Getting Ready For The Random Dulli Sighting

I'm down here in Silverlake, waiting on some friends to come and get me. No photos yet, but they will be coming forthwith.

It's cold as hell out here in the city of angels, which makes it official:

I was born under a bad sign.

I can't go on a vacation without bringing bad weather, I can't leave town to do a play without my life falling apart, I can't stop hoping against hope that things will all work out the way I need them to.

This is why there's always Greg Dulli.

Enjoy.

Mufucka's got a wicked sense of humor, to top off the musical and lyrical chops.

The new album 'Powder Burns' drops May 16th.

If you've never seen them live, do yourself the favor.

I have used a lot of beauty products today.

When in Silverlake....

Diary Of A Sentimental Geek, Day Four

This is one of my closest friends from HS, Alex, aka "O.J.", aka "The Juice" aka "Juicy Juice." I haven't seen him in four years but he lives in San Fran, so I tracked him down and he was nice enough to knock off early from work on Tuesday, and we did what all old buddies do.


We drank and bought records!




I was so excited to go to Amoeba for the first time, I wound up blowing almost $80 on stuff, but I got away with some awesome Whigs rarities, alot of hard to find Marvin, and a present or two for good boys and girls. I couldn't help it. I wish I could bring everyone along. We celebrated our purchases with two more rounds, and then we drove like mad through Haight traffic so Alex could get home and celebrate his birthday.



I went back to Watson's and crashed, threw in my new Jeff Klein CD and fell into a buzzed slumber. I was roused by my memory of making plans with Jonny S. for even more drinks. It was dark out, but I was still packing my digital camera.



To Cafe Vesuvio for drinks and catching up on all things downtown theatre. A brief discussion of painful things and more theatre gossip, we hoisted our final bourbons and I stumbled the six blocks home. But not before buying a giant burrito.



I saw this on Grant street the next morning and was forced to recognize. Thoughts of Jack and William S. and Allen and Lucien Carr and ole' Neal Cassady filled me, I wondered what they would think of blogging and myspace and smoking bans and spinning classes. Went to City Lights and paid my respects. Bought a coffee at Trieste, sat down to write a letter, and thought about everything I thought I knew, and the stuff I most definitely don't.



Trudged on to Coit Tower, more steps than a sixth floor walk up in the Bronx, took in the sights from 210 feet above the ground. (though this shot is from the parking lot!) I trudged back home in the rain, to prepare myself for Watson's opening night.



Mark was in The Rivals at ACT, and it was a hit. We went to some swanky party, and then did what we're supposed to. Drink in dive bars and come up with country songs.
I had to bail early, because the day before had rendered me useless.



Finally made it to the SF MoMA this morning, and took it all in. This is the walk way on the fifth floor. Those are my feet. It is very high up.

So tranquil and beautiful here, just what a museum should be.
I bought a lot of postcards.



This is me outside at the SF MoMA cafe. It's a nod to a pic that hung on a refrigerator in Green Port, Long Island that I saw on many seperate get aways. I am not as pretty as the other person was, even if I never met her.



And finally, truth in advertising.
I'm speculating, anyway.

Tomorrow, L.A.

Good night San Francisco!!!!

Diary of A Sentimental Geek

Here I am on Rue Ferlinghetti, getting my beat on.

It's beautiful here in San Francisco, and my buddy Watson couldn't be a better host. Walked across the Golden Gate Bridge twice yesterday, because neither of us realized you couldn't catch a bus back across.



It was pouring rain, so we double timed it.



Here's Mark being mysterious.

We wondered the streets of North Beach, looking for good burgers and drinks, talking about heartbreak and promising each other we won't become jaded old fuckers. I have learned alot about cynicism in the last four months and I tell you something, it's fucking exhausting. Happiness isn't easy, but you have to try and find it for yourself. You can't control success, we've decided, but you can control your happiness. Or something.



This is on the bridge. Encountering this was completely appropriate.



And finally, here I am deep in sentimental geek mode, wishing on a riddle.

Off to the SF MoMA, the one museum I actually WANT to go to.
Until later my friends.

Ca-lllla-FORRR-Niaahhhhhhh!

A little David Lee Roth tribute.

S.F.and L.A., you've been warned.

Fence Swingin'

Indeed. It's been one hell of a crazy week, and it's my duty to let you in on the sheer insanity of it all.
In one eight day period, I have: been accused of ageism and had my job security threatened, in a seperate incident, been accused of sexual harassment by someone at work that under review didn't hold weight at all, got cast in a bit part in a brilliant ABC pilot, got cast in a terrific new play, went out on a date, and made the best mix CD ever. Who has time for blogging with all that?


This old fart, who for the purposes of my blog we will call Dickie Chiggums, was
holding up the line last Friday night at the museum, which is when all the crazies show up and want to get their art on for free. As I tried to usher him in and out of harm's way, I motioned to Carlos, one of our guards and said "Come on, Papi." We're tight like that. Old Mr. Chiggums didn't take kindly to me and Carlos' bro-mance and said 'What did you call me, young man?' To which I said, "Huh?" To which he said 'I heard you, and that's wildly innapropriate.' And I was like "Huh?" And he was like 'I'm going to teach you a valuable lesson.' and I was like "I hope it's about money because you sure look like you got a lot of it" and he was like 'What's your name?' and I was like "t-dawg, motherfucka' back the fuck up for I pop a cap in your shrivelled up Brooks Brothers suit wearing ass, ya' dig?" and then I gave him my name and then he went inside and complained about me and then came back out and was like 'I'm going to teach you another lesson about respecting your elders. I have a very powerful friend who is a trustee of the museum and I will see to it that you are reprimanded. I'm 85 and I didn't get this far by being a pussycat.' And then he turned dramtically and walked off.

My job is impossible.

That night, as I succesfully made it to day 10 of the no-drinking cruise of '06, I sweated this out as I watched TV and passed out stone cold sober.

The next day at work I was pulled aside by my union rep (a position I held until recently; thank god I quit) and was told that a co-worker had accused me of sexual harassment. Dude, I'm batting a thousand.

Needless to say, I flipped my shit.

I want to make something explicitly fucking clear here, dear readers:
I may be a wild man, prone to complete silliness and an big ole' flirt to boot, but I would never NEVER never FUCKING EVER NEVER EVER FUCKING EVER commit sexual harassment. I was raised correctly and have been taught time and again to respect women. I may be a broken down sloppy drunk sweetheart, but I ain't lascivious or lewd. I am a gentleman, and I know this. This is why I feel I can talk openly about this here.

Apparently that same Friday night, I was standing too close for comfort to a female co-worker as I was attempting to exit the museum. I don't know if any of you have been to museum on a Friday night when it's packed, but personal space is at a premium. I was trapped with said co-worker up against a glass door as a massive line of people were ushered in to the lobby. I couldn't move and had no choice but to stand next to this person and wait out the crowd. I also had on my usual get up which consists of a big black winter coat, metrosexual messenger bag, and fancy pants gym bag birthday present courtesy of someone special. It's a huge bag and it often creates space issues on the subway. I get looks from people. I don't give a fuck. I gots to get my work-out on, you fat Polish fuck, so back the fuck up.

Anyhow, I have no doubt that as female co-worker and I withered the free loader storm, my bag probably inadvertently brushed against her backside. Show of hands here of people that this happens to on the E train every morning?

That's what I thought. How bad a perv would I have to be to grab some poor woman's ass and just keep standing there, awaiting her response?

"Yes madam, it was I, The Toosh Bandit, who placed his hands upon your supple hindquarters. What say you and I find a nice quiet bar in which to drink lychee martinis and discuss the matter further?"

Needless to say I spent the whole day fuming until I was called into the back office to have a meeting with my boss, the 'victim', and my union reps. I sat there and listened to the allegations, and then I lost it when it was my turn to defend myself. I said the word 'befuddled' at least six times, had to stop myself from crying, and then had to stop myself from yelling. Afterwards, I was exonarated of all alleagations and the matter was put to bed.

SEXUAL HARRASMENT is not something to be taken lightly. To be accused of it makes you feel like the lowest piece of scum bucket fuck shit that ever slithered across the street. And that's not to say that it doesn't happen everyday in offices and factories all over the world, and as women do something as simple as walk down the street. It's one shitty fact of life. But we hurt people unknowingly every day with daggers of inattention, disinterest, and ignorance, so why should we bother trying to do it intentionally? I certainly don't try to.
I cannot stress enough how upset this made me, enough so that


I got
blind stinking drunk
and longed
like I never have
harder and worser
for a specific someone to be here
and tell me
i was a good guy.

but i knew better than to make that call.

I then tried to watch Elizabethtown, which I found out is impossible.

Was this movie an excuse for Cameron Crowe to flex his mix tape making muscle?
Seriously.
Anyone?
WHAT THE FUCK WAS THIS MOVIE ABOUT?

The whole idea of a big important road trip I was super into, and you know how I love my Louisville, but seriously, I will give eleven dollars and eleven cents to ANYONE out there who can tell me:

WHAT THE FUCK WAS THIS MOVIE ABOUT?

Upwards and onwards, tdawgbloggers.

Sunday was spent spending way too much for the perfect shirt and jeans for a trip I myself am taking soon. And then watching a documentary on Eugene O'Neill which proved to me once and for all that:

a)Watching actors in documentaries read from a script apropos of nothing is not only tedious but painful, and

b)Al Pacino now lives in galaxy far, far away.

The Monday night wing tradition was maintained after a awesome reading of my buddy's new play, which was funny as hell, and featured the always charming Bog Face, who can eat wings with the best of them. I had two auditions Tuesday, one for the aforementioned pilot and one for another one of Adam's great scripts.

I GOT CAST IN BOTH!

Incidentally, I asked a woman out and she said yes, so as far as Tuesday March 14th 2006 went, I was king of the world.

I met said woman for a night out Wed. and had a great time. We went to the Biennial at the Whitney the next day and chatted over Indian food. I also realized I'm completely and totally not ready to date anyone. And that's okay.

Which brings us to my awesome 13 for 16 showing in Day 1 of the NCAA tournament and a respectable 11 for 16 Friday. I am tied for 8th place in my pool but none of my losses seem to have the firepower to advance on to the Sweet 16, so I think I still got a shot. Last year Justin ROCKEFELLER won our office pool. That's like Dick Cheney shooting a guy in the face and getting away with it.

Friday night I saw a great play at Soho Rep featuring many of my favorite Austinites.
It's called NOT CLOWN and runs through next weekend. Please catch it.
It kicks so much ass.

Steve Moore and Carlos Trevino are theatricl magic makers. And my boy Robert 'Nipsay' Pierson does some great work and the always amazing Lee Eddy might just be my favorite actress that I know not named Bog Face. Watching her is like getting a mix tape with self made artwork and fancy literary quotes on it from that girl in your English class with the hoop earrings and black hair you had a crush on all semester but could never talk to. Pure unadulterated joy and wonder.

Today I had to get up at six o'clock to get a car to go to my shoot!!!!
I play a rival driver to this guy who is one of the main characters in a new pilot for ABC called 'Six Degrees.' The script is really heartfelt, funny and honest, and I hope it gets picked up. What's awesome is that Dorian and I did a play together two years ago, and since then his career has shot through the roof. He's a great actor, a total good guy, and treated me the same as he did Bridget Moynahan, the make up lady, and the executive producers, Stu and Raven. Those two were whip smart, cool guys who told me how much they liked my audition. I hope they liked my performance. I think I should be an actor for a living, you know? I tell you what man, TV is mindblowing and those people run one tight ship, although you're never sure what's going on exactly or who you should be listening to. Turns out the director of the episode directed the movie 'Nine Lives' which came out last fall and he also happens to be Gabriel Garcia-Marquez's son. How fucking cool is that?

I learned alot about film vs. theatre today and it was very,very overwhelming and educational. I also was done by 12 P.M., which was great.





It was a beautiful day out, and as we shot down on Hudson Street in the West Village, I took a quick stroll down memory lane and stopped into the much malgined Magnolia bakery for a treat and a nod to days gone by.

We all deserve a little sweetness now and then, you know?



I then went home and built an awesome mix CD that shares the same title as this posting.
It's for my favorite cowgirl.
May I see you in Nashville someday.

Ashes To Ashes

Today is Ash Wednesday. While I am at best one lapsed fucking Catholic,I do tend to take the idea of giving up something for forty days and forty nights, just like JC, kind of seriously. I think it's a beautiful concept and one that I try, failingly, every year to see through to it's completion. I have tried to give up many things over the years, and in 2004 made the fool hearty attempt to give up both smoking and drinking. (!) What a schmuck.

This year is no different. I have given up something that has been very dear to me for the past three and a half months and has been a crutch on and off for the past ten years, really. No, not ESPN. I will let those seven of you who read this guess what that is, and I know it's not hard.

Anyhow, I made sure to get my ashes today, but I then had to dash for an audition for an agent. I completely forgot I had them on during our meeting and subsequent auditing, but at least she liked me enough that she wants to talk. Maybe she was feeling guilty about not getting them herself. Maybe she thinks ex-altarboys are sexy. Maybe I should continue my story.

The other thing about today is that it's March 1st, which was the day, 26 years ago,that my dear dear Paw-Paw succumbed to his long and drawn out struggle with lung and brain cancer. His passing has had a tremendous affect on my life, as I was there when it happened and couldn't fully grasp the enormity of the situation. I loved him dearly and think of him all the time.

I was his pride and joy, the first grandchild he had been wishing for for many years. Family lore has it that my mother, who working towards her Ph. D. in the late '70's, was pleaded to by Paw-Paw to get a 'M-O-M' degree before he passed. He got his wish and we had two and a half years together. One of my first memories is of him taking me to buy my first pair of cowboy boots. They were red. No offense, Paw-Paw, but I will not be buying another pair of red boots anytime soon.

Paw-Paw was a railroad engineer who had been raised with his two brothers during the depression in a half-way house in San Antonio. He met my grandmother in 1937 and a year later they were married. Strangely enough, his two other brothers married my grandmother, or Maw-Maw's, two other sisters. How's that for tv movie?

Paw-Paw was a dyed in the wool Democrat and Union man, loved his family with gusto,and could drink like his Irish birthright granted. He also smoked like his life depended on it, which I guess in a way it did.

Because he went so early in my life, and because I saw it happen, he has always had this mythical place in the story that is me. I never got to know him, and it's something I deeply regret. My grandmother tells me constantly how we have the exact same looks,build, gait and general demeanor. She gave me letters he sent her from the War and trinkets of their life together. They are some of the most prized possessions I own.

I hope to one day live as fiercely and rightly as he did. He raised a wonderful woman who is my mother and had the best wife in the world. I take the time to do this now because of the convergence of this two very different things that have more or less shaped who I am.

I'm trying JC. I'm really, really trying.

I salute you Paw-Paw. Thanks for being such a hardcore badass. I can only hope to walk in your shoes someday.

James Malcolm Graham
1918-1980