William Hurt said this; I completely concur:

"The simple fact of existence, of being aware that you are aware; this to me is the most astounding fact. And I think that it has something to do with dying. When you are a kid you are beset by fears and you think, 'I'll solve the fear by living forever and becoming a movie star.' But I am not going to live forever. And the more I know it, the more amazed I am by being here at all. I am so thrilled by the privilege of life, and yet at the same time I know that I have to let it go."

Ha! I KNEW it!

From today's RealAge.com...

All About YOU: It's Okay to Cry

Don't hold back the tears. According to the RealAge doctors, a good cry now and then may do a body good. Just as sweat removes salt, urine removes waste, and mucus traps bacteria, tears also serve a purpose. Emotional tears -- shed in moments of intense feeling -- carry stress hormones and are a way of getting rid of them. Even if crying embarrasses you, it signals that you've reached a level of stress that's detrimental to your health. So let it out.

RealAge Benefit: Taking care of your emotional health and well-being can make your RealAge up to 16 years younger.

...except all the weeping makes for puffy eyes, which isn't a good look, either...at any age.

"Some people change when they see the light, others when they feel the heat." -Caroline Schoeder

Well, Caroline, I seem to fall smack-dab into the latter category. I do end up seeing the light...shortly after I've gotten all crispy on the outside and gooey on the inside. Yum.

I have a friend who, when faced with my occasional tears, likes to quote Tom Hanks' character in "A League of Their Own" -- "There's no crying in baseball." It was funny in the film, but it's an oft-misplaced notion in real life. Crying is good for the soul. It's a valuable release. Studies have been done that prove the health benefits of a good cry.

My mother was not much of a cryer -- I think her mother used to quote Tom Hanks, too. Her body has suffered. The list of her ailments is long, and she now acknowledges that her repression might well have been a major contributor.

I just know that if I didn't cry once in a while, the hell that would break loose would spin my head right off its neck. Not a good look.

Baseball season is over: two strikes, and you’re out.

Last night, I gave a second chance to a blind date who stood me up earlier this year (see blog entry dated 5 June 2006). He'd called me on my land line just as I’d thought about leaving a Studio City Halloween party and was checking the home voicemail: “Hey, it’s (insert name of agent from Big Three talent agency here). Sorry it’s been so long, but I just found your number, and thought you’d like to meet me at a rad Halloween party in the hills!” Huh, I thought – guess I should be flattered that he kept my number (perhaps on a random empty envelope stuffed between his car seat and gearshift box). Guess the woman he’d lined up had slurped one too many mojitos the night before. Or maybe she knew better.

Returned his call from my mobile, expressing my surprise at his reappearance. He danced pretty deftly around the issue, sweetened it with smooth charm, and gave me the address of the party, complete with detailed directions. I assured him of my familiarity with Beachwood Canyon, and that I’d call him if I got confused. He was coming from the Miracle Mile, so we agreed to meet at the house in question in 45 minutes.

I made it in 20. The party was in a hillside mansion on a narrow street in the higher elevations, and I could see/hear it in full swing as I slowly drove past. Luckily found a parking spot nearby and called the guy, who said he needed to stop for gas, would be there in 25. “You wanna go in? The friend who invited me is (insert name of Big Three Agent Boy’s friend here)...just tell him you’re with me.” I declined, for two awkward reasons: one, Agent Boy and I have never met. And two, I was wearing a rather risqué costume, along the lines of Elvira. Not as revealing as the previous evening’s wench outfit for the Pirate Party in Pasadena, but still a little too suggestive to parade in front of a bunch of drunken strangers without an escort, no matter how unfamiliar the companion might be. Even if I'd opted for the June Carter Cash costume I'd considered earlier that day, I would not have been comfortable making a solo entrance without knowing at least part of my audience.

As I waited, I took in the considerable panorama, heard the pounding music accompanying the laser light show from a party a mile across the canyon, turned back to watch the assorted goings-on in the agent’s friend’s – or friend of friend’s – house, each window on each level offering a sliver of the festivities; I could make out assorted superheroes and other such fantasy characters in attendance. Remembered that someone at the earlier Ghosts & Goblins party had asked me who I was, in my black velvet shroud and garish makeup. Hadn’t thought of it while I was making up, but I told them on the fly that I was Ghoul Girl, in the unflesh. At this gathering, however, I thought I'd introduce myself as the late Lois Lane.

I waited for that opportunity. Paced in the street, side-stepping passing taxis (for those smart partiers who knew they’d be imbibing far too much to navigate the hills, I suppose). Sat in the car and refreshed my lipstick. Checked my voicemail, lest my cell reception had cut out for a crucial minute.

After 30 minutes, I rang his mobile. Straight to voicemail. Okay, maybe he’s winding around the mountain right now. Be here any minute.

Any minute but the next 30. After which, I got a call from Agent Boy (later, I imagined his costume was last season’s Armani and a Blue Tooth on each ear). He’d had to pick up a friend who, on the way up the hill, upchucked his dinner in AB’s fabulous automobile and wasn't looking so good. He was taking said sick friend to the ER. “No way can I make it to the party, now. Sorry.”

Which is the word I used when he called me at home at 2am, to see if he could have a raincheck.

And so the holiday season begins.

Banging Your Head Against A Brick Wall?

This is UK graffiti artist Banksy's "Guide to Cutting Stencils" -- but I think it's an appropriate manifesto for many aspects of art. And life.

• Think from outside the box.

• Collapse the box and take a fucking sharp knife to it.

• Leave the house before you find something worth staying in for.

• It's easier to get forgiveness than permission.

• Spray the paint sparingly onto the stencil from a distance of 8 inches.

• Be aware that going on a major mission totally drunk out of your head will result in some truly spectacular artwork and at least one night in the cells.

• When explaining yourself to the Police its worth being as reasonable as possible. Graffiti writers are not real villains. I am always reminded of this by real villains who consider the idea of breaking in someplace, not stealing anything and then leaving behind a painting of your name in four foot high letters the most retarded thing they ever heard of.

• Remember crime against property is not real crime. People look at an oil painting and admire the use of brushstrokes to convey meaning. People look at a graffiti painting and admire the use of a drainpipe to gain access.

• The time of getting fame for your name on its own is over. Artwork that is only about wanting to be famous will never make you famous. Any fame is a by-product of making something that means something. You don't go to a restaurant and order a meal because you want to have a shit.

"If the world were merely seductive, that would be easy. It it were merely challenging, that would be no problem..."

"...But I arise in the morning torn between a desire to improve the world and a desire to enjoy the world. This makes it hard to plan the day." -E.B. White

New York City naturally seduces and challenges, and I was happily caught up in the maelstrom yesterday, finding it unnecessary to plan, simply awhirl in the chaotic urban tides...

"Poetry is not a turning loose of emotion, but an escape from emotion...

...it is not the expression of personality, but an escape from personality. But, of course, only those who have personality and emotions know what it means to want to escape from these things." -T. S. Eliot

There is no escape. I am on a whole other coast and the feelings are right here with me, watching the verdant leaves rust, startled by acorns hitting the roof like random artillery shells, eating Milano cookies I never eat and drinking caffeine as if I didn't need to sleep, telling stories I've told a thousand times and hearing them with fresh ears, looking back a week and wishing nothing had been said, knowing it had to be said, hoping it won't make a difference, certain that it has.

Writing, T.S., whether it's poetry or prose, is the exact opposite of escape for me. It is full-out, no-holds-barred, get-over-yourself examination. Stand right there and take it like a woman. What doesn't kill you...

Escape is not an option for those of us who stay awake this late without the benefit of mind-altering substances. Escape is for the weak, the fearful, the covert. Escape means never having to say you're completely responsible.

Except for sleep, movies, and death, there is no escape.

"There is no coming to consciousness without pain." -Carl Jung

I am flying today, to my hometown, where it all began for me. But I can't fly if I'm tethered. And I want so much to soar.

*snip*

“It seems we all live so close to that line, and so far from satisfaction.” -Joni Mitchell, Song for Sharon

A girl of 12 makes her first solo flight from Los Angeles to New York on the now-extinct TWA. A First Class morning flight at the end of a Paradise Cove summer, the comforting whine of jet engines holding her 30,000 feet aloft, with crisply-uniformed stewardesses tending her, warm smiles bringing her magazines and beverages. And the best scrambled eggs the girl had ever tasted, extra buttery and fluffy, melting in her mouth the way the clouds would if she could just reach out through the oval window and scoop one up.

The woman who can still picture the distinct morning light that shone through the cabin, the exotic thrill of flying on her own from Malibu to Manhattan, the almost erotic realization of a little girl on the cusp of womanhood, has longed on occasion to taste those perfect eggs again.

A phone call from her dear friend, who told of a schoolmate’s fresh suicide. Hung himself from a tree in Griffith Park, the wasted fruit of a 42-year-old man in final despair. He’d been isolating, but the Wellbutrin he’d been taking seemed to bring him out. Right to the tree in the park. With a rope in his hands and a pain in his heart that could not be seen. A pain that was apparently never heard.

She made her eggs a little differently today. Still melting a generous pat of butter in a small stainless steel skillet. This time, she cracked the two eggs directly into the pan, scrambling them as they bubbled, until they were just done. Scraped the scramble onto a plate, enjoying the bright yellow contrast with the clean white dish.

Another very close friend recently lost her father, in a heart-wrenching, protracted parting of soul from body.

A little salt. No pepper.

A man she loves lost his 53-year-old father to a heart attack 11 years ago. She thinks of her beloved friend as she seasons her breakfast, considers his annual ritual. Does he continue to find solace in the practice, or has it become rote?

She pours a cup of tea and thinks of her father, who also died of a heart attack much too young. She still has the mug from which he liked to drink his morning brew. It isn't a design she prefers, but she would weep if it broke.

They found a body in one of the lofts in her building. It’s believed the 40-something man had lung cancer and took his own life before it got taken from him.

All this death in her life, and all she wants is to taste the perfect eggs of her childhood.

She made them this morning. Without trying. Saffron yellow, buttery soft, luscious TWA eggs.

Sometimes it’s good to be alive.

"Parce qu'il n'y a pas de secret tout celui que tu dois faire pour être heureux est simplement d'il d'être." - a fellow blogger

"Because it is not a secret that all you have to do to be happy is simply to be."

She responded today to a post I made over a year ago, led me to her blog www.fotolog.com/chicforever, and I found this most perfect message.

How is it that, right in the middle of questioning my happiness -- or lack thereof -- I get a message in French from a young woman in Argentina? Right in the middle of writing a book about connections!

Because we are connected, every one of us, when we so choose.

Yesterday, I had the thought that I'd never been more disconnected in my life. And it wasn't working...except to make me très mécontent. So I reached out, and felt the buzz. And felt better. Connected. Amazing.

Proving to me, once again, that it's all energetic. And it's all in our hands. We are magicians, alchemists, we have the power...when we connect to the source of the power.

Très simple.

And of all the Banksy pieces, this is the one that belongs on my wall.

Those of you who know me are nodding sagely. I can see you.

The elephant in the room.

Just got back from the Banksy exhibit/installation/extravaganza, taking place in a warehouse not 3 miles from my loft. Was going last night, but opening night seemed fraught with fuss, especially given the Brangelena attendance the night before. And I knew I'd need an artistic prod to writing today and tonight...especially since Banksy is an artist of relentlessly ironic wisdom, and I am drawing heavily upon irony as I tell the story of a woman at a crossroads. How autobiographical this book becomes remains to be seen...but I can certainly point to many dozens of ironic occurrences in my life, most of which may provide fine fodder for literary purposes. I know I've been entertained.

Banksy's work offered just the right inspiration for mine. And was a reminder to take it all much less seriously. And very seriously. And not at all.

And, if there's an elephant in the room, speak up.

"In the small matters trust the mind, in the large ones, the heart." -Sigmund Freud

Okay, but that's exactly what has always gotten me in trouble.

So I say it's best not to take advice from a dead cokehead wielding cigar metaphors.

"Be who you are and say what you feel because the people who mind don't matter and the people who matter don't mind." - Dr. Seuss

I learned a secret last night. And it just might have saved my life. At the very least, it reminded me why I'm here, and showed me the irretrievable joy therein...joy that need not be rare, like truffles.

"The courage of the poet is to keep ajar the door that leads into madness." -Christopher Morley

It's the screech of metal-on-metal, when a train is hanging onto the edge of the rail. The wail of a crackhead as he struggles against his return to earth. The arrogance of an unmufflered motorcycle that wrecks your desperate sleep. The relentless c-clamp wrenched around the stump of fibers that connect your head to your shoulders, twisting and squeezing until you are certain no blood can seep through. No rest. Not for the wicked or the weary, the sainted or the sick.

You believe no one will ever understand what it's like to live in your mind. You are certain no one should...including you. Aswirl in psychic sewage you thought had been treated long ago, you hope for the hypodermic that will lift you out of hell...or send you straight into its heart.

And every cup of suffering, real or imagined, is a valuable ingredient for the next creation.

And so is every ounce of pure joy. Rare, like truffles.

I do not care for truffles. But when I have tasted joy, I have floated and flown.

It is all the same.

Madness.

"I love being a writer. What I can't stand is the paperwork." -Peter De Vries

My PC crashed last night. It's had little stumbles in the past few days, but I didn't see this coming. Maybe if I'd known what to look for, I'd have been more assiduous in my back-up activities. Many documents are snug on a compact disc...but my ITunes (some of which are also on are on my IPod) are playing in Windows Heaven. And I know I lost photos. And several recent documents. And whole programs, Final Draft chief among them. And settings. Most of it can be replaced. But I couldn't sleep last night, too distressed by the thought of what I lost that can't.

Is it a twisted irony that I'm going to meet one of the founders of Microsoft at a dear friend's birthday party tomorrow night?

Writing: Solitary unconfinement.

"We are for the most part more lonely when we go abroad among men than when we stay in our chambers. A man thinking or working is always alone, let him be where he will." -Henry David Thoreau

Commencement.

"Ink is handicapped, in a way, because you can blow up a man with gunpowder in half a second, while it may take twenty years to blow him up with a book. But the gunpowder destroys itself along with its victim, while a book can keep on exploding for centuries." -Christopher Morley

I am on the threshold of beginning my very first book, a teaching novel (we hope), at the supportive behest of my friend/agent, and my mother, and the precious handful of other beloveds who believe.

This blog is the eye of the little storm I am about to generate. Not to blow up...only to blow away. So please keep checking in...and feel free to comment, if so inspired. The book is about connections...so, connect!

We are the blessed and the damned.

"The truly creative mind in any field is no more than this: A human creature born abnormally, inhumanly sensitive. To him...a touch is a blow, a sound is a noise, a misfortune is a tragedy, a joy is an ecstasy, a friend is a lover, a lover is a god, and failure is death. Add to this cruelly delicate organism the overpowering necessity to create, create, create -- so that without the creating of music or poetry or books or buildings or something of meaning, his very breath is cut off from him. He must create, must pour out creation. By some strange, unknown, inward urgency he is not really alive unless he is creating." -Pearl S. Buck

"If the real thing don't do the trick/You better make up something quick/You gonna burn burn burn burn it to the wick/Oooooh, Barracuda." -Heart

...I'll explain later.

"You will find relief from vain fancies if you do every act in life as if it were your last." -Marcus Aurelius

This morning, a Little Tokyo parking lot attendant (whom I've admittedly often thought of as "The Parking Nazi") threatened me with towing. He yelled at me for walking my dog off the property, even though I'd purchased the requisite Starbucks beverage and was planning to sit with it on the premises after I'd taken Lulu down the street to do her morning business. The diminutive Latino man with the ugly scowl turned his back on me, wouldn't look me in the eye while he made his accusation, shouting that he'd seen me walk around the block with Miss Pooch yesterday morning, triumphant that he'd caught me in a dreadful theft of parking space.

"Yes, I did," I responded. "And, if you also recall, she and I came back to Starbucks, sat at an outdoor table, and read the paper." Well within parking lot requirements, I thought. But he adamantly pointed to the last line on the signage: If you leave the property, you will be subject to towing.

Then he loudly anticipated that I'd allow Lulu to defecate on site and leave it there for him to pick up. I produced a plastic Trader Joe's bag, pulled it from my jeans pocket while assuring him I'd never do such a thing; I am a responsible dog owner. "Do others leave their dog's mess for you?" I asked. He yelled that they not only leave it, they sometimes throw it at him when he tells them to clean it up (bagged or unbagged, I wondered to myself -- either way, it was not a pretty picture). I suddenly felt so sad for this man, perched in his little wooden treehouse overlooking the lot for which he is responsible, weekdays from 6am to 3pm. "And they throw hot coffee at me." No wonder this man is so miserable.

"Let's talk like human beings," I suggested quietly, trying to meet his angry gaze. "My name is Alexandra. What's yours?" I offered my hand. It took a couple of long seconds, but he reached down from his aerie with a perfunctory shake and a surly "Salvador."

"I come here many times a week, Salvador, to get coffee and walk my dog and write. You and I see each other quite often, and we've never spoken (it seemed inflammatory to remind him of the time a few months ago when he yelled at me for letting little Lulu pee on the honeysuckle). I'm sorry about that. And I'm so sorry people treat you with such disrespect."

"I am only doing my job," his voice softened slightly. "I have two children, I am divorced, I have to pay child support. This is what the owners ask me to do, and I do it. People don't understand. They take advantage."

I smiled at him and let him know I understand. His face began to change, the bully dropped away, revealing a kind, simple man. He even laughed slightly when he told me that everytime I leave Lulu in the car while I'm getting my coffee and he chalks my tire, she barks at him. "She protects your car," he winked. Only a few minutes after he'd threatened to call the tow truck for my Camry, Salvador winked at me.

Then, this: "I apologize to you, Alexandra." He explained in more detail why he screamed at me, wanting me to truly comprehend his experience. I listened carefully, allowed him to complete his vent, accepted his apology, offered my own on behalf of those who apparently don't know any better.

Then he said, "Anytime you want to come here, you walk your dog, you write, you stay as long as you like. Just tell me, and I'll show you where to park so you'll be safe from towing. I will take care of you." We shook hands again, smiled at each other. Said goodbye 'til the next time.

I'm looking forward to the next time.

"Once you label me you negate me." -Soren Kierkegaard

I had a blind date Saturday night. Well, I was SUPPOSED to have a blind date Saturday night. He called an hour and a half before he was to pick me up with a handful of lame excuses. Blind AND lame. Not an impressive combination for a first date. Oh yeah, and he's a talent agent. Stop right there, you're saying, this sounds like it ended exactly as it should have.

Yes, it did. I was all showered and blow-dried and dressed when I got his voicemail. (That's right; he cancelled via recorded message.) As I hung up, the woman who manages my building came to my door in search of a Pitfire Pizza menu and told me how beautiful I was. "I don't look like a woman who should be stood up, do I?" Absolutely not, we agreed. I slipped her a menu and clicked down the hall in my Carlos Santana heels to the car, which took me to a very cool neighborhood art gallery opening at which I enjoyed photos of clown pornography (this one is the least graphic of the collection) and the illustrated essays of a Renaissance man. If you're in Downtown LA, go and see: http://www.transportgallery.com/transport/. At the party, the live, bare-breasted porno clowns showered us with sparkly confetti. I came away with a balloon animal -- a pink poodle. I love party favors.

After complimenting his work, I was invited by photographer Justin to join him and his artsy crew at photographer Glenn's place in Echo Park. I declined, opting to go to Night Vision at MOCA for another gander at Rauschenberg's Combines, which are inspiring me to complete a project I conceived years ago. I love being a MOCA member. After wandering the exhibit and the party and the store, I affixed my ID sticker to the pink balloon poodle -- right about where the poodle's member would be (I'm quite sure the porno clowns would have approved) -- and headed home, where my next-door neighbor and her friends were preparing for a late-night rooftop barbeque. I met them in the hall, carrying a platter of raw lamb chops and burgers. Upon receiving their impromptu invitation, I assured them that I was not a woman to turn down an offer of free meat.

To his dubious credit, the talent agent left me an apologetic message. I also got a call from photographer Justin, thanking me for the creative conversation that he said, "made my night."

All in all, a much better evening than I'd have had with Agent Boy.

Zan Koan #1

If he goes to fuck himself, will he be back later?

Insomnibabble, Part Two

Maria Conchita Alonso just got eviscerated by an alien; I can't believe they're saying she's still alive, when the very dead Bill Paxton got the same treatment moments before, along with 5 gang members and a bunch of commuters. Every one of them, boned like fish.

I wouldn't be watching this godawful movie at this godforsaken hour if my friend hadn't emailed me at 1:24am, just before I was about to sign off for the night, informing me about the shootout on my downtown LA building's roof in Predator 2. I just had to tune in.

Look! There's the Eastern building, with One Wilshire in the background, being struck by some of the phoniest lightning in film history. And Gary Busey just quoted The Wizard of Oz. This really is one of those films that's so bad it's...so bad.

The half a Unisom with the warm vanilla milk chaser better start working fast and hard. I'm afraid I'm going to have dreams just like the one you had last night, Venice Boy.

"Most truths are so naked that people feel sorry for them and cover them up, at least a little bit." -Edward R. Murrow

These are the shadows that paint her walls in the late hours...the darkness in which she dwells, where no one would believe she can breathe.

This is the poetry that explains her moods...they breach the fog, moaning like a lost ship, blushing with the shame of getting caught, giggling with the exhilaration of forgiveness.

The little girl on speed, the puppy in training, the snake in the reeds, the father in the grandstand. The escaped convict in the gas station restroom. The cockroach on the sidewalk at midnight. The homemaker with a bun in the oven and floured fingers. The teenaged boy, zit on his chin, his hand in his pants. The bass player with coke up his nose. The lilac climbing the trellis into her window, across her carpet, around her throat. The paycheck that buys nothing but Charmin, pretzels and ammunition. The droplet of water on the whisker on the kitty on the tuffet on the porch. The red flag in the distance. The sentence that can’t find a period. The email that was only kidding. The phone call that says goodbye.

And then, there is popcorn. Crisp, oozing with butter, dipped in the Hershey bar melted in the other palm. In a dimmed room with images flickering on a giant screen. Thank God you're home.

Relief. Smile when you find it. It won't last long, but it will be back, after this word from our sponsor.

Reach for the one who truly, deeply, completely understands that Heaven is in the cone of vanilla Carvel. Let go when he says yes.

Expect nothing. Except maybe cracker crumbs in bed. That may be your only connection to that which you seek.

Thank you for your patronage.

Thank you, Tommy; you were right, of course. I needed to read this. All writers need to read this.

William Faulkner's Nobel Prize Speech, delivered in Stockholm, Sweden
on December 10, 1950

"I feel that this award was not made to me as a man, but to my work--a life's work in the agony and sweat of the human spirit, not for glory and least of all for profit, but to create out of the materials of the human spirit something which did not exist before. So this award is only mine in trust. It will not be difficult to find a dedication for the money part of it commensurate with the purpose and significance of its origin. But I would like to do the same with the acclaim too, by using this moment as a pinnacle from which I might be listened to by the young men and women already dedicated to the same anguish and travail, among whom is already that one who will some day stand where I am standing.

Our tragedy today is a general and universal physical fear so long sustained by now that we can even bear it. There are no longer problems of the spirit. There is only one question: When will I be blown up? Because of this, the young man or woman writing today has forgotten the problems of the human heart in conflict with itself which alone can make good writing because only that is worth writing about, worth the agony and the sweat. He must learn them again. He must teach himself that the basest of all things is to be afraid: and, teaching himself that, forget it forever, leaving no room in his workshop for anything but the old verities and truths of the heart, the universal truths lacking which any story is ephemeral and doomed--love and honor and pity and pride and compassion and sacrifice. Until he does so, he labors under a curse. He writes not of love but of lust, of defeats in which nobody loses anything of value, and victories without hope and worst of all, without pity or compassion. His griefs grieve on no universal bones, leaving no scars. He writes not of the heart but of the glands.

Until he learns these things, he will write as though he stood among and watched the end of man. I decline to accept the end of man. It is easy enough to say that man is immortal because he will endure: that when the last ding-dong of doom has clanged and faded from the last worthless rock hanging tideless in the last red and dying evening, that even then there will still be one more sound: that of his puny inexhaustible voice, still talking. I refuse to accept this. I believe that man will not merely endure: he will prevail. He is immortal, not because he alone among creatures has an inexhaustible voice, but because he has a soul, a spirit capable of compassion and sacrifice and endurance. The poet's, the writer's, duty is to write about these things. It is his privilege to help man endure by lifting his heart, by reminding him of the courage and honor and hope and pride and compassion and pity and sacrifice which have been the glory of his past. The poet's voice need not merely be the record of man, it can be one of the props, the pillars to help him endure and prevail."

"I could never send you poo. Ever." -Arthur to Ruth, Six Feet Under

Recently ran into a rerun of this episode and realized I miss the Six Feet folks.

Poor, dear Arthur. He really did love Ruth. He was kind and simple and childlike in his affection for her. However Oedipal their relationship might have been, he clearly understood an elegant truth: love doesn't involve the anonymous delivery of fecal matter.

More televisionary wisdom to live by.

AlI that's left of my brain is right.

“The last few decades have belonged to a certain kind of person with a certain kind of mind - computer programmers who could crank code, lawyers who could craft contracts, MBAs who could crunch numbers. But the keys to the kingdom are changing hands. The future belongs to a very different kind of person with a very different kind of mind - creators and empathizers, pattern recognizers, and meaning makers. These people - artists, inventors, designers, storytellers, caregivers, consolers, big picture thinkers - will now reap society’s richest rewards and share its greatest gifts. Thanks to an array of forces - material abundance that is deepening our nonmaterial yearnings, globalization that is shipping white-collar work overseas, and powerful technologies that are eliminating certain kinds of work altogether-we are entering a new age. It is an age animated by a different form of thinking and a new approach to life - one that prizes aptitudes that I call ‘high concept’ and ‘high touch’."

-from A Whole New Mind by Daniel Pink

My New Personal Ad

About Me: I hail from Hades; Persephone is my second cousin once removed. I love my friends, especially the ones who remind me to get dressed before I go out. I have walked the earth for centuries, but everyone says I look 39 -- 41 tops. I can be a raving cunt, but it takes too much out of me. I love Seinfeld reruns and things that go "moo." I'm big on brutal honesty, especially when it comes to nose hair. I like Splenda in everything, the smell of flower shops, holding hands and inside jokes. I'm sober and there's nothing you can do about it. I want to travel to exotic lands, like Iceland and Luxembourg. I don't like being kept waiting more than 30 seconds unless someone's death is involved, preferably not mine. I am a social hermit. David Letterman is my late-night comedy hero. I don't take things as personally as everyone thinks. I am a fantastic kisser (references available upon request). If I were a superhero, I'd dress my dog in a matching outfit. Sex is always an option, but I watch cable porn for the intellectual stimulation. I most hate living alone when I run out of toilet paper while already seated. Cheetos is (are?) the perfect depressed-white-trash food; if you see me with orange lips and fingertips, you can be certain I've been battling my lifelong fear of Disneyland. I don't live at the beach because sand fleas give me the willies. I will love you madly when we're together and completely forget about you when we're apart. My favorite words are "lobster" and "kumquat."

Most of this is true. It won't cost you much to find out.

Insomnibabble, Part One

Lulu and I are taking the Camry in for its 15,000 mile service tomorrow -- this -- morning. Miss Pooch is all a-snooze, but I can't seem to join her.

Instead, I'm
resisting the rest,
rehashing last Friday night's phone conversation with a beloved friend,
reworking a scene in the script I'm revising,
reliving a sexy Sunday afternoon last May,
remembering the last telephone number I had in New York (212.582.6598),
rewriting the previous blog entry,
regretting the "venomous" words I was recently reminded I spat at aforementioned beloved friend,
reviewing my schedule for the week,
resigning myself to the daily onslaught of change,
reciting the alphabet in French and Spanish,
restoring myself to sanity,
relieving my bladder...

...it's really quite impossible to get a good night's sleep when you're relegated to re mode.

"Half the truth is often a great lie." -Benjamin Franklin

I learned to deal in half-truths early in my life. I heard my parents tell them, to each other, to their friends, to me. My alcoholic father, my child-of-an-alcoholic mother, were brilliant half-truth-tellers. I learned to obfuscate and fabricate, I learned the art of denial and secrecy, at the feet of masters, who learned at the feet of masters, who...well, you get the picture.

But it wasn't my true nature. I have always had an open, trusting heart, an almost perverse willingness to lay it bare, get it out, let it in. And in limiting personal boundaries, I have hurt and been hurt, I have disappointed and been disappointed, been both foolish and fooled. But, in the words of Pete Townshend, I won't get fooled again.

I want the whole truth, nothing but the truth...or nothing. It's the only way I can make a clear choice. It's the only way I can operate in integrity. It's the only way I can trust, and be trustworthy. It's the only way I can make the progress I want to make, to become the woman I think I am.

I know it's hard. I really do know.

"There is a crack in everything. That's how the light gets in." -Leonard Cohen

It's also how the energy seeps out.

But that's just glass-half-empty thinking, and that's not my true nature. Especially not in light of the fact that the neurologist left an "everything is good" voicemail this morning. She says my MRI scans showed nothing more than a few "unidentified white objects" that are indicative of migraine, and are "within normal limits."

I've never thought of anything about my brain as being "within normal limits," but who am I to argue with an expert?

I got my little butt kicked in the stress echocardiogram yesterday, but it was worth it -- so far, sez my internist, that all looks good, too. A more conclusive report from the cardiologist comes back next week.

Cool. Now, back to kicking a little butt of my own.

"We boil at different degrees." -Ralph Waldo Emerson

Keep me occupied with those things in life that challenge and edify, that call upon my creative mind to think unpackaged thoughts, that make me reach eagerly for my wand of manifestation, that offer opportunity, that abandon apprehension, that heal hearts and demolish depression. Keep me graceful under pressure. Keep me in nimble search of the miracle, the gift, the truth.

Because if I am allowed extra free time, I am invariably tempted to overthink, a condition which begets the nearly irresistable idea of telling someone I actually care for to fuck off.

"I had a brain that felt like pancake batter." -Jack White

Sleep eludes. Is it because I'm still waiting for MRI results from last Friday, and it seems like I should have heard something by now? I'm less concerned when I consider that the doctor would have contacted me sooner with bad news than with good. Can't help but wonder if the Century City neurologist will call with, "This is your brain. This is your brain hot off the griddle, slathered with butter and swimming in maple syrup."

Tomorrow (well, later this afternoon) the body gets tested again, running on a Beverly Hills treadmill with sticky patches all over my skin, connected with wires to a machine that will measure my heart. This is what happens when your father dies of a myocardial infarction in his mid-50's: you are automatically added to the high-risk list. From the time I turned 30, they've reminded me of The Risk. Forget the fact that I've been at a healthy weight for 7 years straight, never mind that I don't drink or smoke or use drugs. No matter how often I work out or how much oatmeal I eat...

Dad was an obese, hypertense, depressed, whiskey-drinking, cigar-smoking insomniac.

I'm a 5'3", 127-pound, 110/65, sober non-smoker. But I should probably cheer up and get some shut-eye.

Thank you, Cool.

gegenschein (GAY-guhn-shyn) noun

Definition: A faint oval patch of light directly opposite the sun in the night sky, caused by reflection of sunlight by dust particles. Also known as counterglow.

She isn't writing hers, she's rewriting others.

It's okay. It's a treadmill for her brain. It buys fuel and a 12.5' ceiling with adjoining walls, laundry detergent and tunafish, tamari almonds and skin cream, electricity and strawberries. It makes her think of better words and tighter phrases. She files them for future reference, or when she runs out of sheep to count.

She's the one who loves the tangled string, the gnarled necklace, the jumbled Scrabble tiles. She'll pick it apart and restore it to sanity.

Vocabulary and syntax are her closest associates, but they've been out of touch, lately. She's been wandering through fog, aimlessly reaching out for the next lamppost (and missing it), tripping on unseen cracks in the concrete (but not falling).

From her slurry tongue, you'd think she was drunk. She prays it is only the deepest fatigue that has temporarily made off with her facile mind, keeps her from her customary coherence. Life takes a toll. She wants to take it back.

I hear her weeping in moments of solitude, when she remembers true love held hands with her, sat next to her on the couch, cuddled with her in bed, brought her soup when she sniffled. She scribbles it later, in books and on scraps. (You’ll find yourself someday, written in her hand. Stuck on a shelf or bobbing in the sea. You’ll recognize it because it will be the truth.)

She dreams she’s supposed to be in Dallas, but has mistakenly flown to Houston. Her dream is about getting to Dallas in time. It’s no wonder she’s dizzy during the day.

She has lost patience for the mundane, the immature. Sometimes, she considers starting over elsewhere. But she knows she'd still be here.

She needs water to breathe and air to float; she needs to stretch and only remembers when stiffness sets in.

I take her to all the best places. To be healed, to be fed, to be delighted. It is what she deserves. Everyone says so. I have to remind her. We all have to remind her.

She forgets she is the sun.

The love of my life...

...eats organic kibbles and other nibbles,
leaps into my bed to wake me at the first sound of KCRW,
snuggles at my feet when I'm writing,
curls up beside me when I'm watching,
wags a tail to go out,
wags an entire body to cheer me up,
whimpers and wriggles while dreaming,
loves belly rubs,
stops traffic,
and races trains.

"Masturbation and procrastination are the same thing: both ways, you're fucking yourself." -Jerry Thompson

But the levels of ultimate satisfaction cannot be equated. At least, not in my experience -- which, in both cases, is vast.

Exactly how bad does it hurt?

Early morning meeting today. Car radio kept me awake on the way to caffeine. Scanning the dial, I ran into a familiar guitar sound…it was my father, backing Little Anthony & The Imperials on a classic 60’s hit…

I know you
Don't know what I'm going through
Standing here
Looking at you
Well, let me tell you that it
Hurts so bad
It makes me feel so sad
It makes me hurt so bad
to see you again (like needles and pins)

Dad hated much of the music he played as a studio musician. It assaulted his musical sensibilities, it was an affront to his perfectionism. He loved his little family, but he would have been happier if jazz had fed us as substantially as jingles and rock ‘n’ roll did…

People say
You've been making out okay
"She's in love, don't stand in her way"
But let me tell you that it
Hurts so bad
It makes me feel so sad
It's gonna hurt so bad
If you walk away

I was raised on Duke Ellington and Mozart. I could scat – in French – by the time I was 6 years old. I could sing every note of the Bach Fugue in G Minor. I started listening to, and loving, rock and soul when I was about 8. Dad was pissed off; he saw it as a betrayal. How could I devour the Beatles and the Rolling Stones when I had been nourished by Louis Armstrong and Ravel?

Why don't you stay and let me make it up to you?
Stay, I'll do anything you want me to
You loved me before
Please love me again
I can't let you go back to him
Please don't go
Please don't go

I was singing Billie Holliday’s “God Bless the Child” a capella in the car the other day. Made me think of Dad, and all the times I sang it, and dozens of other standards, with him. Today, I sang with him again. "Hurts So Bad" has always been one of my favorites. And I cried – from the too-resonant message in the lyric – and from missing my dad.

It hurts so bad
It makes me feel so sad
It makes me hurt so bad
I'm begging you please
Please don't go
Please don't go...

Who wants to know?

In the Comments section of the previous post, an Anonymous Zantales Reader asked me what my dog reminds me of. I responded, but I realize now that Anonymous Zantales Reader may not know where to find my response.

Here, AZR, I'll make it easy for you:

Lulu reminds me to stay in the moment.

Lulu reminds me to have fun.

Lulu reminds me to love without conditions.

And she's with my ex-husband this week, so I'm going to need to remind myself for the next 7 (now 6) days. Any assistance will be greatly appreciated and rewarded.

Superdog.

This was a four train morning. Today, a conductor -- not our friend Dave, 'though we saw him, too -- slowed down to let his passengers see the chase. I could see them point, smile, laugh, marvel at the little black dog in an amazing race with the big yellow Metrolink.

Yesterday, we had business in Larchmont. We were stopped 5 times in two blocks with the usual comments and inquiries: She's so cute! What kind of dog is she? Can I pet her? Not to mention the various interruptions during the al fresco meeting.

Later, on a research visit to LA Dogworks, they fell in love with her, too.

I just adore my pooch to pieces. She reminds me.

A poem written 2 days before my 25th birthday.

Permanent parentheses
around the mouth.
Apostrophied eyes,
furrowed forehead
to emphasize
the underlined thought,
the exaggerated worry
(and to think I was in a hurry).
Facial punctuation
is hardly compensation
for bitten lips,
for nibbled fingertips.
An unjust indication
of time in motion;
the unkind frustration of
a passing notion
streaks, as the
silver thread
sprouting from my
ageless head.

I dated a bass player who owned a summer home in the Catskills.

He liked to deck me out in fishing vest and waders and plop me into the East Branch of the Delaware River, where he'd attempt to teach me fly fishing. I'm sure the sight of my awkward casting style had none of the "River Runs Through It" visual poetry. But there was a fish who hung out an entire season in front of Russell's house on the Beaver Kill, and I wrote a poem for him, clearly having smoked a bowl of good weed, allowing me to channel Seuss at the end. I just found the long-lost piece in a journal from the day. Here:

For Fred

I have found a friend in Fred,
my fine-finned fish of the
freshwater.
Pointing upstream,
blithely bobbing between boulders,
free-floating in a tremulous tread
within the waters of his
crystal cave.
Changes course to feed,
does Fred,
concurrently chasing his
chosen fuel; feisty Fred.
My favorite fish,
my ever-finning Fred.

Postscript:
No finnan haddie is my friend;
not carp, not cod, not catfish.
No rainbow paints his slimy sides;
a fine brown trout is thatfish.

"Lying is done with words and also with silence." -Adrienne Rich

Okay, why do I keep getting quotes in my Wordsmith emails that deal with this theme? What exactly is the Universe trying to tell me?

Some of you will see the significance of receiving such information in successive feedings, view them as valuable messages. You're sagely nodding your metaphysical heads, aren't you? "Oh yes," you're saying, "you are being passively deceived, you must pay attention." Others are dismissing the notion as so much voodoo falderal. Random order, you're proclaiming; it don't mean a thing.

As usual, I'm wavering somewhere between the two factions.

Where is that Occam's Razor? I could use it right about now, to make a clean cut to the chase.

Strength and hope sold separately.

"Alcoholics Anonymous® is a fellowship of men and women who share their experience, strength and hope with each other that they may solve their common problem and help others to recover from alcoholism..."
-Copyright © by The A.A. Grapevine, Inc.

"Truth is not only violated by falsehood; it may be equally outraged by silence." -Henri Frederic Amiel

This quote -- which, as most of the quotes I use do, came to me in my daily Wordsmith email -- goes to the heart of the underlying theme in "Brokeback Mountain."

But I don't have time to expound on that thought. And it's not really important, anyway.

Joy unbridled.

A.I. used to call her "The Torpedo."

Broad Beach Bitch

Lulu, celebrating in Steven Spielberg's front yard this afternoon.

(For some reason, you have to click on the tiny image in the corner to enlarge these beach pix from my cellphone. Sometimes little things need extra encouragement.)

Birthdaydog.

Today we commemmorate Miss Lulu's 8th year. We have already had our scrambled egg whites and oatmeal...now, it's off to the Sunday Silverlake meeting. After which, I've promised landlocked Lulu a trip to the beach. Not sure which one, yet...wherever the winds blow me and The Best Dog Ever Made.

"Between men and women there is no friendship possible. There is passion, enmity, worship, love, but no friendship." -Oscar Wilde

I have a generous handful of wonderful, trusted male brother-type friends: TB, KN, DW, BL, JK, DL, PM. We have intimate relationships of the intellectual sort, but none of us ever...well, we just never have and never will.

But if there has been intimacy of another form (is my delicacy of expression Puritanically overwrought?) -- and especially if that intimacy has gotten inextricably lodged in the heart after a good amount of time -- how does one disprove Wilde's assertion?

(I'm feeling very Carrie Bradshaw right now. It's Saturday night, I had coffee with one guy this afternoon and dinner with another guy tonight, and I've ended up at home alone with my precious pooch at 9pm, typing rhetorical questions into my laptop.)

These ruminations come after Banana and I went to a Screen Actors Guild screening of "Brokeback Mountain" last night. I'm not of a mind to post my review right now...I'm just thinking of the line Jake Gyllenhaal's character speaks to Heath Ledger's character when they're at loggerheads over their star-crossed love, a heartbreaking line that anyone who's ever been in a hard love has thought, or felt, or uttered: "I wish I knew how to quit you."

And they were two GUYS, Oscar.

And you can't slit your wrists with it.

Wikipedia sez: Occam's Razor is a principle attributed to the 14th-century English logician and Franciscan friar, William of Ockham. It forms the basis of thodological reductionism, also called the principle of parsimony or law of economy.

In its simplest form, Occam's Razor states that one should make no more assumptions than needed. Put into everyday language, it says, Numquam ponendo est pluritas sine necessitate, [Latin] which translates to:

Multiples should never be used if not necessary
or
"Shave off" (omit) unnecessary entities in explanations

But the more commonly used translations are:

Given two equally predictive theories, choose the simpler, and the simplest answer is usually the correct answer.

For example, after a storm you notice that a tree has fallen. Based on the evidence of the storm and the fallen tree, a reasonable hypothesis would be that the storm blew down the tree — a hypothesis that requires you to suspend your disbelief very little, as there exist strong logical connections binding what you already know to this solution (seeing and hearing storms does indeed tend to indicate the existence of storms; storms are more than capable of felling trees). A rival hypothesis claiming that the tree was knocked over by marauding 200-metre tall space aliens requires several additional assumptions, with various logical weaknesses resulting from inconsistencies with what is already known (concerning the very existence of aliens, their ability and desire to travel interstellar distances, their ability and desire to (un-)intentionally knock down trees and the alien biology that allows them to be 200 metres tall in terrestrial gravity), and is therefore less preferred.

The principle of Occam's Razor has inspired numerous expressions including: "parsimony of postulates", the "principle of simplicity", the "KISS principle" (Keep It Simple, Stupid), and in some medical schools, "When you hear hoofbeats, think horses, not zebras".

I have recently been reminded of this principle by dear friend Linda, who appreciates the intricacies of my creative mind when it comes to storytelling, but thinks I will find blessed sanity if I apply this maxim more often in my daily affairs.

It's just that, sometimes I know it's aliens and zebras.

What's a heaven for?

My expectations outreach my grasp, and I keep reaching. But none of this is real.

It's a free fall, it's nothing at all, it's an untethered space walk, it's blah blah blah blah blah.
It's one body missing another on its way to nowhere, it's sleeping and waking and sleeping and doing and not doing, being and not being, having and not having.

Where is that God of whom they speak when I need the answer?
Right here, right in front of me, with no answer.
Right here, in the triple venti latte.
Right here, in the burning heart.
Right here, in the eyes of a dog.
Right here, in the dictionary.
Right here, in the room that is a womb that is where I begin and end each day.

Wake up and try again.
Reach, just in case it is real.
Don't be surprised if it is not.

Writing is making a connection.
Or writing is writing.

Building fences is a metaphor.
Or building fences is building fences.

Love is the bottom line everything.
Or love is no fucking thing at all.

Shhhhhhhh.
Quiet. Breathe. Listen.

See? You don't know anything.

It changes everyday.

"You say it's your birthday. Well, it's my birthday, too, yeah." -Lennon/McCartney

I was married to a man who enjoyed traditions, and with whom I created many in our marriage. A favorite comes to mind in these first minutes of my personal new year.

One early January 17th morning, my husband crept out of bed before I’d awakened and quietly slipped into the living room of the apartment we shared in a cool 1920’s Hancock Park building. He slid a record onto the turntable and cranked it up – waking me, and probably the rest of our neighbors, though no one ever complained. “Birthday” from the White Album. He came back into our bedroom, pulled me out of bed, and danced me around the apartment in nothing but my skin, singing at the top of his lungs. The first of many birthday dances we shared on as many January 17ths and October 4ths as we were together.

We got to the point where we had actual choreography. I’ll bet he and I could do it right now, and remember every move we’d designed. It didn’t matter if we’d been arguing the night before. We danced. If we were on vacation, we brought a tape. If one of us was out of town, the other would call to play it. It was a tradition we looked forward to, always finishing in laughter and hugs at the end.

The last “Birthday” dance was 7 years ago today.

But there are other birthday traditions for me to look forward to. Banana takes me to a cool restaurant, leaves the hubby and the babies behind. Just us girls getting dressed up, going out and eating great food. X calls after midnight. And I'm sure Mom and I will have the same exchange we have every year:
"Hi, dear, Happy Birthday."
"Hi, Mom, thanks for having me."

Really. Thanks. I mean it.

I do.

Insomniacal thoughts.

Is it that I can't sleep, or that I won't?

I saw an orangutan kissing the hand of a young woman; her hand, and all the way up her arm. I saw a man and a woman in a sensual underwater dance, surrounded by bubbles and sperm whales. I saw a meerkat gently nestled in the arms of a girl. I stood in the Church of the Nomads on Sunday, and worshipped the images and the words that surely came from a source higher than I. I wept quietly in front of strangers, standing at the altar of pure, true art.

Just as he asked, I sprinkled ashes on the snow. A baptism. A light that won't dim.

There is nothing so free and clear as the truth.

ashes and snow

I cannot do this transcendent exhibit justice with mere words; not yet. I'm sure it will seep into my writing here and there, it would be impossible not to be touched by the magic. Go to http://www.ashesandsnow.org and read what others have said.

No; go to the Nomadic Museum in Santa Monica and be transported.

You will fly with elephants. You will dance with whales.

Your soul will be inspired. Your heart will be healed.

At least, for awhile.

"Which of us is not forever a stranger and alone?" -Thomas Wolfe

I drove through the 2nd Street tunnel on my way to a birthday party at the bar in the Hotel Figueroa. Boyfriend of a fellow Capricorn invited 80 of her closest friends to fete her. 40 or more of us showed. I only knew the host and the guest of honor, but I know how to meet strangers. I know how to introduce myself first, how to shake hands and smile, look them in the eye, ask the opening questions. I know how to make it comfortable, I know how to let it flow.

Some friends call me a “people person.” Others, a “social butterfly.” I’m amused that it appears effortless. Apparently, I am the only one who knows what it takes for me to walk into a room full of people I’ve never met and engage in conversation.

Perhaps I should rethink my 1992 decision to give up the acting career.

I observed the partiers tonight, all armed with beers and wines and martinis, loosening the tongue, reloading when empty. I remembered how important it once was for me to smooth the way with such lubricants, hiding the discomfort I felt when alone in a crowd. Inebriation quells inhibition.

I enjoy hanging in bars; it’s familiar fun. That is, until I’m the last woman standing, and all around me are speaking another language. I’m glad I’ve figured out how to operate the heavy machinery of my mind without being under the influence. I get home earlier, I have more time to curl up with Lulu, the Best Dog Ever Made…which is really where I wanted to be all along.

I was the first to leave, around 11:30p. 3 hours is a long time to be alone with strangers.

"If you want to work on your art, work on your life." -Anton Chekhov

I'm very busy doing both these days...what else is there to do?

Here's a San Francisco self-portrait from last Sunday...perhaps not "Ashes and Snow" (wish I could have gone to the opening today -- I can't wait to be in that space), but part of my art. And my life.

2006 Confessions Part One

I am addicted to Trader Joe's Tamari Roasted Almonds.

This season's "ER" is boring me to bloody tears, but I can't stop tuning in. It's on right now, and I'm more entertained by the guys painting the walls in one of the lofts in the building across the street.

I don't care if Judge Alito becomes Justice Alito.

Alcohol holds absolutely no allure for me, but there are times I wish I could smoke a little pipeful of pot. I won't; but I wish.

The real reason I want to make lots of money -- other than making my mother comfortable and doing wonderful things for my close friends and making generous contributions to the charities of my choice -- is to invest as needed in various cosmetic self-improvements. Vanity, thy name is -- me.

I send anonymous notes to fellow bloggers complaining about their spelling and syntax.

It's hard for me to watch erotic scenes in films when I'm not having sex. Which is probably why I haven't yet watched my friend's copy of "Y Tu Mama Tambien."

I play with my hair incessantly. I think that's why I have half as much as I did 10 years ago.

If it wouldn't make me pizza-faced and 60 pounds heavier, I'd eat chocolate souffle every damn day.

That oughta do it for now.

If I annoy you, please let me know *before* pressing charges.

Perspective: Create an e-annoyance, go to jail
By Declan McCullagh

CNET News/Published: January 9, 2006, 4:00 AM PST

Annoying someone via the Internet is now a federal crime.

It's no joke. Last Thursday, President Bush signed into law a prohibition on posting annoying Web messages or sending annoying e-mail messages without disclosing your true identity.

In other words, it's OK to flame someone on a mailing list or in a blog as long as you do it under your real name. Thank Congress for small favors, I guess.

This ridiculous prohibition, which would likely imperil much of Usenet, is buried in the so-called Violence Against Women and Department of Justice Reauthorization Act. Criminal penalties include stiff fines and two years in prison.

"The use of the word 'annoy' is particularly problematic," says Marv Johnson, legislative counsel for the American Civil Liberties Union. "What's annoying to one person may not be annoying to someone else."

It's illegal to annoyA new federal law states that when you annoy someone on the Internet, you must disclose your identity. Here's the relevant language:

"Whoever...utilizes any device or software that can be used to originate telecommunications or other types of communications that are transmitted, in whole or in part, by the Internet... without disclosing his identity and with intent to annoy, abuse, threaten, or harass any person...who receives the communications...shall be fined under title 18 or imprisoned not more than two years, or both."

Buried deep in the new law is Sec. 113, an innocuously titled bit called "Preventing Cyberstalking." It rewrites existing telephone harassment law to prohibit anyone from using the Internet "without disclosing his identity and with intent to annoy."

To grease the rails for this idea, Sen. Arlen Specter, a Pennsylvania Republican, and the section's other sponsors slipped it into an unrelated, must-pass bill to fund the Department of Justice. The plan: to make it politically infeasible for politicians to oppose the measure.

The tactic worked. The bill cleared the House of Representatives by voice vote, and the Senate unanimously approved it Dec. 16.

There's an interesting side note. An earlier version that the House approved in September had radically different wording. It was reasonable by comparison, and criminalized only using an "interactive computer service" to cause someone "substantial emotional harm."

That kind of prohibition might make sense. But why should merely annoying someone be illegal?

There are perfectly legitimate reasons to set up a Web site or write something incendiary without telling everyone exactly who you are.

Think about it: A woman fired by a manager who demanded sexual favors wants to blog about it without divulging her full name. An aspiring pundit hopes to set up the next Suck.com. A frustrated citizen wants to send e-mail describing corruption in local government without worrying about reprisals.

In each of those three cases, someone's probably going to be annoyed. That's enough to make the action a crime. (The Justice Department won't file charges in every case, of course, but trusting prosecutorial discretion is hardly reassuring.)

Clinton Fein, a San Francisco resident who runs the Annoy.com site, says a feature permitting visitors to send obnoxious and profane postcards through e-mail could be imperiled.

"Who decides what's annoying? That's the ultimate question," Fein said. He added: "If you send an annoying message via the United States Post Office, do you have to reveal your identity?"

Fein once sued to overturn part of the Communications Decency Act that outlawed transmitting indecent material "with intent to annoy." But the courts ruled the law applied only to obscene material, so Annoy.com didn't have to worry.

"I'm certainly not going to close the site down," Fein said on Friday. "I would fight it on First Amendment grounds."

He's right. Our esteemed politicians can't seem to grasp this simple point, but the First Amendment protects our right to write something that annoys someone else.

It even shields our right to do it anonymously. U.S. Supreme Court Justice Clarence Thomas defended this principle magnificently in a 1995 case involving an Ohio woman who was punished for distributing anonymous political pamphlets.

If President Bush truly believed in the principle of limited government (it is in his official bio), he'd realize that the law he signed cannot be squared with the Constitution he swore to uphold.

And then he'd repeat what President Clinton did a decade ago when he felt compelled to sign a massive telecommunications law. Clinton realized that the section of the law punishing abortion-related material on the Internet was unconstitutional, and he directed the Justice Department not to enforce it.

Bush has the chance to show his respect for what he calls Americans' personal freedoms. Now we'll see if the president rises to the occasion.

Biography
Declan McCullagh is CNET News.com's Washington, D.C., correspondent. He chronicles the busy intersection between technology and politics. Before that, he worked for several years as Washington bureau chief for Wired News. He has also worked as a reporter for The Netly News, Time magazine and HotWired.

Something's gotta give.

Erica Barry: If I were writing this, this is where I would write "an awkward moment."
Harry Sanborn: Honey, if you were writing this, I'd be DEAD!

;)