look to the right, exactly 90 degrees from the terraced hillside back deck of lucretia gardens, and there are — the san gabriel mountains — gently looming over the hazy glendale flats. turn 180 degrees back to the left and there’s — the glassy silver rim of the pacific ocean, dividing the big sky of another multi-colored california sunset from the slightly high-rise sprawl of snarky century city and the equally-hazy flats of LA’s toney west side. turn back another 90 degrees to the right, and there, straight ahead, is the white dome of the griffith observatory, the shrubby tree tops of tom mix hill (of legendary silent film cowboy lore), and lo and behold… the iconic hollywood sign itself.

mountains and ocean and hollywood sign. oh my. mountains and ocean and hollywood sign. turn again. still… there. mountains and ocean and hollywood sign. not an illusion. not a dream. not a fantasy. but… right there. right in front of my nose… in the bohemian hills of echo park. mountains and ocean and hollywood sign. oh my. a perfect trifecta of beauty, comfort, and seeming… middle aged “satisfaction”. actually, at the house’s height in the hills, at my age, and amidst the neighborhood’s slow but steady climb towards gentrification, maybe it’s the “bobo” hills of echo park. “bourgeois bohemian” being the more accurate description of people of my persuasion, former anarchists, artists, & hippies, who, via their ascent to america’s diminishing middle class, and their modest but no longer diminutive salaries, have reluctantly given up their former “bohemian” status as their baby boomer generation’s poor but righteous malcontents.

nevertheless… mountains and ocean and hollywood sign. oh my. right from my back deck. from the place where i live. from the place i could have never imagined living. it’s certainly nothing to turn my nose up on. nothing to spurn. something certainly… to be grateful for. because here i am, in sir paul’s cranky and dotty when-i’m-64^th year, looking out on my life from the lofty vantage point of appreciation. of gratitude. of…

what the hell?

something definitely must be wrong. this can’t be my life, can it? married for 10 years? working at the same job for 26? living in the same house for 19? let alone, happily married and still in love. let alone, still passionate and motivated to do a good job. let alone, still renting, not owning, a home i call my own, where i’ve scattered the ashes of my mother, my father, and my criminal uncle.

well, i teach ‘improvisation” for southern california’s largest private employer, a well-known and prestigious institution of higher learning, that seemingly hired me entirely by chance. i never applied for a job there. in fact, when i graduated from college in 1969 with a degree in frisbee, i never imagined opening another book, let alone working at one of these sterile academic behemoths. yet here i am, like most people i know, up to my neck in life, on a path that not only haven’t i really chosen for myself, but on one that i never knew existed.

i mean, c’mon, when i reluctantly got my degree from the wintry university of buffalo shortly after the summer of love, do you think i had any idea that i would become an artist? a professional modern dancer a year after i skipped my own graduation ceremony, only to lose my virginity with one of my best friend’s estranged girlfriends in the tipsy city of toronto? any idea that i would become a dancer-teacher at columbia college, chicago, in a field i only had 6 months experience in? or a professional clown who ran for mayor of new york? or a poet? or a filmmaker? or marry an indonesian woman 30 years my junior who spoke only a few words of english and who didn’t know who bob dylan or richard nixon were? simple answer to all? nooooooo!

the point being… most of us have no idea how life will turn out. how our lives will turn out. no matter what our parents wanted or expected from us, no matter how much career planning we and our counselors did, no matter how much we believed in destiny, fate, or divine intervention, no matter how much we gravitated towards security and away from risk, or vice versa, life just seemed to be “what happened while we were waiting for our plans to work out”. yeah, i’ve said it and written about it before, but how could i not? whenever one searches for meaning or perspective in life, whether he/she is an agnostic, atheist, or a true believer, one has to come face to face with the seeming randomness of the draw.

this, however, is not necessarily a bad thing. it just… is. randomness, synchronicity, simple good luck or bad, these are just labels that help us… if not understand… then to, at least accept, the ways of the world.

and that’s the thing… that brings me back to… the mountains and the ocean and the hollywood sign. oh my. the seeming randomly winding road-less-taken that led me to… here. to scenic and comfy lucretia gardens. to a cushy and creative job at USC’s school of theatre. to a strong and loving wife named surya. yet somehow, maybe… i just don’t feel… worthy. i never planned any of it. i never imagined any of it. simply put, i/it could have ended up… worse. and of course, it hasn’t ended yet. who knows what’s next? and yet, here i sit at the keys, doing a lot better than i thought i ever would. no, i didn’t become a famous artist, nor do i earn a lot of money. i did have cancer, lose both parents and too many friends; spend a few nights in jail. and i still do have lots of fights and battles every day about things i believe in, but… over all… life has afforded me some grace, some privilege; and i have discovered some… appreciation & gratitude.

yet… another yet… why is there still no contentment? why are my dreams still haunted? with annihilations, with fears, with awakenings that thrash me within inches of my life? why is my mother leading me on a euro dirt road in an open wagon to the ominous gas chambers? with grease, black-haired hitler following just feet behind in his SS military car? why do i wake up with self-impaled daggers in my gut, an inhalation away from my last breath? why am i being fucked up the ass by some brutal butch bully? night after night. nightmare after nightmare. just like my father told me he had. nightmares. just like my jewish friend, beth, tells me she has. is it in the genes? in the species? in the tribe? have jews looked back over their shoulders so many times, for so many millennia and generations, in so many schtetls, during so many pogroms, that they have never stopped expecting the sky to fall?

dreams of annihilation. my whole life. from my insecurities? from my fears? how do i balance the mountains and ocean and hollywood sign, oh my, my “successful” and grateful outer life, with my inner demons?

i don’t know. i’ve taken pills, seen psychics, done meditation, even believed in a god for a moment in time. and yet, still another yet, i am eternally haunted. i know the trick, the goal, is to let the outer world infiltrate the inner. for me to internalize the seeming success i have in the external world. yet… still another yet… it’s easier said than done. otherwise, if it was so doable or so easy, the fat kid who was picked on so brutally as a child would be able to see the thin, healthy image he or she stares back at in the mirror of the present. otherwise, the beautiful woman, so adored, so pursued, by men her whole life, would be able to stop purging, stop starving, stop abusing herself, in her own eternal hell of self hatred. otherwise all the starving, the poor, the bad and the beautiful, all the loveless and aching, all the bells of bob dylan’s chimes of freedom flashing, would be ringing more freely, more lovingly, less cruelly, than the sad, tolling bells of human experience and reality.

just a little relief, huh? that’s all we want. just a little relief from the aches and pains. the losses, the falls. the scars, the bruises. the insults, the rejections. the little deaths and lacks of acknowledgement. the unpaid bills, the ungenerous ex-es, the over-commitments. the unrequited loves, the ungrateful kids, the wolves at the door.

fuck! shut up, trules. you live in the old hollywood hills. just above the old charlie chaplin silent film studio. just a stone’s throw from tom mix hill. just a mile from the hollywood sign, as the crow flies. turn to the right, trules, and there are the naked san gabriel mountains. turn to the left and there is the mighty pacific ocean. in all its beauty. in all its grandeur. what are you complaining about? shut up, trules, and… count your blessings. so what if you don’t believe in an omnipotent, benevolent god made in man’s image? so what if you still have those goddam annihilating nightmares? so what if you can be evicted from your lovely lucretia gardens on 60 days notice? lose your job and livelihood any time your boss chooses? lose your wife any time she chooses? so what? so what?

just… shut up…

and be grateful.

one of the true, inalienable gifts of the end of summer is the harvesting of home grown garden tomatoes. bright red, succulent, juicy-delicious, it’s a gift that actually comes in all shapes, colors, and sizes: the  omnipresent heirloom, the muscular beefsteak, the green zebra, fuzzy peach, red boar, the hillbilly, grape, plum, campari, even the diminutive cherry. all can be planted easily in the spring, watered abundantly through the brunt of summer, and ultimately & gloriously harvested, often, thru the end of september. personally, i can’t think of anything much more satisfying than cultivating healthy fruits and vegetables from your own garden, then enjoying them on your own personal or family dinner table. simply, it’s life at its best. the natural, pre-industrial order of things. and what meal isn’t perfectly entrée-ed with a plate of beautiful home-grown, happy red tomatoes, combined with a leaf of fresh green basil, topped with thinly-sliced cuts of white buffalo mozzarella, and garnished with a homemade salad dressing of extra virgin olive oil and a splash of brown japanese soy or tamari sauce? (okay, sure, wine vinegar is fine too.)

i’ve been a gardener  my whole life. maybe it was growing up in the baby boom suburbs of post war long island, where mom and dad always grew a healthy summer garden of zucchini, bell pepper, green beans, spinach, eggplant, and of course, red juicy tomatoes. they say the fruit doesn’t fall far from the tree. well, that was me. a gardener by osmosis. even my teaching, and i am a life-long teacher, is a metaphor for my gardening. plant the seeds, and they will grow… beyond the classroom, into healthy plants or trees, into wild weeds, or into grafted originals beyond even the teacher’s imagination.

i’ve lived on a hilltop paradise in sunny california for 18 years now. i call it “lucretia gardens” because around back from the sprawling red bougainvillea and white hibiscus trees out front, there lay 7 hillside terraces of verdant garden down below, all resplendent with fruit trees like fig, peach, avocado, plum, grapefruit, lemon, and lime, along with two separate terraces devoted to vegetable gardening. hence… the glorious tomatoes.

this summer i happened to celebrate my 64^th birthday.

i had a little “when i’m 64” get together at lucretia gardens, and i invited 64 of my nearest and dearest friends to come over for a little “pahty”. the guests’ ages ranged from 19 to 85 and included old friends from the long island baby boomer hood, several LA theater notables, and hand-picked students from the last 25 years at USC. it was a kid-less party though; we were the kids, parents had to leave their young ones at home. but who knew that when the beatles’ paul mccartney penned “when ’m 64” in 1967, while the rolling stones were teaching us not to trust anyone over 30, and 64 was such an ancient, old man’s or old woman’s age of approaching and decrepit senility, that i would, one day, make it to that stentorian age… having survived lymphatic cancer, still having one hip of my own, and in possession of most of my mental and physical faculties. hell, i hit the tennis ball harder and better now than i did in my teens.

the pahty was a smashing success… a great turn out, on a balmy, late-august california night, and oh,  i forgot to mention, everyone wore white. it was da wife’s idea. i don’t know where she got it from. being from indonesia and 30 years younger than me, i know it wasn’t her recollection of the beatles white album or her memory of the four moptop’s pilgrimage to india to see the chanting maharishi. no, it must have been a current fashion magazine, or just her own sense of je ne sais quoi, but there we all were, just about 64 of us jaded, world-weary LA sophisticates, wearing white shirts, white pants, white dashikis, and yes, far too many of us, white hair.

of course, da wife and i set out plates full of red ripe tomatoes with basil and mozzarella cheese, along with ocean black mussels sautéed in white wine sauce, home-made cold green zucchini soup from my mother’s timeless recipe, ceaser salad, asian dumplings, barbecued chicken wings……. it was a spread. there was a young pony-tailed friend who took photos, a curly, blond-haired USC cinema student who shot a video, and best of all, my friends, many of whom hadn’t seen each other in years, mingled and enjoyed seeing each other, until about 2 in the morning, at which point i discovered that i was completely spent and had to throw the remaining stragglers out into the cool morning air.

it’s been a few days since and i can’t get the pahty out of my mind. i still see lingering and funny images of former titans now stoop-shouldered with age, hear snatches of conversations about awkward falls and errant electrical explosions, recall my embarrassingly profane birthday cake speech. so many crimes and misdemeanors, an embarrassment of riches. but hey, i tell myself, we planned it for months, why not let it linger on as long as it wants to… before it all too soon, retreats into the forgetful humdrum routine of memory.

but now another thought comes to mind. an onerous one. a bittersweet recognition: what if… that night was as good as it will ever get? what if it’s all downhill from here? i mean, look… on this one summer night i still had my… health… my friends… my job after 25 years, my 1^st marriage after 10, my hillside home after 18 (although i merely and mercifully rent)… i still had  my memory, my sense of humor, my 12 year old dog, clay; so many of the people and things i’ve collected from all over the world for 64 friggin’ years.

i go out and sit on the plump, stuffed designer chair on the narrow, red-tiled front porch, in a little corner i like to call “mi rincon de memoria” (my corner of memory), amongst the low hanging creeping charlies and the wood-carved mexican religious figurines, and i  notice a single white easter lily growing through the green ground vegetation towards the black wrought-iron fence. it is singularly beautiful and very alone. i know that it is way too late in the season for a white easter lily to be growing in the garden. but there it is. i look a little closer to admire it, and i see that its white graceful edges are now fading to brown. in a few days, it will be gone. it stands there entirely alone, so fragile, in its slow, elegant decline. inevitably, it will crash like a springtime flower  into the cold of september.

we all know what’s awaiting us. no matter how many more miracles of modern science will be invented to keep us alive far past any quality of life. no matter what faith we keep or what religion we invest in. death awaits us all. sure, heaven and reincarnation comfort some of us. but… white easter lilies turn brown… and die. hopeful springs become the winters of our discontent. lucky 64 year olds turn 84, or a hundred and four… and then just fade away. what if i retire in a few years? what if i lose my job? my marriage? my home? where will i go when my landlord asks me to leave lucretia gardens? what if my health fails me? when my health fails me?

bitter. sweet?

i have a friend who truly seems to believe that his “golden years” will be “the most productive” of his life. he is optimistic, energetic, and hopeful. he’s constantly crooning, ‘it’s all mind over matter, right?” maybe so. have more faith, trules. be more optimistic. okay. but then again, i don’t want to be “productive” any more. i simply want to “be”. i look around and i see that too many people have been saving up for the rainy day when they’ll retire, have it easier, not have to work so hard, not have to struggle to get by. but… it never happens. they get sick, the economy goes bad; there’re no golden years and no rainy days. they should have been living all along. been bolder. taken more chances. enjoyed more.

me? i’ve never been able to plan anything. make life conform to my desires. “life is what happens while you’re waiting for your plans to work out.” john lennon is famous for saying that, but i think it was some little old lady in manchester or liverpool who he heard it from.

what if my 64^th was the pinnacle of my life? what if  i will never again be so healthy, so loved, so gainfully employed, or well situated? what if it’s all a slow slide down the terraced hillside of life? from here on in? if every life is a 3 act play, then certainly i’m entering the final act of mine. i just hope that i can carve out, build, or discover an interesting path through act 3… maybe a little b&b in bali, some decent health care in the fading USofA, maybe the miracle of fatherhood when i’m 70! i will do my best, artist-warrior-like, knowing eventually, that the curtain must… finally come down.

in the meantime, i’m sending out the weblink of the dashing pahty photos to my 64 white-clad friends. i just started 5 new youthful classes at the university after labor day, and… i’m already thinking about those ripe, ruby-red tomatoes for next years’ new spring garden……

most of my friends, and probably my all of my enemies, think i have an easy job. cushy. secure. even… lucky. i teach theater, something i still love and am passionate about, at a major university in southern california. i’ve been doing it for a quarter of a century: 17 years as an “adjunct”, 8 years as a full time professor. i don’t have tenure, never will, but somehow my contract seems to get renewed every year. i like to think that it has something to do with the fact that i’m a good teacher, i teach something valuable, self expression & creativity, and perhaps i make a difference in students’ lives. it’s time consuming and meticulous work, but on the plus side, i get a month off for christmas and 3 months off for summer. yep. i don’t make a lot of money but it seems enough to support me and my lovely indonesian wife. we live high in the old hollywood hills of echo park, in a poor man’s paradise, and we get to travel the world more than most people i know.

but easy? i don’t think so. all teachers are underpaid and under-appreciated. we have demanding jobs that take planning and fortitude, need patience and discipline, and require immune systems as strong as teflon saucer pans. only occasionally, do we get a return on our investment of trust and inspiration. for the most part, we lead ruthless, narcissistic students into skirmishes and battles for their own education. we try to arm these students for the opportunities and vicissitudes of life. we teach reading, writing, and arithmetic. engineering, law, medicine, and sometimes… theater. occasionally, we succeed and sometimes, we change lives.

they used to say, “those who can’t do, teach.” but i just don’t think it’s true anymore. not in my field anyway. all my university theater colleagues are practitioners and survivors of lives in the theater. playwrights, actors, directors, set builders, costume designers… all of us have had professional careers, sometimes simultaneous with our faculty lives. with our university teaching jobs, we are the lucky ones to have found a way to make a living in our humble professions. we are living dinosaurs.

———————–

so….. it’s the end of another spring semester. as usual, it’s the most stressful time of year. we’re inching towards the end of the semester’s final performances. there’s pressure on all of us, students and teacher alike. i teach a solo performance class, the writing and performing of autobiographical monologues, the making of art out of the fabric of the students’ lives. it’s a creative and passionate class in storytelling, and students are asked to be brave and honest, and to take emotional risks. i’m a notoriously demanding teacher, both of myself and my students, and i put in at least 14 hours a week extra, out of classroom rehearsal, for which i’m not paid a penny more. i don’t have to do it. but i do. why? i don’t know for sure. ask my mother or my shrink.

i’ve gotten 2 flus this semester, a quadra-perennial gift from my students. maybe it’s my immune system that has been shot to shit by the cancer i had in ’89. or maybe it’s the damn students, so willing and able to pass on their ornery viruses. but… i’m sick. again. sore throat, cough, congestion… the whole megilla. plus i have painful knots in my upper left shoulder and neck. i’ve been to two chiropractors and two acupuncturists. the last of the four has used a bizarre chinese medicine cupping technique, where he has pierced my back’s skin with a “7 pin dragon needle” and sucked the stagnant blood out of my muscles’ fascia, collecting gobs of nasty red, congealed, jello-looking liquid into 4 different egg-sized cups. it didn’t relieve the pain one iota. nothing has. now i lie on the floor in the classroom, listening to monologues. the students think i’m strange.

today, i’ve worked for 10 hours without a break. i see a different student every half hour. i “block and stage” the performance pieces they’ve written earlier in the semester. i wolf down a ham & cheese sandwich that i made for myself in the morning, with green wasabi mayonnaise that i like a lot, in the middle of one rehearsal or another, between 1 and 2 pm. i work like a well-oiled machine. this morning, my first student didn’t show up at 8 in the morning. she didn’t call. she just didn’t show. i almost had 2 freeway accidents getting to the university on time, and she… just didn’t show. i already knew something was dreadfully wrong, just driving to campus. i shouldn’t be inches away from 2 freeway collisions, both of which would have been my fault. i’m just a theater prof.

when i meet them all at noon, i do some math for them on the white board. i say, “there are 16 of you in class, right? i give you all 2 half hour rehearsals a week. how many hours is that?” (i like to use the socratic method.) they say correctly, “sixteen.” “right,” i say, “how many hours do we have in class a week?” “four,” they say. “right again,” i say. “how many out of class hours does that give me?’ “twelve,” feller says, a smart ass theater student i like. “that’s right, feller. that’s a lot of extra hours… that i voluntarily give you.” they look at me quizzically, apparently thinking “where is this going?”

“where is this going, you ask?” i’m good at reading students’ minds. and faces. “well, beca didn’t show up this morning at 8.” they all groan in unison. “but i did. and… i wasn’t happy. (beat. for effect.) beca didn’t call.” they groan again. “now i’m sure some disaster might have fallen beca’s way, which, i don’t wish upon her at all, but here’s my point. if you guys don’t meet me half way by showing up when you’re scheduled, then… let’s just not do this anymore. no performance, ok?”

they all look around at each other. “is the dude serious?” “is the prof crazy?” “what up?” turns out that i am serious. and crazy… and fed up, all at the same time. it suddenly feels like the 25 years of my professorial service is up. right then and there. i’ve had it. i am ready to retire to that little bed and breakfast in my balinese imagination, and to try to stretch my humble and meager teacher’s 401(k) to the end of my life. in the third world. in the third act of – my life.

i get through the end of the day. to 6:30. no one else misses rehearsal. they’re all on time. they all swear to me they’ll continue to do so for the rest of the semester. i accept their promise, and carry on. i shouldn’t have threatened them like that. it was immature. and self serving. but my back hurt. a lot. i ate my ham & cheese sandwich somewhere between 1 and 2, and i walk to my car. in lot 6. it’s 6:31.

i get into the RAV4 and eagerly back up…. directly into a 4 inch thick, concrete pole. i get out to assess the damage. my rear bumper has moved about the same 4 inches back into the body of the car. fine. i get back in and decide to take the short route home, through the middle of campus, out gate 4. i usually take the quickest route off campus onto vermont, through gate 6, and take the local streets to the freeway. it’s a little longer in miles, but it’s quick and efficient. why is this day different from all other days? who knows? but for some instinctive reason, i take the short cut through the middle of campus. maybe it’s because my back and neck are still killing me; i just want to get home and lie down as quickly as possible.

i drive towards gate 4; it’s only about a quarter of a mile, right in front of me. but there… also right in front of me…  between me and gate 4… are three… college coeds… on bikes… in the middle of the road. peddling in unison. slowly. i tap my horn. that’s what we new yorkers do. tap our horns. honk our horns. sit on our horns, depending what the situation calls for. horns, we’ve been taught, are there for a reason. to be honked. and, like i said, i just tap my horn… to let them know i’m right behind them. i mean, it’s a road, right? ok, this one, on a college campus, doesn’t have a bike lane, but c’mon, girls, be careful, for christ’s sake, if you’re riding a bike.

tiffany, chelsea, and britney, all turn their heads, in unison. they’re riding their pink and blue beach cruisers in the middle of a road, but… there is such a look of privileged contempt on their pretty young faces. “like, excuse us, we’re riding our bikes here.” i slowly pull around the scowling, condescending, perfectly pretty tri-fecta and menacingly, return their glare. if they could have spit far enough, i’m sure they would have. right in my face.

i continue rolling along, slowly, towards gate 4, the merciful exit to my long and virulent day. ok, maybe not as slowly as i could be. i pass several other student bikers. they notice me, keep peddling, and steer over to the side of the road. isn’t that what’s called for? i certainly think so. finally, i’m almost at the gate. there’s just one more stop sign before the traffic light and my salvation of jefferson boulevard. but… as fate would have it, there’s also just one more bicyclist between me and my holy grail. he’s a hydrant-built, blond crew cut kid, no doubt peddling his way towards a career in the military, the CIA, or as a brawny captain of industry. naturally, he’s also biking in the middle of the road.

i tap my horn again… lightly…. telling him in audio lingo, “i’m driving a car here, right behind you, dude, and you’re in the middle of the road.” the young captain turns casually around… and… flips me off. “screw you, pops,” he yells, as he reluctantly steers his bike over to the side of the road. ok, i’m old(er) than the young captain. that’s a given. but screw me for honking my horn at him, warning him that there’s a car behind him? after an 10 ½  hour day of rehearsal without a break? after beca not showing up at 9 a.m. and me almost causing 2 freeway accidents? with my left scapula and neck still in spasm? and me just wanting to lie down as quickly as possible to relieve the pain?

no, fuck you, mike. or captain mike, whatever the fuck your name is. you’re still a student, as far as i can tell. and i’m a professor. ok, maybe not your professor, and maybe i’m also just a dude in a dented RAV4 honking his horn at you. but c’mon, mike, don’tcha think that’s a little rude and confrontational… flipping me off and telling me to screw myself? it was a light horn tap, mike. i wasn’t laying on my horn, not that anyone in california can tell the fucking difference.

i slam my steering wheel to the right, pulling over to the curb, and i roll down my driver’s side window. mike looks surprised. taken aback, you might say. he stops his bike. “dude, mike, you were riding in the middle of the road. that’s dangerous. how ‘bout looking over your shoulder for cars behind you?” “you blew your horn at me, man!” “yeah, i did. i was warning you, mike. to pull over. what did you expect me to do. just follow you out of the campus at your bike’s speed?” “whatever, man. you blew your horn at me.” mike is very red in the face, but, he sees now i’m an older dude… an angry older dude. he waves his hand at me, indicating something like, “sorry, man. whatever.” i’m satisfied enough to pull back into the road and aim my car towards the elusive gate 4…

when… i hear over my back right shoulder… “fuck you again, old man.” ok… i’m old(er) than mike. but fuck me again…? after beca and… and the concrete pole… and… my enraged scapula, and… tiffany and her two spoiled bicyclettes? noooo….. fuck you again, mike! i turn my wheel sharply, to the left this time, making an expert u-turn, right in front of the gate 4 guard station, and… i aim my RAV 4 directly at mike. he sees me coming and his eyes start bugging out of his head. captain of industry, huh, mike? mike tries to maneuver out of my way, practically falling off his tan beach cruiser. i hit the brakes to a full stop… about 2 inches from mike’s front wheel. mike looks terrified. he should be.

i get out of my car and slam the door. i’m gonna tear mike a new asshole… when all of a sudden, another tall, bean-poley kinda student, comes running up to me. “what the fuck, man? you can’t just charge someone with you car!” i look at him. he looks as terrified as mike. i look back at mike. no, mike still looks more terrified. oooops. i’m in an awkward situation here. i almost ran down a student on his bicycle… although i know i’m an excellent driver and never woulda hit the kid. i mean, i usedta drive a taxi in new york, c’mon. ok… awkward. i quickly get back into my car, slam the door, make another u-turn, and finally head out through gate 4. i look in the rear view mirror as i enter the flow of traffic on jefferson, and… i see the uniformed gate attendant writing down my license plate number.

————————

ok, end of story, number 1:

i drive home. lie down, rest my scapula. i realize that i just completely lost my temper… again. at my work place… in front of public witnesses… and that the hard-working guard wrote down my license plate number. two days later, i get called in… again… in front of the infamous ms. jones from the university’s committee on un-american activities… anger management division. “well, nice to see you… again… professor trules. what is it this time?” you see, i’ve seen ms jones before, about a little racial discrimination case. i was innocent. she dropped the investigation and said she “hoped to meet under more favorable circumstances next time.”

these are not them. the more favorable circumstances. in fact, ms jones has been contacted by captain mike’s parents, general and mrs. mike, who want to sue the university for the mad professor’s attack on their young flip-me-off son. two days after this, i’m called in… again… in front of my own dean… who tells me this time… there’s nothing she can do to save my tempestuous ass, and, in fact, i will be terminated from the university’s employ in 60 days. she’s sorry. ms. jones is sorry. but maybe i should see a different shrink.

whoah, after a quarter century, i finally get the boot. in hollywood variety speak: “blowhard prof gets the ax after 25 years. trules ankles. (hollywood speak for “resigns”). captain mike’s parents sue for millions.”

ok. wait.

end of story, number 2:

i drive home. lie down, rest my scapula. i realize that i just completely lost my temper… again. at my work place… in front of public witnesses… and that the hard-working guard wrote down my license plate number. i wait nervously at home… day after day…. waiting for the other shoe to drop. the phone call. the law suit. the termination interview. they don’t… come. so i continue rehearsing with beca, feller, and the gang, and we do a fantastic end of semester solo performance show. eventually, the semester’s finally over. my back’s still hurting, and i’m going in for an out patient surgery at 5 a.m. tomorrow morning. general anesthesia. i hope i wake up.

“anger’s just another name for fear you don’t want to lose.” “endurance is the fury of a patient man.” so sez my old friend, dr. ben, who has seen more than a few of my irrational blowups. i like to think of myself as a patient man, one of perseverance and endurance. but i confess… i’m also an ageing rage-aholic. who continues to blow up at inconvenient, inappropriate, and self-destructive times.

sometimes, i wonder if it’s too late for me to change? control my temper? stop thinking the world owes me something – fairness, accountability, peace of mind? honestly, i sincerely doubt it does. old dog, new tricks? maybe it’s just too damn late. but… i’m still waiting…. for god…. for godot…. for the terminating angel…. for the third act. for me to finally… change.

end of story.

number 1?

or number 2?

you decide……….

5/9/2011

i’m a civilized man. intelligent, educated, compassionate, even, some might say, sophisticated in the ways of the world. i’ve traveled a good deal of the planet, survived cancer; i have a good job at a major university, i married for the 1^st time at 54 years old; hell, i have a lot to be grateful for. then why, oh why, dear shiva-allah-buddha-yaweh-whoever the fuck is in charge, is my goddam temper still on a such a short leash, threatening to explode in the most unpredictable, humiliating, and inopportune times? am i a fool? or am i just cursed?

it’s a good day. the boys are in town for my “when i’m 64” birthday “pahty”. you know, “will you still need me, will you still feed me, when i’m 64?” sounded pretty ridiculous back in ‘67 when we were barely 20 and didn’t trust anyone over 30, but now the time’s actually here, even though john and george aren’t with us anymore, and sir paul is just filled with sweet formaldehyde these days. but like i said, it’s a good day. dr. ben and the fat man are already here, staying at the nearby super 8, and we’re all rolling to the airport in my RAV4 to pick up the reaper on united flight 127 from la guardia.

doctor ben’s had a hard year. he had his prostate and half his bowel removed, then was forced into early retirement from an infection in one of his neck vertebrae. he’s a got a metal pipe in there now, has lost about 40 pounds, but we’ve never seen him look so relaxed and carefree. like i always said back when i had cancer in ‘89, “takes a good life-threatening illness to make you really appreciate what you have in life.” the fat man, the one non-semite amongst us, is going in the opposite direction, successfully lawyering in the arizona desert, eternally falling into exotic threesomes, and still getting younger by the day. and the reaper? well he’s not so grim anymore. he’s switched up his wives and girlfriends from spanish and south american to straight-up filipino, and he’s looking at an unforced retirement on a sandy beach in luzon, where… i hope to join him with my indonesian wife… one day in the near future.

i’ve dropped dr. ben and the fat man at united arrivals to greet the reaper at baggage claim, and i’m waiting in the car for all three to come out so we can start the birthday weekend. i’m excited and impatient, but i know the routine: no parking or standing at the curb; i’m keeping my eye out for parking enforcement. plus, it’s been just a few minutes and look, there are 2 other cars sitting there for… well… at least longer than i have. i look in my rear view mirror, and i see a motorcycle cop pull into the arrivals circle, not far behind me. shit, i guess i’ll have to drive around and come back. i start to pull out, when, a dick in a mustang convertible pulls right in front of me. i can’t pull around him.

i tap my horn politely at him, that’s what we do in new york, saying, “look out, buddy, i’m right behind you and i need to pull out”. the cool mustang dude neither sees me, nor budges, but my horn tap does get the attention of the motorcycle cop, who pulls up right behind me. no problem. i see him, nice and clear, and i give him a hand signal, indicating that “i’m stuck behind the mustang but i’m gonna move as soon as i can”. it’s a good hand signal, if i do say so myself. i mean, i used to be a professional clown, so my mime, and non-verbal communication, are both excellent.

the blue uniformed cop gets off his bike and walks up to my window. he’s a big black dude. what the fuck? didn’t he understand my gesture? i mean, he can see clearly that i want to pull out… but the mustang has me blocked in, right? i roll down my window and before he can say anything to me, i blurt out, “you’re not gonna give me a ticket, are you?” he sort of does a double take, like he actually sees me for the first time, and says, “what did you say?” ooops. looks like i’ve gotten off to a bad start. “i mean, sorry, officer. i know the rules, ‘no standing’, but i’m just waiting to pull out here. i’m stuck behind the mustang. look.” i point. he looks… and he takes out his citation-writing pad. fuck!

we discuss the matter a little further. i mean, there used to be a time, when i could talk my way out of any ticket. youthful charm, genuine naiveté, but… that time is long past. too much baggage. anger. resentment… at the long arm of the law. especially in LA. c’mon, new york cops – they’re there to “serve and protect”. we genuinely like the boys in blue in manhattan; we feel safer when they’re around. but these stiff-ass fascist LA cops… LAPD… ok, they have a tough job… but c’mon, whenever i see one, i cringe… especially when i’m in my car.

so, unfazed, officer krupke writes me up a citation. shit. it’s about 400 bucks in LA for running a red light; i wonder how much for not moving your ass through a no standing airport zone.  but… i bite my lip and go into my curled-up fetal position, sitting there in the driver’s seat, trying to contain my rage at this obvious miscarriage of justice. i mean, the cop seems to have taken more offense at my “tone” than to my driving offense. i’ll bet if i was some hot or pathetic babe, he already would have sent me off with a happy face warning and a “have nice day”. but i’m not, and he hasn’t.

he hands me the ticket. i sign for it. he walks off.

i can’t just let things go, can i? accept reality, move on? except… that wasn’t reality. i was stuck behind the mustang. he gave me a ticket for my “tone”. fuck.

i yell out my window, “officer, what’s your name? and your badge number?”

krupke doesn’t even turn around. he keeps walking off, without so much as acknowledging my question(s). ehhh! ehhh! ehhh! red alert! red alert! he can’t just do that! walk off without answering my question(s). i’m a citizen here. my taxes pay his fucking salary. he just gave me a bogus ticket. it’s completely unfair. ehhh! ehhh! ehhh!

i’m suddenly on the other end of my busted jaw situation a few years back: i’ve just parked my little red MG on bronson for the olympic arts festival. some frustrated, hydrant-built accountant thinks i’ve take his parking spot. he’s furious. he gets out of his car. slams on my driver’s side window demanding i move, relinquish my parking space. his parking space. i completely ignore him. don’t even roll down my window. stan, yeah, that’s his real name, runs around the passenger side of my car and starts kicking my right rear fender, like a convulsive, epileptic troll. i get out my car, run over to his car, kneel down and  start writing down his license plate number, when the next thing i know, stan has run up to me and smashed his fist into my still-kneeling face, breaking my jaw.

yeah, i got a nice settlement in court, but i also learned that being ignored… causes a lot of rage.

so now officer krupke has reversed the tables on me. walked away from my question(s). karma, my friends. karma. i swing open my RAV4 door and get out of the car.

i march right over to krupke. he’s already sitting back on his motorcycle. i don’t even know if he even sees me. i stick my face right into his chest. i read his name. “collins.” not too far from krupke. i have my pen and paper ready. “your name is collins. did you hear me ask you for your name, collins?” “yes, i did, sir.” “then why didn’t you give it to me?” “what was the point, sir?” “the point, collins, is that i asked for your name and you didn’t give it to me. i want your name and your badge number so i can see you in court.” “that’s your prerogative, sir.” “i know that, collins. i know my rights. i just want to know why you didn’t give me your name when i asked for it, and why you walked away from me when i wasn’t done with you, and why you gave me a ticket in the first place when i was just sitting there waiting for my friends, blocked behind that dick mustang, trying to pull out….”

“moosehead!”

i turn sharply away from collins in the direction of the “moosehead”. that’s the name the 3 jokesters from high school still call me. “moosehead.” i hate it. but for some reason, for which i have absolutely no understanding, the name has stuck. “moosehead”.

i turn my face, which has been about 2 inches from officer collins’ face, to my friends, the fat man, dr. ben, and the reaper. they look like the 3 stooges, larry, mo, and curly. i can’t tell if they’re laughing… or crying, maybe both. i notice that i’m standing next to a large black motorcycle cop, and that i’ve been screaming at him, my face in his face for i don’t know how long. no doubt he’s been smelling my rancid, aggravated breath, two inches from his face.

“what seems to be the problem, officer?” the fat man has run up to us, one of two lawyers on my childhood team. the other two trot up behind him. i give a sheepish, chaplineque hand waive, “hi”, to the reaper; i haven’t seen him in 2 years.

“uh, no problem, gentleman. your friend here just seems to be a little hot under the collar.”

“yeah, he gets that way every once in a while, officer.”

i’m still seeing red. adrenalin is still coursing through my veins. but finding myself standing there with this motorcycle cop and… my three friends who know me since i’m 12… who have seen my travis bickle act way too many times before…. well… i’m also… just… a little… mortified. i know exactly what they’re thinking: “fucking moosehead, he’s done it again. just like down in tijuana in that bar when he almost got us killed for ranting at those mariachi players who he thought ripped us off. just like on the schoolyard basketball court when his birchwood team lost the game and he threw the ball through the chain link protection and broke the window. just like…. how many other times, moosehead?

“i know. i know, boys. i’m sorry. really…” they’ve gathered me up from officer collins and gotten me back in the car. we’re rolling home to our birthday weekend and… they’re triple teaming me. all – laughing so hard they’re crying. giving me the beating i so richly deserve. “do you know how close you were from spending the weekend in jail, moosehead?” “yeah, about two inches, fat man.”. “whooo hooo hooo. ha hah ha. that was the funniest thing i’ve seen in years. you were great, moosehead. can you imagine the 3 of us walking out to the curb, seeing you screaming at the top of your lungs at that poor cop?” “no, reaper, i can’t.” “that was worth the price of the whole weekend already.” tears are running down the reaper’s face. he has that problem when he laughs too hard.

“i don’t know why that cop took your moosehead lip, moosehead. you realize you could have ruined the entire weekend for all of us before it even started?” “i do now, dr. ben.” “what were you thinking, moosehead?” “i was thinking that the stupid cop gave me a ticket for fucking nothing. that i was blocked in behind the mustang, and then he had the nerve to ignore me when i asked for his name and badge number.” “moosehead!” they all say in unison….

and it finally hits me. i’m an asshole. a 64 year old rage-aholic who constantly flies off the handle in self righteous acts of self destruction. who screams at innocent telephone operators when he doesn’t get his way. who cuts other cars off on the freeway when he thinks they’re driving too slow. or too fast. or too whatever way he thinks they are. who wants to teach everyone in the world a lesson, even when he’s not supposed to be teaching anymore. whose temper is one day finally going to teach him the ultimate lesson – like losing his job – or – getting himself killed.

“ok, boys. i fucked up… again. i’m sorry.”

“it’s ok, moosehead. we love you anyway.” i don’t know which one of them said it, but i swear, it was all three. at the same time.

“thanks, boys. i love you too. now let’s go to barragan’s and get us some margaritas.”

“will you still need me, will you still feed me, when i’m sixty four????”

so it’s the first day of the new semester

the first day of the new semester at the university of immense hubris

the well endowed, private university that’s received far too much attention recently for its crimes of negligence and indulgence on the football field

and for the appointment of its new greco-roman president and its immaculate new athletic director

  —————–

it’s the first day of the new semester

and i’ve returned with immense enthusiasm to meet my colleagues and greet my new students

because i’ve spent the summer traveling the world as a fulbright scholar teaching what i teach and doing what i do

and getting paid for it

yes, i’m a lucky man

            ——————————————

so we’re sitting around in a large circle in the immaculately empty OJ room in the theater building

about 80 of us of different colors, sizes, and shapes

new students, returning students, old faculty

and  the old faculty is going around the room introducing ourselves, one by one, talking about our work

when it’s my turn, i say something like

“i’m trules. this is my 25^th amazing year at UIH (university of immense hubris) , and as you can see from my designer black plastic casio watch, i have not yet received my 25^th anniversary silver watch band.” a few laughs.

“but i was thinking the other night. ‘what exactly do i teach? what do i know? what am i expert in?’

and i paused. and i thought to myself… i’m expert in… my self. now that sounds a little pretentious, right? a little arrogant. but you know, what about “know thyself”, and all that jazz?

and since i never studied what i teach with any great expert, or teacher, or who-ha… i just made it up from what i know, i figure, i’m alright. that’s alright. i’ll teach others how to find themselves, find their voices, and follow their own paths.”

and i continue on my rant: “i know I’m being a little long-winded, a little loose-lipped here, and a little indulgent of your time…”

i look over at my boss, the director of the MFA program, sandy, a keenly intelligent, artistic man – with a sense of humor, and he smiles at me indulgently, and gives me the go-ahead… the gesture: ‘carry on trules’.

so i continue.

“you see when i was in romania this summer, i got to see gypsy people, who call themselves “roma” people. not gypsies. but “roma”… descendants of the roman empire. but in modern day romania, the “roma” people are disempowered, dispossessed, and often homeless. they live in gypsy tents in gypsy camps on the side of the road in colorful rags for clothes, and they beg motorists for spare change. they have a hard life. they see themselves and are treated like the niggers of europe.

“and there was this one roma girl in my class,” i say to the group. “my solo performance class where i teach people how to make art out of the fabric of their lives. how to tell autobiographical, personal stories that take heart, and courage, and grit to tell. how to effect an audience with the power and truth of a story.

“there was this one roma girl, alina. alina serban. who was brave and courageous and curious and hungry to learn this new story telling technique. to tell… her roma story… about how her father died, and how her mother was sent to prison, and how she was shipped around from foster home to gypsy camp… for years… disempowered. dispossessed. sometimes homeless and hungry.

“and i was able to teach her. and alina did learn. and on our last night together, she read her story in a downtown bucaresti bar, about her pain and her suffering and her pride… of being roma. and the audience listened to her. and the audience cared. and the audience stood up and cheered. and we won. alina won. the gypsies won. and the roma won. for once.

“and that’s what i do. i help the disempowered. the dispossessed. i help the wounded… tell their stories. i stand up for the wounded. the underdog. the long day’s journey-ers into night. the glass menagerie-ers… the willy lomans of the world.”

 and i look around the room and i see, my boss sandy, the smart, arty guy with a sense of humor, give me the signal to (gesturing) ‘wrap it up.’

 so i do.

 “so… nice to meet you guys. bring me your best stories. and we’ll make art out of the fabric of your lives.”

 i’m done. i sit down. i feel a rush. of enthusiasm. of embarrassment. of having put myself out… so far. in a room of my colleagues, where i know half of them are just rolling their eyes and saying something like: “there he goes again….”

                     ———————————–

and i get home that night… and i find an e-mail. from one of my colleagues in the room that afternoon. it says… basically… “you… used the N word.”

and i’m shocked. stunned. i did use the N word. i did.

 i read on. “i know you were just doing what you do, but did you think about the others in the room? the african americans in the room?”

and i say to myself, “i did.” and i read on: “do you possibly know what their experience has been? how they react when they hear that word?”

and i say to myself, “no… i don’t.” and i start to feel bad. really bad. like a loud-mouthed, dyed in the wool, KKK racist. and i read on…

“well, you know i really like you and respect you, trules, but what you did today was not right. it was blah blah blah blah blah…”

and i feel worse. and i write her back right away. “rachelle, i feel really bad. i didn’t mean to offend you. or anyone in the room. i apologize. but… i do think there’s just a little too much political correctness in academia, and i chose to challenge that by using a metaphor. just like john lennon and yoko ono did when they called women “the niggers of the world.” click. send.

and within minutes, i get an email back from rachelle who says, “thanks for your mail, trules. i guess we’re entitled to a difference of opinion.”

ok.

                                     ——————————-

and the next morning… i walk into the back to school, all-faculty meeting, where i see rachelle has cornered sandy, my smart, arty MFA program director. she’s talking at him like a embattled wart hog or something, right in the front of the room. she looks over at me as i cross the stage, a little uncomfortably, but she continues, not missing a beat, right in sandy’s face. i sit down on the audience right side of the room… until the meeting starts. mercifully, there’s no mention of me, the newly branded, “lenny moose.”

after the meeting, i’m feeling really agitated. and guilty. and politically incorrect. i go right up to ubare, my african colleague from uganda. i say, “hey man, did i really put my foot in my mouth yesterday?” he says, “well, you certainly stirred up de pot.” “is that good or bad, ubare?” “well, it be more good den bad, trules. don’t worry about it. i know where you coming from.”

ok, one for trules. i go up to shamus, our blond-haired, yale-educated, politically correct golden boy. i say the same thing, more or less. “shamus, mon, did i fuck up yesterday using the N-word?” “oh yeah, trules. that was far out.” “you mean it wasn’t a problem?” “look at my arm, trules. it’s the color of milk. don’t worry about it, man.” “really, because rachelle said i was insensitive and hurt some students’ feelings and blah blah blah…”

“listen, trules, this is more about rachelle than about you or anything you said. don’t worry about it, man.” “really? thanks, shamus.”

then i walk over to sandy, my smart, arty program director, and we basically do the same dance. “don’t worry about it, trules. i always thought we irish were the niggers of europe.”

so… i walk out of the meeting to my car. and i’m thinking, “yeah, don’t worry about it, trules. it’s rachelle’s problem. the white, liberal, jewish girl has a stick up her ass. it’s the way she was raised. it’s her thing. she probably sang freedom songs with joan baez. she probably marched to washington with martin luther king and heard his ‘i have dream a dream’ speech. and of course, she voted for obama. yeah.

but so did i. and i lived with william and dated cindy, and some of my best friends are….

so just for safety’s sake, i decide to send facebook messages to harmon & myeisha, my 2 black students from last’s years class. i invite them to be my “friend” on facebook, and i apologize profusely for any offense i made or any pain i caused them. harmon, from south carolina, his father a baptist minister, writes back, “if i didn’t know you, trules, i might have taken offense. but i do know you, so no harm, no foul.” alright. i’m ok with harmon. then myeisha writes back… a day later, during which time… i’m sure she’s absolutely burying me. “don’t worry, trules. i was just surprised how easily the word came off your tongue. but you constantly surprise me. peace.”

ok, i’m done. i covered all the bases i can. i made amends. i’m done.

                                 ——————————–

two days later, i get another e-mail. not from rachelle. it’s from the executive director of the university’s “committee on unamerican activities.” actually, from her secretary: “dear dr. trules. ms. jones would like you to come into her office for a brief meeting with her at your soonest convenience. she is available at the following times.”

oh, mother fucking shit. what did you do now, rachelle? you “like and respect me enough” that you weren’t satisfied with sandy’s brush off, so you had to make a formal complaint about me in front of the unamerican activities committee? grrreeeat.

so i go into the meeting with ms. jones, who… is probably just doing her due diligence in responding to a complaint. she doesn’t want my head. she doesn’t want my job. does she? 25 years down the drain for using the fucking N word… as a metaphor!

“hello, ms jones.”

 “hello, dr. trules. thank you for coming in.”

“you’re welcome, ms. jones. it’s just “professor’ trules. no ‘doctor”. although… i often do feel that my job is sort of connected to probing and healing… the human psyche, you know?”

“yes, dr. trules. but would you like to tell me about what happened the other day?”

“you mean at the back to school student orientation?”

“yes, i presume so.”

“do i need a lawyer with me for this, ms jones?”

“not at all, dr. trules. i just want to have a conversation with you about it.”

“thank you, ms jones. you mean i can talk honestly about it?”

“certainly, dr. trules.”

ok. now what do i do? what do i say? do i take the course of least resistance and try to cover my ass? save my job? just say how terribly sorry i am for any offense that my use of “the word” caused in the room that day. that i was insensitive. politically incorrect. inappropriate for our esteemed institution of higher learning. basically, eat crow and move on to a better day.

yes, of course, that’s what i should do. that’s what i’ll say.

      ———————————–

“well, you see, ms jones, i was using a metaphor for the disempowerment of the gypsy people of romania. a metaphor for the dispossession of the entire roma people. i was actually standing up for the underdog people of the world when i said that “the gypsies were the niggers of europe”. just the way john lennon and yoko ono said that “women were the niggers of the world”. just the way lenny bruce used the words, ‘nigger. niggger. nigger. fuck fuck fuck. nigger nigger nigger. fuck fuck fuck.’ they’re just words, ms jones. understand? nigger, fuck, cunt, pussy. words! just words! but we load them like guns. and we shoot them off at each other. and some of us can use them. and others of us can’t. how are we supposed to know, ms jones? who’s to say who can say which words to whom? i didn’t call anyone a ‘nigger’. i don’t hate black people. i didn’t mean to hurt anyone’s feelings, ms jones. if i did, i’m sorry. i already apologized to everyone i could think of. why won’t fucking white liberal rachelle get the fuck off my case, ms jones?”

ms. jones is staring at me. her jaw has dropped to her knees.

“who is this ‘rachelle’, dr. trules?”

“uh.. what do you mean, ms. jones? she’s the one who filed the complaint…. isn’t she?”

“no, i’m afraid she’s not, dr. trules.”

“it’s just ‘professor’, ms. jones. uh… who filed what complaint?”

“it was someone in your solo performance class who didn’t like the way you spoke to an asian girl who didn’t understand english very well. she said you raised your voice and made her uncomfortable. do you remember the incident, dr. trules?”

fuck. this has nothing to do with rachelle and my using the “N” word. and i just dug myself a giant grave.

“who did i make uncomfortable, ms. jones? the asian girl or the complainee?”

“look, dr. trules. i looked you up on the ‘rate my professors’ website. and what i found is: ‘best professor ever’. and… ‘he’s an ass’.”

“well they go together, ms. jones. i’m demanding. i set the bar high so the students will rise. i believe in the 1^st amendment, lenny bruce, and challenging authority.”

“i can see all that, dr. trules. i’d just like to encourage more of the ‘best professor ever’ and less of the ‘he’s an ass’. understand, dr. trules?”

“yes, i do, ms. jones.”

“and one more thing, dr. trules.”

“yes?”

“you seem like a very smart, intelligent, sensitive man. i’d prefer to meet you under different circumstances the next time we run into one another, if you catch my drift.”

“yes, i do, ms. jones. thank you for your graciousness and understanding.”

“have a nice day, dr. trules. i mean, professor trules.”

“you too, ms. jones.”

i  walk out the door.

what the fuck just happened? well…. for one thing… i just opened my big fucking mouth and completely incriminated myself. again.

but…. then again….

i DO still have my job.

and my home (60 days notice, anytime, landlord’s discretion).

and my marriage (an entirely ephemeral relationship with a volatile indonesian woman 30 years my junior).

and…

i’m still…

a lucky, lucky man.

anyone ever read “the history of the decline and fall of the roman empire” by edward gibbon? probably not. me neither. but i did listen to a mouth-watering chunk of it on “books on tape” while driving through life along the LA freeways at the zenith of the american empire at the beginning of the 21^st century. anyway, gibbon’s masterpiece of interpretive modern history first published in 1776 is a sprawling, 6-volume account of the period of the roman empire after marcus aurelius, from 180 to 1453 AD, concluding in 1590. it conjectures about the behavior and decisions that led to the decay and eventual fall of the mighty and imperious roman empire in both the east and west. it first chronicles the fall of rome itself in the 5^thcentury A.D. to the barbarian invaders from the north and east, while afterward it amasses centuries of history through the byzantium, holy roman eastern empire, and selcuk histories of asia minior, all the way through the muslim conquest of constantinople in 1453 and the early rule of the ottoman turks.

according to gibbon, the roman empire succumbed to barbarian invasions in large part due to the gradual loss of moral certitude and spiritual strength among its citizens. they had become weak, “outsourcing” their duties to defend and exploit their empire to barbarian mercenaries, who then became so numerous and ingrained that they were able to take over the empire. romans, gibbon believed, had become weak because they became more and more unwilling and unable to live a tougher, “manly” military lifestyle. he further blames the degeneracy of the roman army and the praetorian guards. in addition, gibbon argues that christianity created a belief that a better life existed after death, which fostered an indifference to the present among roman citizens, thus sapping their desire to sacrifice for the empire. he also believed its comparative pacifism tended to hamper the traditional roman martial spirit. lastly, like other enlightenment thinkers, gibbon held in contempt the middle ages as a priest-ridden, superstitious, dark age.

sound familiar? more on that later, my brothers and sisters…..

for now… da wife and i have bussed again through anatolia (central turkey), from the mineral-rich “travertines” of pamukkale to selcuk, the tourist gateway to the largest roman outpost in asia minor, the ancient city of ephesus. we’ve been programmed for a 24 hour trek through the best preserved classical city in the eastern mediterranean and through a “cliff’s notes” version of ancient roman history and lifestyle in the 1^sthalf of the first millennium A.D.  of  course, this area, also called “ionia” by the greeks, predates the romans by over a thousand years, and you can trace its history through legendary tales of its founding by androclus (a cryptic oracle tells him to look for the site indicated by ‘the fish and the boar’)… through king croesus of lydia (the richest man in the world about 600 BC)… through the persians, greeks (alexander in 334 BC), and finally through the romans (from around the time of ceasar and octavian augustus to ephesus’ decline around 600 AD).

  lo! the tourist hordes

  and the “just do it” goddess herself, nike

there are endless sites to see amidst the well-preserved ancient ruins: gymnasiums, brothels, decrepit city walls, libraries, colonnades, wide open market places, stone-hewn living quarters, christian churches, pagan temples, a 25,000 seat roman amphitheater, the remains of communal roman baths, and even… a men’s latrine.

 so i’m walking around ephesus with my indonesian mrs. it  feels a little like a disneyland for the greek and latin-o-phile. there’s even a disney-like “roman empire” show, with local actors playing the roles of emperor, queen, gladiator, plebe, cobbler, all the way down the line.

as always, i’m getting completely caught up in dates and history, just like i was back in miss bandiero’s 11^thgrade history class. well, that was mostly american history, but you hadda start somewhere, right?

but ay, here’s the rub. as promised, i’m thinking as much about american empire as i am roman. specifically, i’m thinking about mr. gibbon’s insight and explanation for the decline and fall of the great roman empire… and finding it frighteningly parallel to the current state of our american empire. no doubt, our 20^th century, and now 21^stcentury, american empire is the greatest in the history of mankind. with our cyber and post-industrial tentacles of the age of technology, the internet, and the global economy reaching ominously and lucratively around the entire planet, we have had more influence and more control over the the economies and politics of the world than any empire in history. the reach and scope of the current american empire simply dwarfs such predecessors as the greeks, romans, chinese, mongols, moghuls, autro-hungarians, british, soviets, or any other previous conglomeration of tyrant, government, religion, or nation-state. simply put, the power and influence of hollywood, wall street, and madison avenue have collectively hypnotized and seduced a good majority of the rest of the world. and sure, the muslim and chinese civilizations have been giving us a good recent “clash” or two, but what  i’m most intrigued by… should i have the courage to admit it… is the end of the american empire.

i’ve been thinking about this for decades. why? why would a man born into the most privileged place and time in the history of mankind have such a morbid obsession? that’s right! i was born in new york city in 1947 to middle class, aspiring  jews, whose families had survived the holocaust and now had opportunities and privileges never imagined in the history of mankind. i had good food, a good education, good health care, wonderful personal and professional opportunities, and world-class information, in both quantity and quality, which no other citizen of any other empire ever had in recorded time. and while hungry children “were starving in china”, africa, and all over the 3^rdworld, my family was going out to eat “chinks” (sorry, the sino-phobic, jewish-american word for chinese food in the new yawk suboibs of ike eisenhower and JFK), trotting into manhattan to see broadway shows whenever they felt like it, and vacationing in scenic upstate new york on lake george, or lake champlain, or in the adirondacks, or the appalachians… you get the picture: privilege and opportunity to the max.

but here’s the question, my brothers and sisters: were, and are, my fat cat, fellow american citizens getting soft? weak? were/are they becoming arrogant and entitled? not willing to work the blue collar jobs that america’s immigrants have always sweated and toiled over? were they “outsourcing” their work and their national defense overseas? were they overextended? meddling their imperious tentacles in places where they were no longer welcome? had the muslim “barbarians”, not only knocked once, but were they not training and threatening to knock again, in islamic madrassas all over the planet? were/are we americans winning hearts and minds beyond our borders? lining up peoples and nations in support of our american empire? or did one single man, at one single moment in history, make choices that have started to tilt our empire over the tipping point – towards its decline… and ultimate fall? did george w. bush squander the good will of the planet that america had after the 9/11 world trade center attacks and change that good will into hatred and doubt – with his/our country’s invasion of iraq and afghanistan? do america’s gods, gurus, and prophets trumpet the commercialism and materialism of another dark age? driven by comfort, laziness, celebrity worship, fear, entitlement, and privilege? where does the american empire stand right now?

of course, only history will tell. but history has been consistent and cruel enough before… to know that empires rise and empires fall. empires are all cyclical things. no one nation, people, or religion can predominate forever. as were the greeks, phoenecians, romans, selcuks, ottomans, mongols, moghuls, autro-hungarians, chinese, japanese, ad infinitum, so will be the americans. an “empire” simply can not last forever. just look over our shoulders. we can already feel the chinese in ascendance, breathing down our necks, eating up our debt, competing for dominance in economics, politics, world culture and influence. the time of the american empire, i believe, is in its wane, my brothers and sisters. ”american empire” is in decline, has been in decline… no matter how many nationalists, red necks, patriots, or red, white, and blue believers want it to be otherwise. soon we will no longer have the great fortune to know that our language, our currency, our value system… is the one the rest of the world has to conform to. soon, we will have to make accommodations ourselves. as a nation. as a people. as you. as me…

a hard pill to swallow, you say? i’m just a whacked out, commie-leaning, dyed in the wool, jewish intellectual? what do i know about the world? about the forces, tides, and events that make history?

well, let’s see. only time will tell, right? i’m not here, living my life waiting for the end of the american empire. i’m not holding my breath in fear of the invading chinese yen or the barbarian muslim hordes. i’m out here living my life, still one god-damned privileged 21^stcentury american who can pretty much travel the planet at will, who can still go out and eat the best chinese-french-vietnamese-armenian-romanian-italian-mongolian meal almost anytime i want. i havea good job, a great place to live, a marriage that works, enough money not to complain…. i’m… as i always say, a pretty “lucky guy.” “still crazy after all these years”, as another poet has also said about himself in his ever-growing years of “maturity”, i’m more grateful now and more loving… than at any other time in my life.

but,  american empire? roman empire? only 2000 years separate the two. history repeats itself. and travel allows you to see history’s perspective every once in a while, if you’re lucky.

i just wonder what relics and ruins will be left of the american empire 2000 years from now. will visitors to new york, if there still is a new york in the year 4010, look into the ground zero hole that was once the world trade center’s twin towers, and remember the story of what made that hole. will 9/11 join the list of battles, triumphs, and defeats like marathon, gallipoli, and waterloo? will the humans of 4010 who live on the north american continent still be called citizens of the united stated of america? what will be standing where disneyland is now in anaheim? where the french quarter is in new orleans? where the pentagon now is in washington d.c.?

when did the decline of the american empire begin? when did it fall?

 let me know what you think. 

–gibbon trules

bucharest, romania,

it started out with just the 2 of us. mihaela and i. sitting for lunch at a little wooden table at the “one” café, right next door to the caragiale film and theater university, where i’d been invited to teach for 2 weeks on a fulbright from my imperial government. it was the first day after the first class of solo performance and only 7 out of the 19 students had bothered to show up. half of them late. you know, “romanian time”. i had met mihaela on the street, after the performance of “hamlet” by the wooster group. we had both left at intermission. so tedious. sure, it was the imperious wooster group in bucharest, but still, boring is boring. of course, all the sophisticated, cultural glitterati were there. i even had the privilege of meeting mr. liviu cuilei, the 90 year old director-legend of romanian theater lore, who explained to me that peter brook’s “midsummer’s” was “ all white”, while his at the guthrie was all “red”.

mihaela was with her bespectacled romanian friend, razvan, who had earned his notorious counter cultural reputation by standing up in the middle of yet another pretentious bucharesti performance event at the national theater and said something like, “do you really expect us to watch this shit?” he then walked out and cemented his infamous reputation in the hearts and minds of romanian artists everywhere. he did the same tonight (without the shout out), and the three of us walked down the street towards piata romana (one of the many beautiful public squares in bucharest, a little like columbus circle in new york or any of a myriad of others in paris, rome, bangkok/any big city with a vibrant pedestrian life). vlad took his leave, off to a dinner meeting, and mihaela took an uncharacteristic chance and decided to roam the streets with me, taking me to the museum of ethnic village people about half an hour away. by foot, naturally.

the food was authentic but disgusting (various varieties of pig fat, pig feet, pig innards, you know, the kind of stuff village people have to eat to survive the challengingly cold, romanian winters). mihaela and i shared a couple of silva bruns, a deliciously sweet, dark beer, a little like san miguel dark from the philippines with a slight taste of black strap molasses. coincidentally (are there really any coincidences?), mihaela was a woman in search of herself, while i was a teacher starting a 2 week workshop about self discovery though autobiographical story telling. i said i would make a call to my university host to see if we could include her at no charge, and hopefully i’d see her monday morning at 10 sharp.

on the way to the university from the subway stop bright and early monday morning, ioana, my perfect romanian host, and i actually ran into mihaela, walking from home to the workshop. apparently, we were, indeed, “on the same paths”. we all climbed the 5 flights of stairs to “pod B”, the attic of the old communist dinosaur of a building, and we met the 5 other students who had made the climb. they were all a bit embarrassed at the small turnout, telling me that “it was de last 2 weeks of de semester, dat all their student brethren had exams, finals, etc etc.” i said, “no problem.” at least they all could speak english and understand me. “let’s get started,” i enthused. i had seen this same under-attendance problem in malaysia 8 years ago on my previous fulbright residency. there was nothing i could do about it, then or now. it was beyond my control. just show up and do what i came to do. “build a field and they will come,” right?

so now i had 2 hours between my 3 hour solo class and my 2 o’clock improv class, which i was assured “would be full”. with no car and no place to go, i took ioana’s suggestion and went to “one”, the adjacent café. “the food is good. and cheap,” she assured me. fortunately, mihaela had pity on me and joined me. just the two of us, the first day. the class had gone well. i gave them my usual 1^st day pitch, telling them, “you are all unique and amazing human beings and have fabulous stories inside you. you just don’t know it yet, and you probably have never been asked to look inside yourselves before for creativity, inspiration, and source material.” apparently it was true. how could it be otherwise? not that they all didn’t have these fabulous stories, urges, and ideas, they did. but this was communist romania, run by the brutal ceaucescu, as recently as 1989. one didn’t speak what one thought… unless one wanted to be marked and persecuted, maybe sent to prison, or eliminated altogether. no, you were part of the whole, part of the omnipotent proletariat. individuality, personal expression, these were self indulgent capitalist concepts, leading inevitably to self ruin, and to destruction of the omniscient state. i had my work cut out for me.

lunch is good. “chorba”, a romanian vegetable and chicken borscht. with sour cream. and freshly-baked bread. just like my ancestors had in the schetls of kharkov and odessa, before they made the trans-atlantic schlep to new yawk in the early 20^th century. mihaela and i sit across the little table from each other, and she speaks shyly about being a free lance journalist, recently “downsized” from her day job, opportunely making her free to search for her artistic identity and to explore her creative potential. she is completely charming…. in a gawky, six foot, long hair, romanian kind of way. actually, she is yet another “hippie girl” trapped in the wrong decade, but it makes her wide open to the preachings of a still renegade dancer-clown, steeped in the bohemian ways of new york’s avant garde of the late 60s and in the principles of tim leary, ram das, and all the other counter-cultural, we-can-change-the-world idealists of the baby boom “me generation”.

after too much romanian coffee, we climb the stairs again, this time mercifully, just to the third floor, only to learn that their are no students at all for the improv class. instead i am invited to speak to a large lecture group waiting for their esteemed professor, apparently still on romanian time. “hey, you guys, my name is trules, and i’m a loud-mouthed american from new york and i need students for my workshops!” laughter. “no, i’m serious. you guys need to rearrange your schedules and come to my solo performance class 5 days a week so you can learn how to write and perform your own stories… and to improv class 3 days a week so you can learn how to lose your inhibitions, take risks, and live in the moment!” a few smiles, twitters, and murmurs. i can read their faces: “who is this guy? what’s he doing in our masters class, shooting off his big mouth?”

“any questions?” none. “well, look, guys, my unpopular american government spent a lot of money getting me here, and your university had the wisdom and balls to invite me here, so i think the least you can do is show up and take advantage of this opportunity. ever hear of the ‘train of opportunity’? well, here it is, right in front of you.” i move my left arm in front of them in slow motion, from stage right to stage left. “how many times do you think this train will come by again?” silence. “that’s right. maybe never again. so what do you think you can do about it?” one student seizes the day and shouts out, “get on it!” “that’s right. what’s holding you back? fear? insecurity? inconvenience. well, you know what i call all of them? ‘excuses’. there’s an old wise, jewish biblical expression that starts, ‘if not now…..’”. i pause…. but this time half the room shouts out, “when?” “that’s right! see you tomorrow at 10, eh?” and i walk off to a smattering of applause.

 the next day, i have 15 students up in the attic of pod B. in the bright morning sun streaming through the roof’s open windows, i try to teach them about “solo performance voice”, about “drawing the audience out of their seats into the solo performer’s  world by being in and experiencing your own story”, about what makes a good story, about “having something at stake like a good spring in a mouse trap at the beginning of a story”, about what makes a good solo performance artist. “he or she is someone who can mine the pain and injury from the emotional wounds of life and turn them into theatrical gold. someone who can make art out of the fabric of their lives.” “…not just in a self-indulgent, therapeutic kind of way, but with a craft and with a perspective that makes the specificity of the individual story into something universal”.

i talk about the 3 greatest american playwrights, eugene o’neill, tennessee williams, and arthur miller. of “how they spun their autobiographical plays out of their own families’ tumultuous and painful histories”. of “how williams wrote about his southern-bred and overbearing mother and his crippled and too-delicate sister and turned them into amanda and laura wingfield in his poetic and tragic ‘glass menagerie’”. of “how o’neill wrote arguably the greatest american play, ‘long day’s journey into night’ about his drunk and miserly father, about his morphine-addicted mother, about his bitter and failed older brother, and about himself, a taciturn and tubercular teenager… and took them all into one of the darkest and longest nights of soul-wrenching theater an american audience had ever seen.” yet “he was so mortified about the power and truth of his own play that he refused to have it produced until after 25 years after his death.” i say, “making art out of the fabric of your lives is what playwrights and artists do. not that it’s easy, because the doors of avoidance, artifice and escape are always wide open… but for those who are chosen or driven to try, they must follow the path deep inside themselves, and like shamans of old, they must come out the other side… with their individual truths… with their own beauties… and offer them up… to the choir… to the audience… like the greeks did… like shakespeare did… like only they, themselves, must ultimately attempt to do.”

 i talk. and they listen. i’m surprised. i don’t have anything scripted. i haven’t planned anything. but the simple truth is that i’ve been doing this same thing for so many years, that i actually know and believe in what i’m talking about. i’ve seen the power of stories. i’ve seen them release their own authors from years of shame and secrecy. and i’ve seen these same stories make audiences stand on their feet with recognition and appreciation. i believe that we all have something in common as human beings. no matter which side of the border we live on. no matter what our religious or political persuasions are. we all have problematic families: mothers, fathers, brothers, sisters. we have all tried to love, been loved or been rejected; we’ve all been loyal, betrayed, succeeded against great odds, been abandoned, ashamed, overcome impossible obstacles. these powerful stories are what make us human, different from the other species. not just the size of our brain and our intelligence. but our histories. our memories. the way we interact with each other, make choices, carry around our histories and memories in our present.

i talk and they listen. for 2 weeks. i tell them about myself. about my unhappy adolescence. about my defying my family’s expectations by choosing to become an artist, instead of a doctor. i talk about my cancer in 1989. about my fear of death. and about my not being afraid of it any more. about living in the moment. about traveling without an itinerary. again, about the train of opportunity. “that life is about making choices and commitments.” i tell them about “meeting my wife in front of an ATM machine in bali, completely ‘by accident’ and inviting her to america and marrying her a year later, when she was 30 years younger than i was, spoke no english, and didn’t know who tim leary, ram dass, or even who richard nixon or george washington was.” i use my own life as example. i try to practice what i preach and to learn by practice what i still need to learn.

 every day after class, mihaela and i go out to lunch… at the one café. the second day, bibi, mother and improv actress, joins us. we are three. same delicious chorba, freshly baked bread, and strong romanian coffee. the third day, felix and alice-monica join us. we are five. another chorba, same bread and strong coffee. the next day… vlad, and patricia. we are growing. i’ve never had lunch with a single student in my 24 years at USC in los angeles. it’s not my thing. i like to keep boundaries. like a good professional: doctor, therapist, sports coach, you know what i mean. if the student sees you as too human, with problems and weaknesses of your own, they believe you less. they believe in you less. or that’s what i always thought. but now, out of need and convenience, i am breaking bread with my romanian students. sure, we talk a bit about class, but… we also talk about so many other things. about communism, ceaucescu, vampires, and family. about the 60s in america, about gypsies living on the sides of the road in moldavia, about courage and cowardice, about … life. it is totally surprising… and enjoyable. i am discovering that students are so much more than bodies, hearts, and minds sitting or moving around in a class room, wanting to learn. they are actually “people” too.

and… it’s reciprocal. they’ve never had lunch with a teacher before. they’ve never had a teacher be so open and honest with them before. be so vulnerable, so… him…self. in fact, they say that most of their teachers are disappointing… only going through the motions, with all the power… with all the so-called “knowledge and expertise”, treating them like impotent, sponge-absorbing children. “how dare you think of telling your own story? who do you think you are? learn the classics. learn how to act!” i tell them, “look within. find out who you are. what do you have to say? where you want to go? have the courage to say it, to do it. your stories can be as powerful as anyone’s. who wants to see chekhov’s ‘3 sisters’ for the billionth time? we want to be surprised, delighted, moved, provoked in the theater, in ways that tv and movies can’t do to us. we want to discover ourselves in new, meaningful, and alive ways… right there in our seats… right there on the stage in front of us. in a community called ‘an audience’.” i talk. they listen. they write. we listen. we laugh. and occasionally, we cry. together. and almost every day, i realize that i do, indeed, have a mighty magnificent job.

in the afternoon improv classes, it’s different, but parallel. the class grows every day. the word spreads. “trules knows what he’s doing. check it out!” i teach them about “not thinking”, about “living in the moment”, about “saying yes, making it their own, adding something new and passing it on”. the 3 steps of improv a la trules. i teach them about “gesture”, about “discovering the content of their movement”, so that it’s real and spontaneous. about “the importance listening and making their partners, their teammates, look good.” i tell them about “how little i like comedy sports, and improv teams and improv actors trying to be clever and funny” i tell them that “comedy in our class will come from the surprise of genuine, instinctive re-action. from doing the work and seeing what you discover along the way. not from planning things out and trying to get laughs.” “life”, i say, “is like one long improv. about having the courage and confidence to make choices and decisions… sometimes under a great deal of pressure. life never turns out the way you expect or want it to. as mr. lennon said, ‘life is what happens while you’re waiting for your plans to work out.’” i ask them, “when the train of opportunity comes along, can you trust yourself to step up, swing the bat…improvise and see where it takes you?” day after day, on and on, along the road of life.

in the middle of the 2^nd week, i screen my autobiographical documentary film, “the poet and the con”. the film about my identification and relationship with my criminal uncle that took me 7 long years to make and which i haven’t seen in maybe another 10 years. the film in which i show my parents and i struggling in a sunny california back yard over my arrest for commercial burglary, over my own virulent anti-semitism, over my own discomfort and hatred of myself. it’s not an easy film to share with an audience, especially one composed of students who have come to admire and respect me as a teacher and as an artist. but as the saying goes, i have to put up or shut up. take the risk i’m so flippant asking them to take. so… i lose a night’s sleep… and don’t actually watch the film with them… but i introduce it and come back into the screening room when it’s over to answer questions. i’m met by a sea of silence. no applause. silence. but i know from previous screenings at festivals around the world, that my film disturbs people. it’s not an easy one to come out of, or to start yammering away about. but then i see, the audience is moved. and after a moment, they do start asking me personal questions. “you look and sound so different now than when you made the film. do you feel different?” “what were you so angry about?” “how did your relationship with your parents survive that awful day of filming?” i try to give honest answers. i try to meet the challenge.

two days later, i’m up in front of an audience again. this time, live. i call the event (tongue in cheek), “trules speaks”. as if i haven’t said enough over the 2 week residency. but it feels like i haven’t had an audience listen to me in years… as an artist… as a man with something to say. so… instead of just doing a rehearsed performance, like i’ve done so many times before, i decide to “just let myself be” in front of the audience. i want to carry on the dialogue i’ve been having for 2 weeks… but in front of an audience. i don’t want to isolate myself inside of memorization, performance, judgment, and need for approval; i just want to open up and let it rip!

so i do. about an hour before the event, i show up in the theater with nicu, the gentle and self-effacing dean of the theater school. with his palette of theater brushes and his life spent in too many small theaters, nicu is the wizard of UNATC (the university’s acronym). he’s able to give me a live internet connection with a screen and projector, which we put stage right, next to a white plastic podium in the center of the stage. i see a bright yellow ladder sitting on the side of the room, and after we adjust some lights, i say, “let’s leave the ladder stage left.” so as the audience comes into the space now composed of these 3 simple set pieces, into a kind of blue soundscape of miles davis’ “so what”, i have the guests actually walk to the podium, center stage, and sign into the facebook page, “trules speaks”, as guests. they’re all a little surprised to be part of the performance, but it starts us out on tenuous, interesting ground. like “what’s going to happen next?”

 next… i walk onto stage and climb the ladder with my back to the audience. the lights dim, the music fades, the audiences hushes, and i turn around and sit there on one of the rungs staring at them all. maybe 50 of them. great! just what i didn’t want. expectation. a “performance.” but what can i do? i open my mouth…. “when i grow up, i’m gonna be…. a puma whale.” silence. “i said, when i grow up i’m gonna be a puma whale.” more silence. “is this a poem? a performance? a reading? what the fuck is trules doing?” i plow through the first piece. silence. no applause. i climb down the ladder, walk center to the podium, and start the second. “see my face? it’s ugly. it’s rubbery. watch.” a few twitters, … discomfort. i finish: “just keep your face outta my face. alright? a few more twitters. silence. no applause.

this ain’t workin’, trules. do something else. i put on my glasses and look out at the crowd. at least they’re not walking out. or hurling romanian tomatoes. “ok…….. welcome…. to… ‘trules’ speaks’”. my mind races to find the right thing to say. “and… here i am… and there you are…” and from that moment on, for the next 2 hours, i improvise. i actually look at, and speak to, the audience. i ask them questions. “do you want to know the difference between new york and LA?” they answer enthusiastically, “yes!” i tell them: “in LA people say ‘have a nice day’, but actually are thinking ‘fuck you’, while in new york, people say ‘fuck you’ but are actually thinking ‘have a nice day.” they laugh. they start to loosen up. i start to loosen up. it starts to be a two way street, a dialogue, just like i’d hoped for. i ask some questions. they ask some questions. i read a few more pieces. they open up some more. i address them by name, the ones that i know from class, it seems like we have a friendship, a relationship. if they don’t respond, i remind them about the train of opportunity. “if not now…” “when?”they respond. i ask, “if i could do anything in the world for you tonight, what would it be?” i look at them. they look around uncomfortably and twitter again. “come one…!” a girl in the back who i don’t know says, “i want to meet johnny depp.” the audience laughs. i tell her how: “go to paris, look up his girl friend, vanessa paradis, and start stalking him.” the audience likes the idea. “but why waste your time on fucking celebrity? we’re all such bloodsucking sycophants, thinking if we get close to fame, something good might rub off. i promise you, it won’t….”

and so it goes. and so it goes. more questions. more answers. trules speaks… for 90 minutes, until he finally asks, “have you had enough?” in unison, they sing out “noooooo.” “well then let’s take a little break, and when we come back, i’ll tell you some travel stories….”

and we do. and i do…. and at the end of two improvised, i hope, inspiring hours, where i actually die on stage in front of them… for about 60 seconds with my head glued to the podium… illustrating my point… that we could all die… any time… if not now… when? at the end of these 2 glorious, non-performance interactive hours, i say my heartfelt thank yous, my good nights and my good lucks, and i take a humble little bow. (i think, truly.) they applaud. and applaud. i stand there and take it in. they don’t stand up, but they continue to applaud. i think it’s the longest, not the loudest, but the warmest and longest…. applause i’ve ever received. i guess i must have done something right.

on the next day, my last in bucharest, i teach my final two classes, solo performance & improvisation, and naturally, we go out for lunch in between. of course, to the one café. this time, we have to slide 6 tables together;  there are more than 20 of us. mihaela is still there. she of the first day and of the first chorba and freshly baked bread. felix and bibi are there. and patricia and lucia and ana pasti and vlad and alice-monica and sorina … they have all joined us. even the good dean, nicu mandea, is there, shyly drinking his romanian beer and eating his romanian sausage. we are all one happy… and sad… family. my time here is through. i/we’ve built a field and we all “came together”, as mr. lennon would say again. we laughed and we learned. together. we sweated. together. we wrote and listened to each other. we “came together” and we celebrated our 2 countries, our 2 cultures… together… all on mr. fulbright’s tab. hey, there are SOME things to be grateful for about our big bad, imperialist, american empire!

in the evening, the solo performers show up at “underground”, the typically eastern european underground night club/bar, to read their monologues, the culmination of our 2 weeks of work together. there are 12 of them, and they manage to fill the club with about 50 friends, sitting on stools, standing in front of the stage… to hear stories from the “fabric of our lives”. they read: a story of the awkwardness of english class for a young romanian girl, a story of  a girl of 7 having sex with a 11 year old gypsy boy, a story of taking care of a mother with cancer, a story of a young gypsy girl coming to terms with years of abandonment and abuse. stories… out of these young romanian lives. and… the audience… listens. and is surprised. and… listens. and laughs. and listens some more. and is moved. and listens… and applauds…. and applauds… into the night.

 afterwards, we all mill about the dark, raunchy club with wines and beers, and we take lots of photos… and then felix takes out his guitar to play… but because the club now turns into a disco, we all pile out into the streets of downtown bucharest, ambling and laughing together… until we end up in front of the famous architecture school and the student protest fountain… where we park ourselves and sing communal romanian folk songs for the next two hours. actually, they sing and i listen…. and then at 2 in the morning… we all stand to do our final group hug and shed our tears and say our goodbyes… until i come back again… until i come back again………

and then it’s morning and the next thing i know, i’m on a plane for istanbul…

but that, as they say… is another story…

 for now though, trules has spoken. probably too long again… but hey, it’s been nice… to have been heard!

thank you, mr. fulbright. thank you, mr. obama. thank you, bucharest and sinaia and moldavia and romania. thank you, my students. i’ve done my job… planted the seeds. it’s now up to you, to tend them and to take care of them. up to you, to watch them grow and to harvest their fruits and bounty.

there are many fields of dreams still out there. i know. notwithstanding many disappointments, heartbreaks, and failures…

 not to worry. say yes. get on those trains of opportunity………

 they’re rolling along every day,

 right, bob?

other than that, life is good. i have a terrific job, the same one for 24 friggin’ years now, teaching college kids how to look within and find themselves and how to take some of the same risks that i taught myself to take along the road less traveled. i have a good marriage, although it took me 55 years to get here, probably 2/3 of my lifetime… to find a young indonesian girl 31 years my junior, who was brave and crazy enough to cross 12,000 miles of ocean to meet me and stay with me here in lala land. we live in a poor man’s paradise, high above the pacific rim, over which we can literally see the bright orange globe of a sun sink over the far western ocean horizon about 321 days out of 365. pretty good numbers and percentages all around, don’tcha think?

but now i’m walkin’, almost stumblin’, around the white, shag-carpeted dining room which i always wished had hard wood, polished mahogany floors. but as mick always used to say, “you can’t always get what you want”, and like i’ve been practicing the last few years, trying to want less and appreciate more. it’s the last day of my winter break, and ok, yeah, i’ve had a few drinks too many. i’m barefoot and feeling good. in fact, life is great, practically perfect. what with all the numbers, percentages, sunset views, relatively good health, the lousy economy in which we find ourselves going out to eat more than i’ve ever been able to afford; what with the beautiful and brave, always 31 years younger, wife, so much of the planet already gloriously globe-trotted, most of my achievements and accomplishments already behind me, hey, what more can i want or do? nada!

i mean, it seems like the perfect time to make my exit. to die. to watch my own death… right here on the still shag-carpeted, not hard wood, floor. yeah, my wife’s in the other room. my gray wolf, faithful old dog, clay, is lyin’ right next to me in front of the hearth; i could do it right here… at home. an act of will and surrender, simultaneously. i mean, everything’s in order, right? i’ve had my living will and trust drawn up a few years ago when the old man passed, my 401k is big enough to support my lovely wife for a few  more years until she grows into the rest of her life; there’s nothing else i want to do or accomplish. i could just…. let go… sink to the floor… like a movie… right now… and watch my life… be… gone.

                                                                                   ——————————

alright…… i’m letting go…… sinking slowly to the floor…. i feel my heart constricting…. pins and needles in my right arm… it’s gonna be a heart attack, i guess. bye bye, love, bye bye happiness… i think i’m gonna… die. i think i’m gonna… die.

ok, where’s the long white tunnel of light? negative. the series of my whole life’s carnival of events flashing before me? negative. visions? voices? negative. something’s not right…….

w-w-w-ait. hold on a minute. something’s terribly wrong! i’m not supposed to be dying here. i’m only 62. one knee touches the floor. i’m not supposed to be watching my own death. this isn’t a little daytime fantasy movie. it’s a fucking nightmare. but it’s real. i’m awake… having a heart attack in my own dining room. my wife has no idea. both my parents are dead. nobody knows. nobody cares. hellllllllp! things are so soft and hazy. clay turns his head from the hearth and blinks knowingly. “relax, old man. yeah, this is it… the big one you’ve been waiting for your whole life. the one you’ve been looking over your shoulder for. over guard rails for. in hospital rooms for. this is finally it. just realxxxxx… remember the night you found me  in elysian park? i was so scared and lost and you lied on the tiled linoleum kitchen floor with me all night as i whined and cried, cuddled up next to your belly, my first night out of the wild?” yeah, i remember, ol’ boy. i remember so much. it IS all flashing before me. both knees are nailed to the white shag and one hand is barely holding me up at about 45 degrees.

 “trrru-less.” it’s the wife calling me from the office. probably with some internet problem. she wants to send another resume that i have to check. “sorry, love, i’m dyin’ here. you’re gonna have to do a few more things without me.” i don’t say it aloud, so she belts out again, “trrru-less!”, a bit more impatiently. ok, wait, maybe it isn’t such a good idea. as perfect as it seems. maybe the paramedics will burst into the house and upset the wife. all the neighbors will be gathered outside, some in shock, worrying about their own deaths, others muttering under their breaths, “good riddance.” “so what if he wrote that nice little column, ‘meet your neighbors’, in the local news rag, ‘epian way’”. “so what if he lived in his nice little bohemian paradise for 16 years up the side of the hill.” “it was his time.” and like sonny boy always said, “we all have our time fer dyin’”.

more will than surrender, i summon all my strength and… drag my 190 pounds… back up to vertical. i stagger into the office, unevenly, and bolt out to the wife, “i don’t want to die. not yet!” she looks up at me from her red swivel desk chair, more amused than worried. “what are you talking about, my dearrr?” i lean over her. “i think i’m dyin’ here. i have no more reason to live. everything’s perfect already. i think i’m having a heart attack. i decided i was ok about it and just wanted to watch myself go… like a movie… but now i’m having second thoughts, and i think maybe i don’t want to die.” she slaps me hard in the face. owwwww! “you’ve had too much to drink. i’m taking clay out for a walk.”

“no! i know. i’m sorry, but don’t do that! if you do, you’ll come back and i’ll be dead. you’ll find me on the floor curled up in a pathetic heap and…” “shut up, you’re scaring me!” “i know. i’m sorry, but can you take me with you?” “what?” “take me with you and clay to the park?” “what about your gout? you can’t walk.” “i know. but i will. walk! just take me with you. on a short walk. not your run. just a walk…. a ‘walk… for life!’ you and clay. okay?” she looks at me dubiously, like i’m out of my mind. maybe i am but she agrees.

i squeeze my swollen left big toe into a slip-on pair of worn brown leather merrills, and we make out way up the hill. i’m still alive; i haven’t died yet. but maybe i will… right here…. on the hill in front of the house. that would be perfect too. on a walk with clay and the wife. all my ducks in order, walkin’ the dog, the perfect elegiac way to go. noooo, shut up, man! you’re not gonna die here. on the hill. just keep movin’… one foot in front of the other. that’s it, one foot in front of the other. ok…… good…. here’s the park. down the little dirt path…. onto the dirt fire road…. you’ve done this thousands of time before. look, clay’s up a head, tail curled in the air, he’s trotting happily in the park, looking back at the two of us… just like it’s always been. just like it’s always been. no, clay, i’m not gonna die here in the park… don’t worry… although that would be kinda perfect too, eh? just dropping dead right here in the park, on the fire road, on a walk with da wife and da dog, the ol’ bohemian family man…. life’s work complete. no longer raging at the world. perrr-fect……

i stumble. groooaaan. no, man, straighten up. i grab and squeeze the wife’s hand. you’re ok. we take the fork at the fire road. “you’re fine,”…. down the graceful little curve past the peaceful japanese garden and lake, up the grassy little knoll, elysian park’s own leashless dog park. “you’re fine, man. you’re not gonna die. you’re…  not… gonna die…..”

ok.

it’s an hour later. clay, me and da wife have made it back from the park. we’ve taken our little “walk for life”, and i’m not lying in a heap on the white shag carpet, or on the not toney mahogany floor, or on the asphalt lucretian hill, or on the dusty fire road. i’m here, back in the house, having some hot caffeinated black tea. sitting at the same round glass indonesian dining room table. clay’s back at the hearth. my heart’s beating more steadily. the wife’s sitting with me.

all’s well in the world. i’ve dodged another bullet. maybe a life or two still left on my cat of nine tails. cancer didn’t get me. nor the car crash. nor my own envisaged death on the white shag carpet.

sometimes you don’t have to accept the signs. sometimes your wires are crossed. sometimes it’s not you’re time fer dyin’.

 all is well………… all is well……

 i’m one with the clouds and the sky.

things happen in 3s, right? life, near death, death.

coincidentally, it’s september 11^th. death, right? but i’m up in walnut creek, at the bat mitzvah of niece number 2. life, right?

simultaneouly…. it’s labor day. i am merrily off from w-w-w-ork, and the fat man is supposed to come in from yuma. for the entire weekend. pick ’im up at LAX friday at 7:30….

the tuesday before, the fat man calls: “bad news.”

now the fat man has this over dramatic way about him. sort of like seeing himself as the main character in his own movie, “life”. but then again, the fat man did electrocute himself down in baja on our little sortie across the border. and he did step right into that spring-release rat trap in my garage the last time he came to LA, trying to help clear the alley behind my out-of-the way garage. and he…

yeah, the fat man is, has always been, an accident wating to happen.

but c’mon, there’s a limit, right?

“bad news,” the fat man says, right up front, over the phone? “can’t make it this weekend,” he says emphatically.

“what happened, fat man?”

“you won’t believe it,” he sings.

“what happened?”

“got hit in the head with a softball. almost blinded.” 

“whataya talkin’ about, fat man?”

 “was walkin’ down the street, downtown yuma, on my way to work. wearing a brutal pin stripe suit, attaché case in hand. mr. jones, ya know?”

“yeah…….?”

“walked by this softball field, like the old caddy house in westbury, ya know?” “yeah….?”

“never even saw it comin’. a foul ball. over the third base fence.”

“you’re kiddin’ me. that’s like a cartoon.”

 “i felt this sharp pain in my face… the next thing i know i open my eyes… i’m lyin’ on my back lookin’ up at a crowd of guys in uniform.”

“the ball knocked you out?”

“i still got the ball’s fuckin’ stitches on the right side of my face.”

“holy shit!”

the fat man’s a tall, rangy guy. pretty fit for 62. a bit awkward, in a paul bunyan-ichabod crane kinda way. he’s a new yawk criminal abogado (attorney) in tex-mex yuma, the hottest place in america. he isn’t fat anymore like he was as a kid, but he’s still apparently that accident waiting to happen.

“are you alright?”

“don’t know. the doc said i might have a concussion. have to wait a few days. he said if the ball had landed an inch higher, i’d be blind.”

the fat man postponed his trip to LA until thanksgiving. with my blessings.

————————— 

i call doctor ben on labor day. to tell him about the fat man. doctor ben’s another childhood amigo who went the professional route… doctor/lawyer… like just about every one of my smart, new york jew, friends from the baby boom years. either to keep out of the vietnam war, or more likely, because that’s what they were expected to do. doctor ben’s been a shrink out in da burbs around boston for a long time. divorced, like a lot of my early-married friends. did a great job raising his daughter with his wife, but after they let the young fledging out of the nest, they had nothing more to keep them together.

i always thought doctor ben too fucking smart for his own good, but life doesn’t much seem to discriminate based on IQ or SAT scores. six months ago, doctor ben was diagnosed with prostate cancer. he ended up not only losing the pesky little fucker to the knife, but also his bladder. he has to pee into a bag. thus, five months ago, doctor ben joined me in the near death, or more affirmatively-named, “i survived a life-threatening illness” club. i had lymphatic cancer in 1989, and like many of life’s upside down ironies, it was the happiest time in my life. forced me to let go… to be appreciative of what i had…. you know… i had to live one day at a time. just like doctor ben had to with his diagnosis, his surgery, and his post-operative prostate-less and bladder-less life. enough lessons for now, right?

 but nooooooooooo! life has no mercy on high achievers, closet poets, or paranoid shrinks. because now doctor ben tells me he’s “back in the hospital – with – they don’t know what.”

 “whataya talking about?”

“i had this pain in the neck about three weeks ago…”

“you were always a pain in the neck.”

 doctor ben sounds like he’s 90 years old.

 “yeah, well,” he wisps, “my primary told me to come in for an MRI at the end of the week. but i couldn’t wait. the pain was too much. so i go into the hospital, they take the MRI, and they find out the top of my spine is all fucked up with infection. they have to operate immediately. so they go in from the front of my neck to clean out all the eboli bacteria. i’m lucky my larynx didn’t end up with my prostate and bladder. then they wait about 10 days for my white blood cells to settle down, then they go in through the back of my neck, cut out two vertebrae, and replace them with metal.”

 “holy shit!”

 no wonder doctor ben sounds like he almost died. he did.

“so i ask the surgeon what the chances are that i walk out of the hospital alive. and he says that 10 days ago, he didn’t think they were very good. but now, he thinks, he can’t say for sure, but he thinks chances are 99 out of a hundred that i will.”

 “that’s good, benny. i don’t wanna lose you just yet.”

 “don’t worry. if i learned anything it’s that i don’t go down easy.”

 —————————————————–

my wife, surya, is from indonesia. we celebrated the 8^th year anniversary of her arrival in LA last august, and she just graduated from x-ray tech school last june. she had to pass the same tests as native-born american english speakers. it wasn’t easy.

 she doesn’t have many indonesian friends. she is interested. when she first arrived, i took her out to loma linda, los angeles’ most populous indonesian community, about an hour’s drive east on the 10 freeway. but afterwards, she said she had nothing in common with the seventh day adventist church goers, no matter how sweet or welcoming they were.

but one of her high school friends, junita, a big healthy and friendly girl, also flew the coup and married a near-50 year old american dude in east coast, new hampshire. surya visited junita once for fall foliage, flying into manchester, and junita came out here to LA once too, about 5 years ago. the girls had a great time, going to universal studios, out to venice beach, and shopping, shopping, shopping. junita said it was the best time of her life. she wished she could move out to los angeles to be close to surya, even though her conservative husband, jim, wouldn’t think of it. and then junita… had a child, about three years ago. case closed.

 until…. jim was diagnosed with an untreatable cancer… and… just a few years past his half century mark… he suddenly died. about a year ago. junita was devastated. she didn’t have friends in new hampshire, she was completely bereaved, and she had a three year old son, jimmy jr. she called surya, and we invited her to move to LA; we’d try to help. but junita thought maybe she should go with jimmy jr. to utica, new york, to live with jim’s family, who also had children. junita didn’t know what to do. where to go. she was confused. she needed time. she flew to home to indonesia, to medan, sumatra. she stayed a few months with her mother and sister. after a while, she felt a little better. she flew back to new hampshire to try to start over. but she couldn’t. she was spooked. memories were every where. she was melancholy and lonely. so she flew back to indonesia.

 two weeks ago she was eating a durian, that huge white fleshy east asian fruit that smells like a garbage can, when soon afterwards, her mouth blew up to three times its size. she went to the doctor, who said it was an allergic reaction to medication. she wasn’t taking any meds. her condition got worse. three days ago, her mouth was oozing white liquid and she was rushed to hospitals around medan – to no effect. wrong equipment, wrong doctors……. her family made a reservation to see a specialist in the big hospital in kuala lumpur, malaysia. 2 days ago, she was rushed to the airport at 2 a.m. this morning. two hours later, she died in the ambulance. she was 28 years old.

 —————————————–

 shit happens in threes, right? life, near death, and death. the fat man, doctor ben, and junita….

life’s not fair, man! and whoever said it was… was lying.