Found:

It had been nearly a week since that thing we had called a party. There was plenty of beer and sangria, but few in attendance had dressed for the theme and the party as a whole had left the hosts with a feeling of dynamic urgency. As the Ben Harper played on the stereo, this following Thursday was slowly sauntering into nothing. Tonight’s wine was a better bottle than last night’s. There was a growing sense that many things needed to change for all of us, before the wine became the only thing that could be improved upon from night to night.

There were still the constant themes at least. Life still had its reasons. That was what made it impossible to complain. Youth had been rife with depression and anxiety, as each stumble seemed to create a wound that would never heal.

Tonight she was bar-hopping with friends in a limo, drinking and carousing through the streets of Scottsdale and Tempe in a celebration of her friend’s birthday. There was no question of trust or fidelity. I had no burning desire to hear from her tonight. Was it that I didn’t care, or was I actually growing up. I talked to a man once, at some bar somewhere, that had said that he loved his wife so much that he never even needed to spend time with her. He merely needed to know that she still existed.

He was beginning to simmer over the fact that the possible female interest in his life, Jen, had yet to call him tonight. It was her birthday today, and they had made tentative plans to spend a portion of the night together in a celebration of sorts. His phone had been ringing consistently since he had gotten home. None of them turned out to be Jen. Various friends had been calling to coordinate attendance for the show tonight. In an ideal world, all of the cool and meaningful things to do in one night occur on different nights of the week.

Anyone’s birthday was the best excuse to go get admirably drunk, talk to people we didn’t know, insult women who were not impressed by our intoxication, get in fights, get kicked out of bars, eat bad food at 2:00 in the morning, vandalize something, then invent a reason to go to bed with the girls we really cared about.

As I fought to get through the crowd of acquaintances to the people I really cared about, I was once again struck by the notion that I really needed to cut back on my drinking. If I didn’t spend half of my fucking life and most of my paycheck in this bar, then it wouldn’t take me half an hour to get back to the table where my friends were waiting.

“What’s in the bag,” the officer said it less like a question, and more like an indication that he was going to open the bag no matter what I replied.
“Surfboard,” I replied in a mumble. I was more concerned with the three half full bottles of beer in the cab with us. I could have cared less about what they thought about our belongings in the bed of the truck.
“Did you just say C-4?” the officer inquired. “Guys, give me some help over here,” another officer was approaching. “Please step out of the vehicle,” the officer ordered.

For a moment, my eyes met those of the first officer. My jaw, brows, and most importantly the depths of my pupils, exuded confidence in my compliance with the law. His face had the stern look of a teacher that had just turned around from a blackboard after being hit in the back of the head with a paper airplane, to find a classroom full of smiling faces and folded hands.

The car behind us honked its horn. Traffic moved at a relatively steady pace until we got to the Mirage, then we stopped again. Hank’s bladder could hold out no longer. He had apparently miscalculated his consumption to urination time ratio by about fifteen minutes.

Joe fumbled around in the back of the truck. He was looking for the empty 40-oz. bottle that had contained the malt liquor that was now fighting to make its way back out of his body. There is a standard principle that one must follow when urinating into an empty bottle in a car on a road trip. The rule of thumb is that you will excrete as much liquid as you had previously consumed.

I started to wonder just how much whiskey one man could drink.

My life had gotten really comfortable in a really short period of time, and it scared the shit out of me. Mine was an ideal life that never got me any closer to any ideals that I had ever imagined in life, and I knew I needed to get away as soon as possible…

Nothing but a circle of lit candles warmly glowing on the pristine hardwood floor. This townhouse apartment seemed to possess the all of the spiritual justification that invited the meditation that now took place within its barren confines. Each night of unexplainable mood swings and depression was followed by a day that would find my pillow a soft cloud of ease and contentment.

Mike and Aaron: Try as they might, these two can not avoid being observed as employees in the café/coffee shop industry. Tall, dark, and charming, their good looks create a confused, uneasy, and irresistable attraction in the minds of unsuspecting patrons coming in for their morning lattes or mid-afternoon iced mochas. These two are extremely overqualified, and after six years of making cappuccinos, their passion for coffee preparation could be described as sarcastic at best, though your drink is guaranteed to be. They will spend most of their time trying to get Brit pop played on the coffee shop’s sound system and looking down on any guy that comes in with one of the hot “regular” babes (those guys are twats). These guys WILL be appearing behind a counter near you, and if you want to continue drinking, coffee you had better stay on their good side.

When I got into my car, it smelled like my grandfather’s car. It smelled like the old purple Cadillac from sometime in the sixties. The one that honorably carried Miss Arizona in the 4th of July parade every year from 1970 to 1985. It smelled like age.

I often battle with myself to make each month better than the last. I want to live a life better off than my parents before me. What were my parents doing each night of their lives when they were 25? I know that my father was still trying to find an existence in the small town that I now patronizingly refer to as my hometown.

For every moment that I want back, that I want to live again, for each of those flashes of nostalgia, I spend precious seconds in the now, hating where I am. Each second with the girl that got away now seems so precious that I sit and do nothing but think of all of the time I now waste not living my life as happy as I was with her. I can’t even remember why I liked being around her so much. When we grew apart, she gave me so many different reasons to hate her, and she had to. I am beginning to lose touch with the sense of what we did, she and I, on a daily basis.

I wish that each day could be an exercise that would allow me to come home each day and write about in a way that expressed growth and purpose that was clearly defined. I have a picture of Marilyn Monroe on my wall in my bedroom for fuck’s sake. How long is that going to be with me?

I listen to Air, and I feel like Stevie mother fucking Wonder at the keyboard here. For my status in society, I feel depressingly drunk and psychotic.

Anyways, the three remaining of us ended up closing down the bar without event. I then went and got a burrito and briefly became frustrated with God once again.

Radio

It was a late night with her – red wine trickling through brain arroyos – when he discovered he could slow dance to any music so long as he wanted to hold her close. The stark, pained beauty of Billie Holiday’s voice – forlorn love and absolute pain set above the dim-light-bulb-suspended-from-a-ceiling saxophones; the unrestrained fiddle that keeps the bluegrass/country/folk guitar from digging its own grave; the rhythmic jazz rock via coke and cognac of Steely Dan; Lou Reed, or a thousand imitators, singing from his veins; classicly-crooning Elvis and his pied piper flock of modern-day wannabes; Roy Orbison, singin’ for the lonely, preaching to himself so honest and true and beautiful the congregation remains standing room only; Rail-car Guthrie; can’t-see-straight, smoke rings fading, last-call piano blues; untie-me punk anthems; the make love now beat of trip-hop, urgently fueled by painfully sexy vocals; a long, convoluted movie story by Dylan, cinematic lyrics burrowing so deep he takes the lead role; weed-hazy slick rhymes filling out a pulsating beat; corny, generic love pop, with or without a sentiment worth believing; who-sang-this, what’s-it’s-name oldies he'd heard a million times; a rock-culture founding guitar riff; screaming metal guitars paired with fantasy-world lyrics… It all sparked the dance – solemn as a Victorian waltz, dirty as an underground discoteque.

Rolling Over Jack Kerouac

Diction, by Dr. Chung

Obligated to
Esteemed chancillors
who requested fiscal projections,
charts, unethical savvy

They obeyed and declined
All assistance

They obeyed and declined
All penalties

They Danced Deficits
For the martyr who
Pays threes in ducats and coinage
To see
Diversity and humor in those
Smart ass equations:
Growth, Duplicity

For the politicians
And slaves
Who loved shag carpeting
Turpentine, Prog-rock
Prose and sips of
Vodka over opened book

They Obeyed, oblivious
To the disquiet
Christmas tree
Diction

A New Year

So now that my first photoblogging project has come to end, what next?

How about something even more self-indulgent?

Check it out:

A Year In Pictures Following The Break-Up

Toilet Wisdom

The Buffet Crockpot and Bar, men's bathroom stall, Tucson, AZ. 6-9-05



"BMX Mike wears Dildos up his Ass"

"DON'T BELIEVE EVERYTHING YOU READ" or "READ BETWEEN THE LINES

This past week, I was visiting my step-brother in San Diego. He works a lot, so I spent a fair amount of time with his eleven year-old daughter, Stacy. Stacy’s big hobby is reading the rags they sell next to checkout stands at the supermarket. So all of Saturday, I kept hearing, “Uncle Jack, Demi is pregnant with Ashton’s Kid,” or “Katie is leaving Tom because you’re not allowed to eat chicken if you’re a scientologist and her aunt owns a chick ranch.”

I told her that none of that was true, that Tom and Katie were quite happy, but she asked, “If it’s not true, why is it in the paper?” I told her about sourcing material and the laws of libel, but her only response was, “Nick and Jessica are getting a divorce.” Thank God.

But it made think about how much I bought into, just because I read it somewhere or saw it somewhere. An old New York senator, Preston Brummagem, once said “the encyclopedia is full of facts as long as you want to read them.” He was talking about his stance on education, but it could also be seen as a point on gullibility.

I knew this girl that thought everything in “The Da Vinci Code” was true. I would just look at her and shake my head. Then again, I was in junior high before I knew that the WWF was scripted. But I was only thirteen and she was twenty-two.

And I’m not trying to downplay Faith or the belief of fairytales, I’m just wondering when do stories become fact and vice versa. Thaddeus Palterson, a 1930’s science fiction writer said that he wrote “true stories that just hadn’t happened yet.” So who’s to say what isn’t true now, won’t be in thirty years or so.

But how much of my life, or my own personality is based on lies that I watched on TV or read in some magazine. Our present self is made up of the experiences of our past self, and what if those experiences are lies? I saw this Japanese horror movie called “False Remembrances” about a man that was haunted by the ghost of his dead wife. He thought he killed her and kept running from the cops. In the end , we find that his dead wife was not haunting him, but warning him about who really did kill her. Of course, it was too late and he died by the real murderer’s hands. But through out the movie, he slowly accepted the fact that he killed his wife and was planning to kill again.

I know this is all pretty dumb, but more and more of my friends are having kids. I was planning on lying to each and everyone. Tell them stories about How there was no gravity until Newton invented it or how the Mallard and the beaver had a child and it was so ugly that they sent it to Australia, and that’s where we get the platypus. But after hanging out with Stacy for a weekend… I don’t know.

One last quote, then I’m done, The silver-age comic writer Stanley Jenkins once said, “I know I’m writing fiction, but it doesn’t mean kids can’t believe in what I’m writing.”

Rolling over Jack Kerouac

Here's a new feature, in which I post selections from Dr. Chung's old collection of beat poetry:


In The Morning

In the Morning
Ice and Tentacles grew from
The side of the house

Extending from a heart
To the sea

The house, still
And plaster hung from cables
Doors still clung to the meat
And flesh of the house
With crimson carpeting
Three inches of shag into
Smooth, smooth table legs
And the displacement in space
Called aesthetics
Extending skin and sinew
To the sea

In the Morning
The Sea found
Ice and tentacles

Recover, Salvage
Awaken to slumber
In the brine, music

Envelopes in hydrogen and oxygen
Envelopes in sodium and chlorine
And diatoms
The Sea

Blair Witch?

Blair Witch?
Originally uploaded by George Chomberson.

These fake kids were all over my new gynecologist's office. I can't think of anything that I could possibly find creepier. Unless, perhaps, they're actually hiding sad, scary clown faces. I pray to god that I never find out . . .

Too many dead bodies

Though you have to read 3/4 of the way down to get to the most interesting part of this article, there are periodic discoveries of human bones in people's yards in Tucson. Apparently, in the 1900s, many cemetaries on the outskirts of town were moved to make room for development. Many couldn't afford to pay to have their relatives exhumed and moved. Now hundreds of potential zombies lie beneath populated neighborhoods, to be stumbled upon when residents decide to put in a pool or a new tree.

"There are probably hundreds of bodies still underground," Thiel said. Citywide, Tucson police take 10 to 15 calls a year regarding historic remains.

Dead bodies all over Tucson

There was also an apartment full of dead cult members from three generations discovered in Russia.

Apartment of dessicated corpses

The Finnegan Report

1. Cannes

I was at Cannes for four or five days and it was a great time. I had nowhere to sleep, but luckily this Australian woman let me share her apartment. But the second night, she changed her mind at 4 in the morning and I was out on the street to fend for myself. I trudged with my backpack to the end of the bay where the yachts are parked. At the end of a discreet little pier, I found a small boat tied to the dock and slept in the boat. The next day, I spent hours watching the short films at the area where mine was being shown. Out of nearly 50 films I saw, 3 were fantastic, about 7 were good, about 30 were mediocre, and about 10 were really really bad. That day after watching the films, the short film corner had, as every day, its happy hour. Free drinks. I forget who the sponsors were, but they provide entire refrigerators of beer and enough cases of wine that it never ran out. So each afternoon there was plenty of free drinking to be enjoyed. That day, I went out to the beach already very tipsy. I had my unopened bottle of wine that I had bought previously that I carried in my backpack. I opened it on the beach behind the American pavilion and drank in the sun, talked to some crazy directors. I saw their films the following day. One was the worst film of the entire festival, a documentary about post 9/11 New York with slam poets reciting shitty poetry in front of graffitied New York walls and another hip hop princess riding in a limousine around Ground Zero under construction. The other girl's film was a documentary on couples who choose not to have children. It was so funny because all of them were involved in some creative activity and they look at the camera and say through gritted teeth, "I'm so happy that I chose not to have children. My woodcarving is so fulfilling. I can't imagine children giving me any more fulfillment than the joy I get out of making this wooden duck." And others: "Sheila and I decided not to have children and it's really wonderful because it gives us the freedom couples with children don't have." Cut to 40-something Sheila and husband dancing gracelessly on the beach. Sheila: "My barren womb is more than compensated for by my husband taking me on motorcycle trips... Have you seen my papier-maché dog?" But in any case, it was cool hanging out on the beach, drinking cheap wine. As the sun went down, I walked along to an outdoor screening of Star Wars. The next day was to be the premiere of "Revenge of the Sixth" or whatever. I saw about twenty minutes of the film and passed out. Next thing I remember, somebody puts my jacket on my sleeping body and I go back to sleep. Later, I found a self-shot picture of two girls I never met. When I woke up again the beach was almost empty. I wandered to the bar "where everybody goes", so I'm told. I found some guys I had been hanging out with before. They are two Australian producers trying to promote their trilogy of werewolf horror flicks, "Reign of the Wolf". The first film is about the origins of the werewolf 10,000 years ago. The third film is about werewolves in the modern day. The second of the three, the one that they filmed a trailer for in order to raise money, takes place during the American Revolutionary War. You have the British and the Americans fighting. And in the shadows of the forest, werewolves hunt for HUMAN FLESH!!! It's really funny. Kind of funny absurd as a horror movie premise, but I think it would be really fun to watch. Plus, the werewolves don't look like traditional werewolves, they are long and bony (digitally made), and look more like skinny bears as they gallop on their hind legs across fog-strewn landscapes, howling at the moon. So I hung out at that bar, but didn't drink anything, naturally, as I have no money. In fact for my five days at Cannes, I spent only 45 euros on everything. But my director gave me 50 euros so that I could find a room.
That night, I had no intention of paying for a room. I left the bar where everyone goes with a handful of producers who wanted to stop by the Carlton Hotel for a drink. The Carlton is the nicest hotel on the seafront. Paris Hilton was staying there and it's where Universal Studios and Paramount and all big names were housed. So I went with the producers and ended up spending the night at the Carlton Hotel... in the stairwell. After everyone left, around 3am, and I was alone in the lobby where men and women come and go in thousand dollar suits and gowns, I slinked over to the elevator and made my solitary way to the top floor. It was dead quiet in the chandeliered hallway. I explored the end of the hallway and found some concrete stairs. I thought, if anyone in this hotel had to travel even one floor, they would certainly take the elevator if not call a taxi. So, I set my backpack down on the stairs and managed to fall asleep despite the house techno beats that were still pulsating when I woke up around 7.
The next day, I offered the 50 euros back to my director. She said to keep it. So my whole trip to Cannes, I had a cumulative gain of 5 euros, which is better than my director could say who didn't manage to find a distributor for our film.

2. Upcoming film (acting)

I have my biggest film project yet coming soon. We start shooting the feature film on June 15. It is a 15 day shoot, and since I have the main role, I will be on set for all 15 12-hour days. The final draft of the script looks really good. I think it will be a nice film. I enjoy my part. I enjoy the story.
It's about an American who comes to Paris to be an actor and falls in love with a European girl. I'm preparing a theatre piece, but just as I learn that it will not go on, I also learn that my girlfriend is pregnant. This I am told by my father who I haven't spoken to in three years. I get really mad and drink and fall down and hurt myself, but then I end up patching things up with my dad, getting together with the girlfriend, and getting a role in a film. Happy ending.
The original actress dropped out about two weeks ago. We've been preparing the film for six months and her motivation began to drop. She had other things she wanted to put more energy into and besides, she had just bought a new expensive apartment, and so she became too mature to participate in an indie film that's not paid. It really was funny to see how in the six months of preparation she went from energetic girl to mature woman who really outgrew the part. But just yesterday, we got a new girl for the film and she will be really good, I think. We have some more rehearsal next week, then the following week, we start shooting.
Hopefully, if the film ends up selling, I will get paid. There is a not-impossible chance of that happening, but it would not be less than a year to a year and a half from now after the film goes through post production, makes the round at festivals and hopefully finds a distributor for theatres. I think I'll get somewhere around 5000 euros if the film sells, and if it does well in distribution, I get percentages beyond that. That would be really nice since I have no money.

3. Upcoming film (writing)

xxxxxxxTOP SECRETxxxxxxx

4. No More Teachers No More Books

My girlfriend's graduation took place at a massive auditorium in Paris's biggest convention center. It was the 50th anniversary of her school, so we had to sit through a 3-hour hoopla complete with professional dancing troupes, original songs, all MC'ed by Frederic Mitterand, the nephew of the former President of France. At the end, confetti rained out over the whole auditorium. So it was unbelievable hoopla for a private school graduation. But afterwards, the same waste of money was put to much better use in 40 tables of hors d'oeurves in a giant room, nestled among 10 bars serving free alcohol. Champagne, whisky, gin, vodka, take your pick. For the first three minutes, my mouth was literally never empty. I went from caviar to champagne to stuffed mushroom to ham and paté withtout even breathing.
She and I also celebrated our one year anniversary on Bob Dylan's 64th. We just went for a walk in the Jardin des Plantes and hung out and watched music. She made me a dioramma containing items and images from our favorite songs. Words that were turned into physical representation include "sometimes even the president of the United States must have to stand naked" which was shown by a clay man with GWB's face pasted on standing inside a shower curtain. Another was the house from "Come on Up to the House" by Tom Waits. Standing next to the house, someone asks "What's he building in there?" There was references to Bjork songs and a really bad lyric from a Bright Eyes song.

5. This is How We Living

So I left my apartment on bd. St. Germain on May 1. I stayed with a friend near Montmartre for most of May. Then, when my friend who I'm writing the above screenplay with left for the States, I took his apartment and that's where I am now. It's a nice little place just off rue Mouffetard. 7 square meters, but I got a shower, a stovetop, shelves, a bed, so it's good. He comes back Aug.1. At that time, I should be riding a bike with my girlfriend and another friend somewhere in Europe. When I come back, I'll have nowhere to live and almost no money whatsoever. So how will I survive. Don't know. It was suggested I could strip in gay bars. They say I do a good pole dance.

Adult-onset Attention Defecit Disorder 2: photos, birds, snakes and hippos

I've made some decisions in the last few days:

1. I am longer dealing in written words. Ever. Text is no longer where it's at. In the future, I will only read books with pictures, and examine the pictures only. Or maybe I'll purchase a book if its cover is so compelling that it warrants ownership of the entire book. I will communicate through photos and diagrams, when necessary. Photography and images are the only proper way to convey anything with any degree of accuracy and impact. I won't be making this changeover until I've finished all of the books I own, otherwise I think it's wasteful. It's not fair to myself and it's not fair to the environment.

2. I've taken up amateur ornithology. It's a fairly simple, but enthralling undertaking that requires only a field guide, elementary knowledge of plumage patterns, a pair of eyes, and a passion for God's most beautiful creatures that live above our heads and inside our hearts. Some of the choice sightings I've logged in my watcher's journal:

• Silver-Breasted Nuthatch: collecting his dinner feast of seeds and insects.
  
• Tawny Morning Thachet: basking in the late evening glow with a friend.
  
• Velvet-Plumed Pearl Swallow: singing me a jaunty song; boasting her shimmery coat.
• Eastern Albuquerque Migratory Turkey Hawk: he has provided his family with an ample plate of musky carrion.
• Mexican Lizard Sparrow: her brilliant tail is colorful enough to hoodwink even the slyest of the scaled predators and poachers alike.
• The elusive Desert Oriole: don't mind my prying eyes, friend. I only seek to gaze at your brilliant pattern, rarely seen at this altitude.
  

3. I would go up against the Black Mamba snake before facing a hippopotamus. Despite the irresponsible portrayal of the herbivorous hippo as a plodding, friendly creature, it kills more people than any other mammal. Territorial males kill more humans than any other African creature. Faster than a human, silent while hidden underwater, and wielding 20-inch, razor-sharp incisors, the hippo kills man seconds after his presence is even known. The corpse goes uneaten, but mangled beyond recognition.

The Mamba snake, easily the most feared, kills with venom in minutes. It's especially dangerous because rather than slink away from humans, it sometimes chases after them at 12 mph if the tree-dweller feels threatened. The adult reaches 8 feet long and delivers 100 mg of venom. 15 mg is enough to kill a man. An attack begins with the snake rising up to six feet tall, balancing on the rear third of its body, and ends with its victim's suffocation through paralysis of the breathing muscles.

Humans are no match for either animal, but I think with the Mamba, I could maybe deflect an attack with a stick, or maybe even flee the snake's territory before it catches wind of me. The hippo is also fast, but has brute force and two-inch thick skin that leaves me with no recourse. So I would face the bird-killer before the vegetarian. Also, reports from the sparse survivors of the snake testify that its neurotoxin brings about a dreamlike euphoria as it lulls victims to an endless sleep.