and am interested in.