Well, THAT passed. Now I'm hungry again.

  It is true:  I was beginning to feel unhappy or depressed or something of that nature again today.  Is it just the money thing?   I don't think so.   I experience a bit of frustration about other things,  but I am able to remind myself just how shitty things can feel, how unlucky a person can become, and anything bothering me shrivels in comparison.

   So: The Safeway Walk.   It has become a much-abbreviated-yet-similar-excursion to the Bridge Walk.   I can do a loop to Safeway in about ten minutes, including checkout.   My mind still drifts and pponders about the thoughts of the day and problems if any, or can frolic in a happy thought if one exists.  ..  ?  What was my point?    I don't remember exactly, but I returned from Safeway in a good mood.    An excellent mood?     I became aware of a sensation I was having, I felt like this ship was just about to set sail, and I am on board.   I think you are going to be here with me, or I will run into you out there somewhere.    I don't know if these are crazy thoughts or not.    Are they?    I think you are going with me.    In my mind you are with me, going with me. 

  This shit here is good shit.    This is the good shit.    This is going to be a particularly productive month, and if it is not, forget about everything, because I know for myself,   I am not going to feel more optimistic  and industrious again as I do now, and short of winning the lottery this is not going to get any closer by itself.    So, do your part and then pack your shit.

   I have other more interesting things to type.   I am going to go do that soon, now I have other things I have to attend to out in that fucking big room full of cars.

The World is Our Motherfucking Oyster

   I am very pleased right now.

   Need I remind you of the Sudoku of Emotions the world can prove to be sometimes?   Sometimes a bitter harvest, and then all of a sudden - BOOM!-  a generous bounty spills forth.    Jackpot! Eureka!  Jesus!

  I am tired, I should not be typing, and I am certainly in no condition to type and post, but I probably will, because I enjoy the satisfaction I experience by thinking you may read this.   It is the same feeling I have for the six hours after I buy a lottery ticket, before I check it and find out it whether or not it is a winner.   During that time?    The feeling I have?   I am ENTITLED to feel good and optimistic.   It is worth the three dollars.  (This feeling now is worth MORE than three dollars, by the way.  PRICEFUCKINGLESS, this)    Well, that is how I feel when I slap my shit up here for you to hopefully read.  I feel like this may be an action I can perform which will initiate  some fantastical series of events culminating in an incredible and oh-so-cozy conclusion which will warm the hearts of the Viewers at Home.

    The point is, I feel very good.   Walking back from Safeway, and avoiding the pile of Rotel by the Post Office altogether, my mind felt especially clear and my heart especially light.   No more thick suffocating black.   The change so pronounced from what it has felt like for months and months I thought I must be dreaming.   Or very tired.   Or possibly under medicated.   I prefer to think I am just happy though.   This will be a great year.    You know this, right?  You know.   You can tell.  There is no need to worry, there is nothing to be helped or avoided or denied.    This world is to be enjoyed when the opportunity presents itself, because very quickly things change and everything is different, and it seems that only things not enjoyed or not taken advantage of are the things which are later regretted.  This seems to be the rule, this seems to be  the way in which things play out, these are the patterns.

    This is good.    I am going to go to sleep soon unburdened and calm, and even happy.

This is the end...

   Or at least it feels like it.       Wait.   I take that back.   Just as I typed that, it suddenly did NOT feel like the end anymore.   I think I was just experiencing some sort of blood sugar spike or deficit, maybe something to do with that Ritter Gold Edition bar I just polished off.   I'm coming back.   My vision has distilled to one clear image again and the palpitations have stopped.    Does this mean I have to go back out in the shop and tinker again with these machines?  Please God, NO.

  So, the dating world at 40!    What a bitter harvest it is.    I suppose I can not rightly lay claim to any firsthand knowledge of this business, I have not actually gone on a date since I turned 40.   I've had my head tucked in.   I haven't even given it any real thought until just now.    Today has been a time of rediscovery.   Learning.    There was a little panic about fifteen minutes ago, but that has passed.   Isn't it the first or the end of the month?   I think I have things to be panicked about.    Surely I do.   What was I just saying about dating, though?    Bitter Harvest?   NOOOOO....  It is 2011!   This is the happy time!  I am not dying!   It is time to wrestle the truth out of some people though.

   For example, do you ever sit there while I am talking and watch me, or think about me when you are away and wonder for just a moment :   Is THIS it?   In a good way?   This could be the thing, the time and place you have been waiting for?  I am that guy?    Your Guy?    Like, 'Hello FUTURE!'?   Like, 'Let's go buy a house together and breed!' ?   Like,  'This isn't so bad!' - ?   Do you?  Like, 'I can do this.  I've done worse!'  ? 

   I think things like that sometimes, but I am especially impulsive and romantic and sensitive and unrealistic and optimistic.   I think I can do anything.    I think I can fix anything.    I feel like most problems are just a matter of perspective and minor adjustments.  I feel that with a tiny bit of skewing,  'dialing in',  we would be on the exact same frequency and thus able to understand each other.   I think anything is possible.  

   I am trading days in for something else.     Cells are dying, DNA strands breaking - BOTH helixes - and this is not good in the long run.   Or, the lung Ron.   Enron.   Bon-Bon. 

   Today is my Tuesday.   Sundays are my Tuesdays.    ... Don't you HATE IT when people say things like that?   Like, "Today is my Friday", and they are saying it on a day that is NOT Friday?   What does that mean?   Am I too critical?    Mean-spirited?  Just Jealous?      I don't think so.   Charlie Don't Surf.

   My only friend, the end.

   

   

Caveat RE: THESE POSTS & my special-lovely-gifted helper

Hi everyone, and thank you for joining me. This is my new place to self-indulgently post and hopefully share my every private thought. In an effort to bring YOU, my readers, even more useless and perhaps offensive thoughts and reflections of mine, I now have in my employ .... MY OWN PERSONAL ASSISTANT! Yes, for once, the rumors ARE true. Beautiful, mysterious, hungry, and fertile as the Nile delta. She is all of that and much much more. I have asked her to go through all of my treasured notebooks and type those entries here, for you all, to enjoy. I have asked her very nicely (as well as reminding her that I pay her) to type as much, and as quickly as possible, and don't bother with the proofreading - time IS money - I'll get to that and do the 'Smart Stuff' myself later. What is important now is to get this material out there to my readers, my reasons for living, YOU. What I'm saying is: If there is a misspelled word, or incomplete sentence, or dangling participle, or something just seems off or wrong, please don't blame ME, but blame HER instead. (SHE DIDN'T GO TO COLLEGE, but we love her anyway) When I get some free time after work, and on the days when I'm not volunteering at the Big Brother center, I'll edit these myself. If you want something done right...It's just that she...Well, you know what I mean. Thank goodness I am a very patient person! But here I am rambling again. I'll stop right now and let you go get what you came for - I can berate my helper on my own time. And don't you worry - I will.

I welcome and cherish your thoughts and suggestions. Ideas. Comments. PLEASE GOD, WILL SOMEONE JUST SEND ME AN EMAIL ALREADY?? Do not make me fling myself off of the bridge in desperation. I'll do it.

   RIGHT. 



Thank you for your interest and patience, yours,  Unclezak

Mad As A Hornet

  AS far as I am concerned, she took everything away from me, and it does not matter that I did not actually possess any of these things already, they were as good as mine anyway.    The house that felt like a home, warm meals, the kids,  a garden,  a comforting sense of fitting in somewhere and feeling needed... She saw it was within my grasp and she snatched the rug out from under me.    She couldn't stand for me to be happy.  Maybe she was afraid of being happy too?   I don't know, and I don't care one whit any longer what she is or is not afraid of.   She took my life!    My future!   It had a gleam and shine and it was as promising as the word 'tomorrow', and she  flushed it down the toilet.    She destroyed tomorrow for me, forever.

    I am living now within a 'tomorrow', yes, but a different tomorrow.   In this tomorrow I don't get to come home and take off my shoes and pick up my little junior whoosits and tickle it and make it laugh or toss it up into the air again and again as it squeals.    There WILL be squealing in this tomorrow though,  don't you worry about THAT.    There's going to be squealing all right.    And nylon restraints.   And a video camera.   That's what kind of tomorrow I'm talking about right now.   I am going to rise up high and stretch myself out tall so I can fall that much further when the time comes to gett'er done.   This is an inertial thing now, and I am in motion, SO CLEAR A PATH!  Part of me has been neutralized, and this has narrowed my focus all the more.  One less thing to distract me before I pull out my riding crop and give these subjects as well as this life a good hard series of whacks on the ass.  Satisfying contact. The good wood.  I am picking up the reigns.  I am standing tall.   I have goals.   The glass will rattle in the windowpanes when I am near!

    Things happen fast around here when minds are made up.   I've done it before.   The odd-numbered years, remember?  This one has started with as much determination and action as I have ever seen.   I pull my head in to gather energy, like when you pull in close to the center of a merry-go-round to make it spin faster, before sliding out to the edge to leap off or hurl some object forth?  Well, regardless of your knowledge about the laws of physics, know this:   When I get quiet, things are about to start happening.  I have to get quiet to collect my thoughts and energies.  I have to focus.    When I tear out of this thing in my new suit and draw down on my target,  I will have momentum, people!  It will be hard to stop me.    That is, until the liquor kicks in eventually.   Or the law.    There will be contingency plans this time though, even if I go, my business will be completed.   This is done before the bottle is ever cracked open.     I have been learning new tricks.

  Ask me about my book.

   It was the middle of the day but gray mist still hung over everything like it was early morning still.  The traffic passing by emerged forth out of the fog slowly like prehistoric fish rising up out from some cold depth, headlights like pale eyes visible for a moment first before the dark forms took shape behind them.   I was walking beside the street against the flow of traffic, the money wadded up in my front pocket reminding me that everything was going to turn out okay, that the hard part was already over.   I tried to look through the windshields at the people inside the cars passing me just feet away from me, but I could make out none through the foggy glass, or I was not trying hard enough.   I had other things on my mind.

 

Wet Blanket :

  Leave it to a woman to rain on your parade.   No kidding.    It seems as if a man comes up with some idea, it is a woman's job to point out every possible flaw with that idea.    Will they come up with their OWN IDEA?   Well, NOOOooooo.....   but leave it to the man to come up with some crazy idea like : "Hey, let's build a bridge across that river there", and his woman will be the first one to stand up and tell him all the reasons why it won't work, the 'what if's,  the potential problems, how it may effect her adversely in the long run, so on and so forth until that man just ups and gets all quiet on her and has to go make that bridge in secret with some other man.     The woman would be perfectly happy telling you she doesn't mind the way it is now, going the long way up around the mountain yonder and crossing where it is shallow,  or 'Can't some OTHER man build that bridge? Why does it have to be you?' She'll ask.     She may even try to tell you she doesn't want to cross the river at all.

   But I promise you this:   Once that bridge is up, she'll be putting on her Sunday Best and doing her hair and painting her face to get in line and go cross that bridge on the way to town now that it's there. She won't apologize for all the belly-aching she did while you were building that bridge neither.   All those days she was whining about how you spend all your time at that bridge, that crazy project playing around all day in the river with those other bums.   All the nights arguing about how you would rather be working on that bridge than being here in your own home where God wants you to be, with your family to look after.    She'll just up and forget about all that  and not mention it at all as she sits tall in your wagon and rides to town to do some trading, it taking only one hour now as opposed to the five it used to take going the long way around the mountain.    She'll even brag to anyone who'll pretend to listen to her about how it was you, her husband, that done built that bridge.    She'll sound proud when she talks to other folks, but she will refuse to share that enthusiasm with you for some reason that is impossible to reckon.      The only comment you're likely to get about the result of your labor is to be told you painted the thing the wrong color. 

  Ladies are just like that, at least when they're your'n.    If a lady is someone else's though, it is a different matter altogether.   You can tell them the sky is blue and they get to giggling behind their hand and calling you a rascal and such, making you feel like you're the most charming dandy in town, and they'll do it right in front of their own husband to whom they have not said a kind word or flattered since who-knows-when.     It's just how they are.    And they call US the sneaky ones.

Lester's Tomorrow:

  Lester was awake for several seconds before he deliberately opened his eyes.   He was having a dream just before, and something happened to wake him up, and it was something he did not enjoy.  It was the dream.  It was coming back to him now after he pulled the blanket up to his chin then stuffed his hands back down between his legs to keep them warm. 

  She was present in his dream as she so often was these days.  They were at his parents' old house, a house he had not set foot in in over twenty years save for during his sleep, and during those times it felt just as familiar as it did when he used to call it Home.  She was there in the kitchen and it was night or morning and he could not remember what had happened, but he felt humiliated by her again.  Several of his friends were there too, he now remembered, and one was twirling her bra around on the end of  his index finger in the air above her head while she giggled and tried to grab it from him.  No one seemed to notice or care that Lester was standing right there in the room with them.  He felt jealous about this bold flirting activity and wanted to say something,  tell them to just stop it, or call her some nasty name, but he didn't want to spoil the gathering with his moodiness.   When she tackled the other friend and straddled him laughing, fighting for her underclothes he knew that they had just slept together.   He began to become more upset and started to say something to them, he began to make his protests known and as soon as he began to speak up they were all gone and he became aware that he was now conscious and staring at the insides of his eyelids.

   He was furious now that to the insult of being cuckolded while he slept could be added the injury of waking up before he was good and ready.   He didn't have to open his eyes and look at a clock to be able to tell it was early still.   He could feel it in the cold air against his face, he could tell by the lack of traffic noises in the street outside.   He kept his eyes closed and tried with all the powers he knew of to get back to sleep and get back inside that dream so he could give everyone a good shaking.   In just a few seconds he knew he would not be able to do it, and in fact was quickly forgetting the plot to this newest episode of somnambulic degradation.      By the time he had opened his eyes,  he entirely disrememberd why he was feeling so humiliated in the first place.    He lay there for a moment, and then pulled the blanket up to his chin before stuffing his hands back down between his legs to keep them warm.    Blinking at the white textured ceiling, he began to recollect, and thereby relive the dream again in tiny fragments, his face wincing now and again involuntarily.

  It was really cold outside of the blankets, and Lester felt really warm and comfortable mantled under them there on the couch like he was, but he didn't want to revisit this dream any longer.  His mind had a way of torturing him with ugly unpleasant visions no matter how much he tried to think about other things, so he thought he would break that cycle this morning by getting up early and giving his tireless brain a rewarding task to perform by ordering it to make him some coffee.   It worked.

   In retrospect, and only after he had risen for very different reasons, did Lester remember that it was New Years Day.    He would subsequently later tell people he had begun performing his new duties of resolution, of which rising earlier was one, but it would be a lie, if even only technically so.   He knew that he was lying, but he really was going to start waking up at 6 anyway soon,  go ahead and watch him and see if he doesn't do it again tomorrow!

    Standing in his kitchen wearing a green sweatshirt over a black t-shirt over a white thermal top, some red boxer shorts and a disintegrating pair of flip-flops,  every breath he exhaled made a little white cloud that floated away from his face and disappeared before the next one was released to chase after it.

  'NOW!' he yelled out loud into the cold, and as if conjured by a magician's trick this word itself turned into one of those little white floating clouds looking not much different than all the rest.  He tucked his hands into his armpits birdlike to keep them warm while he stood there like a fool watching the pot of water and waiting for it to boil.

The mathematics of Desire:

I search still, I have been searching my entire life for that thing to allow me to take deep calm breaths, to feel ease within my birdcaged heart.  I  look far and near for a carrot to chase, a bullseye to aim for, a goal line to cross that may provide recognition that I have at last made it Home.  In equal earnestness I search for a hook upon which I can hang this 'gift' of adoration, heavy and smothering, a large rough yoke I carry with me everywhere I go,  in mind's eye composed of leather and brass with many buckles and straps, old and sweatstained.  I know I will drop where I stand one day,  made a jument of my want.   Gifted or cursed, I do not know which I am set upon by my feelings as if by a buzzing cloud of gnatflies on a hot summer day or a flock of beautiful birds, are they not sometimes needed?  Welcomed?   Beautiful in their own way then,  like the birds that land upon the backs of elephants or other great beasts unable to tend to themselves such is their bulk, and keep them clean or free of some parasitical elements?   My wants winged and feathered, beaked and beady-eyed? Of simple mind, and in simple minds grow stronger desire, if for no other reason than constriction of purpose and resource makes these same longings more focused, as if poured through a funnel and collected in a deep bowl.   A reptilian brain thus trumps mammalian ponderings when it comes to elements of want and hunger, rapacious needs far easier to satisfy than self-aware logic and emotion.

Like the beacon in the top of a lighthouse, my attention is broadcast in a bright unbiased beam in every direction, full 360 degrees, again and again.   A warning or an appeal?  Depending on which receives this signal,  freighter or vessel adrift, beetle or bat, one desiring solitude and one solace,  both suffering some degree of need, for both depend on the will of another even if strangers they yet be.

Rocky cliffs send stones tumbling into cold gray water day and night, but only in the light of day can you see the frothy splash, the rising of tiny bubbles escaping their aquatic bondage tracing the path of the sinking rock, falling slower now submerged than before airborne, landing on the sea floor to roll back and forth with the waves and tides, unseen, as generations of your family are born and die, born and die again and again, forever towards some impossible end.   Your bloodlines surely lost, names forgotten as that stone remains unaware of you or your existence and you of it's.

Just as easily you may pick up a rock spat upon the sand and guess it's name, or lacking the manners to ask it what it calls itself you may give it one of your own creation.   You may throw it back into the sea or bash out the brains of your lover with the thing, swinging low and threatening tethered to the end of a stick, or join it with like kind chosen for their appearance, or knowledge of their strength, or both in some construction of your design.   It is patient and loyal and it can wait.   It's only vice is it's inability to deny gravity or momentum, a sucker for inertia, otherwise it is an unreasonable thing although it does not make untoward demands.   Unlike me and you.

I've seen a bird carry a rock away from beside a still lake, wings flapping, carrying the unsuspecting object somewhere beyond my line of vision but not beyond the reach of my imagination, and on that subject I reckoned and wondered and still sometimes do.   Can a piece of the Earth feel fear?  Does it have a pulse that defies discovery so slow it beats, and as a result so long it persists?  What of that bird, what was it's plan?   What need was satisfied?  Did they ever learn each others' names?  Suspended in the air the cold weight of the rock finally matched by the desperate lift of beating wings, and for a few moments they exist on opposite sides of an equal sign.  Whose will was stronger?    Whose need?  How long were they able to harmonize?  Separately just single notes each, lingering in the air for such a brief time and begging to be joined by the other like the ends of a magnet, and even when fortunate enough to find another with which to resonate creatively for a moment, entire symphonies will lay undiscovered in each half, unable to be complete ever again as are pieces of a broken window pane, as there is never enough dirt beside the grave to fill it whole again.

My recent interview with the KING OF HIP-POP

   The following is a recent interview I conducted with Marshall Mathers, AKA Eminem, about the release of his latest album, 'Recovery' and subsequent mind-boggling NINE Grammy Award nominations for that same album.   I was lucky enough to be granted this interview with the multi-platinum selling artist because my literary agent (who is a friend of Eminem's agent) sent him an advance copy of my upcoming book "Things You Should Know About Me:  Breaking down the myths of America's favorite megalomaniac automotive repairperson" .     He was impressed enough with the book  to want to meet with me in person to discuss the possibility of working together  on his autobiography.     I happened to be in Los Angeles for a few days and our schedules were such that it was convenient to meet at the Chateau Marmont in Beverly Hills.   This is what happened when we met each other to see if we 'clicked' for a future project :



  I arrived ten minutes early, as is my custom for formal or business occasions.   The valet palmed my generous $5 tip and gave me a nod of thanks  as he pulled away in my rental car.    I walked into the iconic Hotel there on the Sunset Strip and informed the maitre d' that I had arrived.    I was surprised to learn that the rap star had already been seated, and was waiting for me in a far corner of the room.   As I was escorted to our table,  I noticed he was chewing something frantically and stuffing some paper wrappers into the pocket of his oversized ski jacket.   I felt a little nervous, and stood beside the table even after the maitre d' had left, waiting to be invited to sit.  Mister Mathers was wearing prescription glasses that made him look sort of bookish.   I was not expecting that.

    He held up one finger in the air - wait a sec-  with a guilty grin on his face, still chewing and then swallowing,  before standing up to shake my hand.  He was shorter than I had imagined him being.

MM  (wiping his mouth with a fancy napkin) : Fuck man!   You're EARLY.   Caught me eating a 7-layer up in this bitch!

ZM (confused, nervous) :  Oh.  Hi!  Yes.   I'm here.  I mean, YOU'RE  here.   7 layer?

MM (trying to keep a low profile) : Sit the fuck down!  Yeah, 7 layer.  I thought I'd grab a snack at Taco Bell before I headed over for this thing.   The service here sucks my dick.   It's going to be FOREVER before we eat shit. 

ZM (Sitting, pleased, excited,  unslinging army-surplus messenger bag from shoulder and settling in):  Oh, yeah.   I've never been here before, myself.   I've seen it in  a lot of movies though.

MM (glancing over his shoulder to make sure he is not being detected by strangers):   See that bitch over there?   The one pouring that fucking wine?   SHE sucked my dick.   So did that other bitch way over there, that one takin' those dinner rolls to Richard Gere and his bitch.   You know Richard Gere?


ZM (taking it all in, trying to think of something amusing to say):  Richard Gere?  Ummm... NO.  Didn't he have a thing with a gerbil once or something?

MM  (Suddenly getting upset):  THAT'S what I'm talkin' bout,  man! You all write your shit and read your shit and that's all it is - SHIT!  That tabloid shit!   Bunch of fucking LIARS! You can all come over here and SUCK ON MY BALLS.

ZM (shocked, desperately trying to fix things):  NO!   I don't believe or read any of those things, I would NEVER..

MM (Happy again, chuckling, cutting Zak off short): Fuckin' with you man!  I know that shit. Shit, RICHARD GERE sucked my dick once!  HA! (elevating fist over table, waiting for  return 'pound' from Zak)

ZM (slowly getting it, not really amused, reluctantly tapping fists):  Oh.  Ha.  Hey, do you mind if I get my tape recorder out?  We could start the interview?   By the way, and I hate to ask, but who is going to pay for this? Wanna' do dutch?

MM (Surprised at sudden appearance of microphone tethered to large gray plastic tape recorder): Well, usually, the INTERVIEWER buys the INTERVIEWEE their shit.

ZM (Opening wallet,  taking inventory, doing some math in his head): Okay... That's fine.  (points microphone a few inches away from Mr. Mather's face and presses the red 'record' button on the tape recorder, the wheels inside of which begin to turn)  So,  what do people usually call you?  Marshall?   Eminem?

MM (looking over shoulder again to check if he has been discovered here yet):  Nobody calls me Marshall.  Em.   Call me Em.   Where the fucks the waiter?  I'm thirsty.

ZM (thinking for just a moment, and then) I prefer to call you Mister Mathers.  You don't mind do you?

MM (looking a little upset) Well, I'D prefer if you called me Em.  'the fucks this 'mister' shit?  WHERE THE FUCK IS THAT WAITER?

ZM (not feeling comfortable with 'Em',  adjusting microphone):  I'll get him.  Her.  Here she comes now Mr. Mathers!

   (At this point, Mr. Mathers ordered two seventeen-dollar bottles of oxygenated mineral water (explaining/bragging about his sobriety - AGAIN)  and became upset  when he could not order a platter of nachos.  He compromised instead on  something involving a Peruvian Swordfish and tortillas,  and an appetizer involving truffles and cream cheese.   I stayed with ice water myself, concerned about the quickly-mounting restaurant tab.   After waitstaff left us we continued with the interview)

MM:   What, you on a diet, bitch?

ZM (Ignoring his comment):  So Mr. Mathers, let's talk about your latest album, 'Recovery', is that title symbolic for something?

MM (glaring for a moment, but happy to talk about his music): Symbolic?  Recovery? Yeah.  I felt like I was... GETTING BETTER.  Recoverin'.   I'm pretty happy with this album.     The whole thing was like, was like... a fucking EXORCISM, man, you know? I had all this shit I had to get out of my head, and I was coming off drugs and...

ZM (interrupting him, excited to have similar experience): Yeah!  Like ME in MY BOOK, I had things I wanted to get out of my system, too!  It was very therapeutic!

MM (steering interview back to his album):  Yeah, so like, the whole fucking thing  was like my life, and it was ALL REAL, from the first track through to the last..

ZM (interrupting, being honest):   I didn't like the first track.


MM (annoyed, but not sweating it):  YEAH?  Well the guys at 'Vibe' liked it plenty.   That shit is REAL. That's the REAL SHIT!  I'm saying,  the whole fucking thing, track one through..

 ZM (interrupting again, being honest):  I didn't like the second track either.   In fact, when I listen to that album, I just skip ahead to number five right away.

MM (not believing what he is hearing):  Wha? ...  You don't like 'On Fire'?

ZM  (being honest):  No,  Not really.   No.

MM (a threatening aura beginning to radiate about him):  You don't like 'Won't Back Down'?

ZM  (unable to bend the truth):  No.   In fact, I HATE that song.  I hate Pink, too.   Maybe that's why I hate that song?  I REALLY hate that song.   And what's that bit about Michael J. Fox vibrating with Parkinson's or whatever? That's not even funny.

MM (glaring without blinking for a full minute, until plates of food are set in front of him, breaking the silent tension):   That song's up for ALL KINDS of awards!  The guys at Rolling Stone said...

ZM (sensing need to change the subject):  I like number five though.   That was the first one I liked.   Then I REALLY liked number seven, even though it's a little corny.   THEN, I went CRAZY for number twelve - '25 to Life'?  I LOVE THAT SONG.    I had that one song on repeat for about five days, I think.  I love it when...

MM (shoveling food in his mouth between swigs of water, happy now, enjoying the compliments): Yehhm!  saht's whattum shayyyin!  Sss ite!   (chewing, swallowing, again, pointing at me with his fork, a bit of fish dangling from the prongs falling back onto his plate)  I KNOW!   And the best part?   That shit is REAL right there!  The real shit!  Shit wrote itself!  (shoveling food in mouth, again) Shhthzz  fawwwl mmm mmmnn awwl!

ZM  (beginning to feel sycophantic, wanting to talk about his book for a minute):  Yeah!  I know what you mean.  Kind of like when I was writing MY BOOK!   All the stuff about suicidal thoughts, and drinking and driving and behaving irresponsibly?   All true!   It just came right out of my pen with almost no effort! Like that, right?

MM  (thirsty, snapping his fingers over his head to get the  attention of the waitstaff)  Yeah.   Like that.  'Cept I don't act like a pussy all the time.

ZM (not sure if he should be offended or not, sipping ice water, analyzing Mr. Mather's evaluation):   Pussy?

MM:    Yeah.   It's sort of funny for a while, but all you do is whine all the time, Yo.   You're like this kid I used to HATE in school who was always complainin' about how nobody liked him.   Nobody DID like him, 'cause he was complainin' all the time how nobody liked him.    Get it, Dog?

ZM (choosing his words carefully):  Mister Mathers.   First of all, did you just call me a pussy?  A whining pussy?  Wait.  We'll circle back to that.   Did you just tell me I remind you of a kid from school you hated?  Secondly,  Nobody, and I mean NOBODY complains as much as YOU DO in your music!   Poor you!   Poor YOU trapped in your fame! (on a roll now, going too far, as usual)  The business about your mom and Munchhausen's Syndrome?  REALLY?   You want to kill uh ... Whatshername.. Uh - KIM?   Your dead friend, PROOF?   THAT'S WHY YOU DO DRUGS, TO ESCAPE YOUR AWFUL LIFE??    HERE! TAKE THIS TO WIPE AWAY YOUR TEARS! (Offering fancy napkin across table to furious rapper)

MM (Slapping napkin out of Zak's hand):  You don't know shit.   You sure as hell don't know about the REAL SHIT.  Don't even talk about Proof, Bitch.  Ya'll don't come up in HERE tellin' ME about my shit! Don't rattle my shit, Punk.   Punk Bitch!  You don't know!

ZM (not quite done):  And what kind of name is that anyway, 'Proof'?  PROOF?   What does that mean? - AND, BY THE WAY,  speaking of Proof, You rhymed 'bulletproof' with 'Proof' in that one song.  I NOTICED.  Isn't that cheating or something?  That's not even a rhyme, technically,  is it? And why do you insist on talking like a negro?

MM: (food falling out of slack jaw):  Negro?

ZM (suddenly uncomfortable, but unable to backtrack): Yeah.   You know, a .. a.. COLORED PERSON.   (avoiding looking in the direction of Will Smith who is seated not-far-away, and now in a whisper;)  you know what I mean, Jesus!   Forget it.

MM:  .

ZM:  So.   Anyway...  It sure has been raining  a lot! Especially for LA.   Does it rain a lot in Detroit?

MM: .

ZM: (trying desperately now) :  I like that song with Rihanna a lot too.   Even The Helper likes that one!  She sure is cute.    Right?   Rihanna, not The Helper, I mean.   Do you guys know each other or something?  Are you finished eating?   Would you like some more water or something?

 MM (finally pulling a soft taco deluxe out of his jacket, unwrapping it): These things are alright.  I like the drive-thru.

ZM (relieved, confused):  Taco Bell?  What is that?   A taco?

MM (after chewing and swallowing):  Yeah, Taco Bell.   They have the drive-thrus.   I can't even go in 'em anymore 'cause I'm so famous and shit.  Can't even go to Taco Bell!   How you like that shit?  Ain't that about a bitch?

ZM  (learning to bend the truth, finally):   Yeah.    That sounds terrible.

MM  (after making two selections from the dessert tray):   Yeah, so MY ALBUM,  I feel like I've, like, GROWN A LOT since the last few albums, you know?   I've grown, and made CHANGES in my life,  I've been going through all these CHANGES in the last couple of years, you know?

ZM (wanting to keep him talking):   Oh.   Like that song you wrote - 'Going Through Changes'?  Sort of like that?

MM  (Happy again):  Yeah, that was real shit right there, too.   I think that's one of the best songs on the whole fuckin' album.   I put all that shit in it, you know - truth, positive thoughts, metaphors, similes, symbolism, fuckin' rhymes, fuckin' beats, fuckin' Ozzy.. That shit is TIGHT right there!   Some TIGHT SHIT, right?

ZM  (likes song, but finds no symbolism or metaphors in it, AT ALL):   Sure!  'Changes' are like you,  CHANGING, right?   Because YOU'RE going through changes, and so is ... Mr. Osbourne?  Or, do you mean, like, LIFE is full of CHANGES too?  Everything is changing all the time, right?   I see.

MM:  Black Sabbath.

ZM:   Excuse me?

MM:  The sample in that fucking song.   It  isn't Ozzy Osbourne, it's Black Sabbath.  Ozzy's too new.

ZM (confused, again, trying to tread lightly):  Yeah, but isn't Mr. Osbourne the singer for Black Sabbath?  Too new?

MM  (looking over each shoulder to make sure his secret is not overheard):  Samples.  Those fucking samples have to be 25 years old, AT LEAST, or we have to pay for them.  Ozzy's too new.  Black Sabbath is over 25 years old.   PLUS, fucking song is about fucking CHANGES anyway.  ain't nothin' wrong with that song.  Or Ozzy.  I put a shout in the notes for his ass, anyway.    Not payin' no FIFTY GRAND to use no three second sample!  Dre'll do that shit, not me.  If HE wants to pay it, I say let the Negro go and pay the fifty fucking grand.  I'M not the one to...

ZM  (triumphant, interrupting, honest again, pointing):  HA!   THERE!

MM (momentarily confused, then understanding, then indignantly rolling eyes):  *I* can say that shit.  YOU can't say it.  MY BEST FRIEND WAS A NEGRO.   Negroes love me!   Do negroes love YOU? HOW MANY GRAMMY AWARDS YOU UP FOR?  Snap! (then snaps his fingers in my face)

ZM (not wanting to explore this topic further, beaten,  then looking through messenger bag for notes): Yes.  Quite.   Ummm...   I have some questions I wanted to ask you.   They're here somewhere in my bag.   A notebook.    It should have a green cover.    (pulling items out of messenger bag; batteries, gum, pens, the wrong notebooks,  protein bars)  It's in here somewhere...

MM (getting bored, picking remnants off of his plate with his fork):  You been to the Playboy Mansion yet?   They got a Taco Bell on the way up there...

 ZM (Triumphantly waving green notebook over head):  There it is!  Alright now...   Let's see... (papers falling out of notebook on floor, stuffing them back in, thumbing through pages, finally giving up and winging it) ... I'll remember them, I swear.  OH, I know!  I've got one!

MM (watching with more than a little contempt, wishing he was in a Taco Bell drive-thru):  Yeah?   What?

ZM:  Well, I noticed this last album marked a departure for you from your little skits between songs,  most notably the skits Lampooning Superman.  Christopher Reeves.   You seemed to have some sort of bone to pick with the man.    Even after his passing, you continued to poke fun, and I know some people found it offensive.   Why?  Why HIM?

MM (Interested in talking about himself again, and appreciating the intelligent question, but must ask): 'Poke Fun'?  What are you, fifty or somethin'?  ANYWAYZ ,   Well, Superman is like, SUPER, right?   He's got all these superpowers and shit, right?  But then the REAL Superman falls off a horse and gets his shit all fucked up and can't even walk!   Ever see that sucker blow into that straw to move his chair around?   You don't think that's funny?  What's wrong with you?  You need to get laid more!  Let's roll on up to the mansion and see Hugh.

ZM (ignoring MM's accurate estimation of frequency of sexual accomplishment):  Funny?    Maybe.   A lot of people may take offense to that though.   And you did it for like... (looking through notes in green notebook).. FIVE albums.  Why did you stop doing that this last album?

MM (getting serious, introspective, NOT thinking about Taco Bell for a minute):  Well,  like, my best friend Proof died, right?   We was BROTHERS, man.  I didn't get a chance to say 'goodbye' or nothin' like that, just POOF! and Proof was gone.   That shit put my ass in a.. a... self-loathing state, you know?  I got to thinkin' and shit,  thinkin' about Proof dyin' , and I was GOING THROUGH CHANGES and shit, right?   I realized that people dyin' ain't funny.    Even Christopher Reeves.  Even Superman dies, and it don't have to be funny, you know?  Proof didn't have no wheelchair either tho'.   Still, I don't think death is so funny anymore.


ZM (taking a moment to let the somber tone of this admission pass):   Well.  I see.   Most people don't think death is funny, Mr. Mathers.   Or wheelchairs.     A lot of people don't think Parkinson's Disease is funny either,  but you 'make cracks' at Mr. Fox   two...no,  THREE times on your new album.    What if Proof had had Parkinson's?   Would it be funny then?

MM (considering this for a moment):   No.   But Proof DIDN'T have Parkinson's.


ZM:  No.... But IF he did?  It wouldn't be funny to you then?  A lot of people have Parkinson's disease and don't think it's funny.

MM (confused): Yeah, but PROOF didn't have Parkinson's... What are you saying?    Are you saying Proof DID have Parkinson's Disease?..  Fuck are you sayin' about Proof, Yo?

ZM (trying to bring things back to manageable condition, AGAIN):  No.   Nothing about Proof, nothing.  Just that making fun of other people's disabilities and misfortunes is not always funny.   To everyone.  (making important point now) EVERYONE is SOMEBODY'S PROOF.   (pausing for a moment to let this brilliant insight sink in, then)   Let's talk about something else.   Something happy, Okay? (looking through notebook, remembering question)  Oh!   I see you did one track with old-time collaborator 'Dr. Dre' - who has been credited with 'discovering' you and who also produced your first three albums.   How long have you known Mr...  Mr... ANDRE , uh... Mr...

MM:   Young?   Dre? Andre Young?  That who you mean?

A Close Call...

  I was minding my own business today, or at least I thought I was minding my own business, roasting a poultry product in the oven.    Wait. That isn't right, let me start over:


    I was roasting a chicken the other day in my oven.   It was a nice little Tuesday or Thursday.  I forget which exactly, but it was  a day with a 'T' in it somewhere,  and I had been thinking about a roasted chicken for a few hours before I performed all the steps necessary to make the fantasy become a reality;   I went to the store and bought a plump chicken,  I soaked the thing in my own special blend of exotic herbs and juices,  I ran 60 feet of 10-3 wire from a spanking new 30 AMP circuit breaker I had just bought from Home Depot and subsequently installed in the breaker box,  I used the sharp end of a claw hammer to break a hole through a wall in the kitchen in which to mount the proper stove outlet -   I did all that and more.


   And so it was, only 9 hours after going to the store for a chicken,  I was sliding that puppy in the oven.  In an hour or so the delicious aroma was was everywhere!    Another 15 minutes after THAT, there followed a dense cloud of smoke, which too went everywhere.


    I knew I should have returned to Safeway for a drip pan, I just knew it.   It's just that by the time the oven was working and the bird was ready, I really didn't want to have to bother with another trip to the store, even if they DO have a self-checkout aisle there now.    I fashioned something myself out of tinfoil and an aluminum platter from Sizzler (Alzheimer's be damned!) and put it on a different rack more or less under the chicken, but I guess it wasn't accommodating enough in some respect - size or volume or robustness,  I'll never know it's exact shortcoming(s) as it was lost in the resulting fire.


   Despite being right in the middle of a very delicate operation under the hood of a Citroen,  I had the common sense to investigate where all that smoke was coming from.   I suspected it might have something to do with the freshly-installed stove and/or baking chicken, and as usual,  my estimations were correct.


   Smoke was hemorrhaging at a steady pace from the top of the oven door, and I felt my life actually flash there in front of me for a moment - was my meal going to be ruined?    Maybe one side of the bird could be salvaged?    I just couldn't tell yet.     I stepped cautiously to the oven.   I put my hand on the chrome strip which served as a handle.   I pulled gently, shielding my face with my other hand and a dishtowel from the fireball I expected to leap at me  -   and an impressive ball of smoke rolled lazily out and up to be trapped against the ceiling, shrouding the flashing florescent light, but not much else happened.


   I turned the stove off.    I pulled the chicken out.    It was in fact edible.    Apparently what had happened was that a great deal of greasy juices had been emitted by the bird and spilled into my makeshift drip-catcher.   Some had spilled past my drip-catcher, or it had failed in some way, allowing said liquids to fall onto the actual stove element itself initiating an unrealized burn sequence there at the bottom of the oven.  Angry, evil, dark, smoking fluids reflecting the red glow of the heating element, it must have been quite hellish in there.     Thank the Sweet Lord there wasn't a spark!


   Well, I became far too preoccupied 'testing'  the crispiness of the chicken skin, and 'sampling' a breast portion, and in my feeding frenzy I forgot to clean up or remove the drip pan.   This was about three days ago.


    Flash ahead these last three days - three days of movie-watching, three days of chicken-carcass-creativity, three days of chicken enchiladas, chicken salad sandwiches, finally chicken soup,  three days of a chicken's worst nightmare unfolding here at The Shop.    Well, that chicken must have put a curse on my oven on it's way out, because all hell broke loose in there today.


   I was feeling lazy this afternoon, and so I went to Safeway to buy one of those lasagnas they sell there... or was it a Shephard's Pie?   I forget which.    I don't think it is important to my story anyway.    NO WAIT!  It was funny, because it WAS the lasagna, a ghetto Safeway lasagna with a fancy Latinesque name like : 'Il Cocini Primero'  or 'Lasagna Bravini' or something amusing like that -  pure gibberish - so I was chuckling to myself as I slid it into the oven on the rack above my black and befouled homemade drip pan, and I smugly set the dial to 'Delicious' at 375 degrees before resuming poking around under the hood of a Rover out in the garage.     Twenty minutes later,  savory aromas.   Ten minutes after that, billowing smoke.    Really?   AGAIN?


   I was more confident this time, experienced, jaded even,  and just went right up to the oven door and pulled it open without the protection of my dishtowel.   Fire belched out of the door and into my face, blinding me temporarily.


   Now, I'm an Air Sign, so I can not be bothered with planning for disasters.    Wait.   Maybe I'm a Fire Sign?    Earth Sign?    Well, I'm one of THOSE.    I am pretty sure I'm not a Water Sign, or I wouldn't get so upset when I have to wait in the line at the post office.   Right?     The point is:    I'm an Air Sign and so I don't hang fire extinguishers all over the place like a certain short-but-imposing Jewish friend I have who shall remain nameless in this story.   I am NOT the Safety Guy.    And when a ball of fire jumps out of an oven and burns my eyebrows off, I do not remain calm.   And what of the lasagna?   Would it too remain in an edible state like the poultry before it had done?  Would it persevere?   Would it be crispy on top?


     This is what I was thinking as I slammed the oven door shut and began slapping at my head and face with a used paper bag I found nearby.   It seemed to do the trick putting out the hair fire, but it must have been some powerful medicine that baked chicken had administered in my kitchen three days prior, for even after turning the dial to 'off' and waiting a minute or two, still more black smoke came out the crack at the top of the door, and also began to float up out of the four black cold coils of the stovetop as well.     This thing was living!   Was I done for?


     Well, I am typing this to you now, so you can guess I made it through alright myself.    The lasagna was a total loss, however.     I am still trying to pick up the pieces right now and decide what to do next.  The fact  that this all happened on the Eve of the birth of The Baby Jesus is not lost on me.   I pay attention to the little details! Universal Signals!  You should know this about me.  I am tuned in to the cosmos.  Even so,   I just don't know what to do now about Christmas tomorrow  - what about the children?      I suppose it's back to Safeway for that Shephard's Pie.


      It just goes to show you - No day is too sacred for a grease fire.