Brian, My Friend.

Brian died this week.

For a while, we were inseparable.

I knew Brian’s family most of my life. He was the youngest of nine children and we served mass as altar boys, went to the same schools; we were from the same neighborhood and were Italian/Irish-American Catholic. I had never actually met Brian personally, though, until we were in our twenties. I’d just graduated college and he was finishing up at Saint Mary’s and we were both employed at Marin General Hospital. He was an Emergency Room technician and I worked in the warehouse and Central Supply department. In my capacity as a clerk in the supply department, I was responsible for forwarding messages to the technicians. Move a patient, deliver surgical supplies, help with an overburdened Emergency Room. Brian was an amazing worker and when he was in the ER he saved lives. He had been trained in the Army and had just completed an undergraduate degree in pre-med and he never hesitated getting into the thick of the trauma. He saved lives. He brought people back from the dead. In an Emergency Room that’s a goddamned good asset. It didn’t matter that he drank a bit, was late for his shift and was sometimes unkempt. When Brian appeared, the nurses and docs and other techs breathed a sigh of relief. They knew that they had a smart, knowledgeable guy with guts and experience working alongside them.

He liked working three shifts in a row in the ER. It was grueling, exhausting, but he was making double- and triple-time-pay and only had to work one twenty-four hour stretch to make enough money for the rest of the week. Medical personnel often burned out with those kinds of hours, but the supervisors knew that Brian thrived on the stress and they were grateful that he had the desire. They gladly paid him premium wages for the extra hours.

I was answering the phone and taking orders in the Central Supply Department in the basement of the hospital when we met. I think it was Christmastime, when hospital employees who had a few minutes downtime went from department to department enjoying Christmas goodies, parties, and sometimes, drinks. I kept a bottle of brandy my desk. I didn’t advertise it; I thought I was being pretty discreet; the bottle was hidden in my lower right hand desk drawer all year, not only for the holidays. I’d just been introduced to Brian; we recognized each other from the neighborhood but it was the first time we’d worked together. He sat down, reached over and picked up my Styrofoam cup of fortified coffee, smelled it, wiggled his eyebrows and held out his own cup. I looked around, cautious, poured a healthy shot for him, and we became friends. When I found out he also enjoyed cocaine, our friendship was cemented.

Brian had a baby face with an ironman’s body and his appearance was deceptive. His eyes were shifty blue marbles under light brown curly hair. He had a loose-lipped smile and a fast, easy manner, but he was tough. He’d played college Rugby, was a balls-out fearless skin diver and river rafter. I once saw him throw himself out of a raft that was charging over class four rapids on the American River above Sacramento. He swam across the river, splashed the people in another raft, stole a couple of beers and swam back. The rest of us were just trying to stay onboard and not drown or die or be crushed and sucked under by the fast moving water, and he was bouncing around like a drunken otter.

He could punch, too. One of the two best short right hands I’ve ever seen.

We were in Matteucci’s bar. I was drinking and talking with the bartender and he was playing darts with some loudmouths he’d just met. There was noise at the dartboard. One of the loudmouths was accusing Brian of cheating.

And he was right; Brian cheated. He knew how to cheat at cards, dice, and darts. He even cheated at trivial pursuit.

In the Bad Eighties we’d get high on blow and booze and play Trivial Pursuit for hours. It was my turn to ask a question; I held the card and read, “What actress waited for the postman to ring?” or something equally dopey and stupid. Brian and I watched a lot of movies and had pretty good memories, but, trashed on coke and brandy, we often found that the word was on the tip of our tongue, we knew the movie, the record, the book, but couldn’t get the answer.

Brian said, “I have to piss.”

He went into the small bathroom across the hall and I heard him pee and flush. He came out and said, “Lana Turner, The Postman Always Rings Twice.” I gave him the point and when it was my turn to go to the restroom I saw that he had the 1500 page copy of Leonard Maltin’s Movie Guide propped on the back of the toilet. He’d pissed with one hand and looked up the title of the movie with the other. I wondered how many times he’d done that. I knew we were pretty evenly matched, but he always found an edge.

The noise at the dartboard escalated and I turned around. Everyone in the joint was watching. Brian, animated and chatty, was showing how his darts had actually landed over the line and how he had won the game. I know that he had moved them, quickly, deftly, when he rushed to the dartboard to count up his points. He blocked his opponent’s view with his broad back and held the darts in one hand and gestured with the other, distracting the players with his chatter, the same way that he’d done when he cheated at dice or cards. This time he’d been caught.

One of the loudmouths approached. He was about Brian’s size and he was yammering about cheating; he wouldn’t let up. They’d been playing for money and he wasn’t letting Brian get away with it. He stood close to Brian, chest to chest, and I knew that he was getting ready to swing but a half second before he did I saw Brian’s fist shoot up in a short, jabbing arch, clip the dude, hard, on the tip of his chin. The guy went down, dropped, and, with the momentum of the punch, rolled up against the jukebox and stayed there, dangerously still, like a log.

We were regulars at the bar, but they threw us out that night. They said we were “troublemakers”. The bartender made us stay away for two days and then we went back.

We would hit two or three bars in a night, sometimes just drinking and talking, but other times, tough times, we were there to buy dope. There were several days a year, Christmas, Easter, whatever, when it was hard to score. Then we’d just drift through the bars until we found someone who wanted to sell us some. It always worked out.

Worked out. Maybe not. There are hundreds of stories about Brian and me, but in 1994, at the end of an almost thirty-year run, after some bad times and big trouble, I quit drinking and using drugs. I stayed out of the many bars we frequented and Brian and I stopped seeing each other as much. A little while later Brian got married. He asked me to be best man at his wedding and I agreed. During the ceremony, I scanned the guests and realized that I was Brian’s best man because most of his other friends were becoming uncomfortable around him. His drinking and drug use was a problem. He was losing respect, was sometimes foolish and embarrassing, and was always trying to get something for free. The marriage failed disastrously.

I moved to New Mexico and Brian called a few times but his voice was mumbling and unintelligible. About six or seven years ago he stopped calling and I heard that he was drinking more, hanging out with aging dope dealers, scrounging for freebies.

And then, Monday, a mutual friend emailed me his obituary. He died in the tattered little house that he’d bought when he had a bit of money. The roof leaked and was draped in a thick blue plastic tarp and there was an old station wagon in the carport with four flat tires.

Brian was the funniest, fastest, smartest and strongest and he died. It's really only an assumption on my part that he died as a result of too many years of drinking and drug use. I quit; he didn’t. 

I’m lucky. God damn. I wish he had been lucky, too.

Hungover at 30,000 Feet

Five years ago, leaving Oakland for Albuquerque on Southwest Airlines, I decided that I was going to win the seating lottery and get the exact best seat. I had carryon luggage, was familiar with the aircraft and airport, and had obtained my “A” boarding pass. It was before they numbered each pass and if you had an “A” you could stand in line when you arrived and get to your seat first. I was first. I was at the Oakland Airport three hours before my flight. Checked in easily and was the first in line. Yessir, Number One, my choice of the very best shitty seat on the plane. Heading up the “A” line, I sat on the dirty carpet and read my book for two and a half hours until we started boarding. I bounced up, looked behind me at the second place people, sneered and entered the Jetway. The seats are three across and I sat in the second row, right side, aisle. No uncomfortable bulkhead, I could recline my seat and once we landed, I’d snatch my bag and be out the door in seconds. Hah.

The plane filled up and a nice quiet guy sat at the window. The seat between us remained empty. We smiled, knowingly. Soon everyone was seated and I was not only perfectly positioned, I was buffered by the only vacant seat on the plane. The crew was whispering to each other, pointing in my direction and pretty soon they stepped aside and a sweating 400-pound man entered the plane. He was wearing lots of jewelry and I could smell his cologne. When they led him to the empty seat next to me, I blanched. I stood up, docilely,  and he slid into the middle seat, overflowing, and asked for a seat-belt extension. No shit. After several minutes he was settled, rolls of fat overlapping the armrest and falling into my lap. His loud breathing was labored and wet. Take-off was difficult with the extra weight and as soon as we were airborne the fat guy reached into a plastic bag and took out a Gatorade bottle filled with cheap wine and sipped it for first hour of our two-hour flight. The rest of the time he spent sleepily pressing up against me as I leaned into the aisle.

I’ve given up trying to outwit the Airlines.

Every time I enter an airport, anywhere, I am positive that there will be screw ups, anything from a short delay, nasty counter personnel, security issues, to spending three nights on a filthy floor due to weather conditions or, possibly worst case, a two minute drop from 30,000 feet into the ocean and death. I’m not afraid of flying, though, I’m afraid of not flying. Long delays, canceled flights. It never helps to complain or worry. That only draws attention from unhappy, underpaid, unrested and unlaid airport employees. With all the trouble the airline industry is having, along with the fear, crappy food, bad seating, expense and unusual odors, there is nothing I can do other than stay home, but I enjoy traveling too much. Before we departed Paris I had a talk with a friend who was leaving for the states for the holidays and he said he was terrified of flying. He had a therapist, mantras, tapes, pamphlets and anti-anxiety meds, but was still terribly frightened; I could see it in his eyes. Fiery death, terrorism, turbulence. I tried to be of assistance. I told him that turbulence was just like a car riding on a rutted frontage road for a few miles, terrorists were looking for other ways to kill him, and if the plane went down, he had to die sometime, didn’t he? Might as well suck it up and be grateful he didn’t have cancer. He might not die, either. Had he ever watched “Lost”? I could tell I wasn’t helping.

I once flew from Las Vegas to Denver in storm and there was a lot of violent motion in the cabin as the weather manhandled us; the plane bounced and rocked and plastic cups flew around the cabin. Worse, though was my seatmate, who had Tourettes Syndrome. Much worse. The dude just clicked his teeth and muttered and smacked his lips and snapped his tongue. It was like riding through the desert on the back of a flatbed truck with a Mariachi band.

Our return travel day started December 31, 2012 at 8:00 a.m., the perfect New Year’s Eve, and got us to Albuquerque 24 hours later. It was a crowded flight, as they all are, but the screaming kid was in the front of the plane (sorry business and first class), the fat guy was on the other side of the aisle, back about ten rows. The two twenty-ish young women behind us were curled up in their jammies, sleeping, or pretending to. From time to time the one behind me would get restless and kick the seat for few minutes before drifting off. Probably wanted me to read her a story. A stout woman directly across the aisle had an iPod, an iPad, a smart phone and a laptop and was busier than hell for the whole trip switching from one personal entertainment device to the next. Her tote bag, gigantic and polished, buckled, zippered and snapped, looked like real alligator and contained all of her crap. She, of course, got a special meal, which I’m sure was yummy, and she was the first person on her feet the minute the plane touched down. She had to be reminded to stay seated, seat belt fastened, until the plane came to a complete stop and the captain turned off the seat belt sign. This is another thing that probably shouldn’t have to be repeated, again and again, on every goddamned flight, every day, everywhere in the world, but it has become part of the soundscape of travel. A message for the confused, unconscious and stupid.

Aside from being an hour late for takeoff, it was a seamless flight. Calm, steady and relatively quiet and aroma-free for a small tube containing 250 people. Food was served at precisely the time I was ready to eat pages from my notebook, so I enjoyed opening the little plastic bags of strange, organic substances and chewing on them. The reason we were an hour late was because, according to Captain Higgs, a friendly straight shooter, we were waiting for a passenger who had a “Ticketing Problem”. I love that. There’s always a euphemism for the reasons  the customers are being insulted. What the hell is a Ticketing Problem? I had mine in hand plus boarding pass and passport; I went through security with only a few minor slipups. It looked like everyone else had, too. So what was the truth? Why do they think for a second that I’ll believe, in this world of paranoia, overamped security personnel, long lines, recorded warnings, myriad signs, checks, double checks, groping and questioning looks anyone could have a fucking Ticketing Problem?

“We’ll be opening the door and reconnecting the Jetway,” said Captain Higgs. Pardon? Did that mean that we were all ready to leave, had disconnected from the umbilical of the airport gate, had shut and sealed the door, strapped in, revved up and now we had to reverse the departure process because some dimbulb had a Ticketing Problem?

After nearly an hour of watching Alligator Bag Lady switch from iPad to laptop and back again, I noticed the flight attendant quietly, with her eyes averted, lead a man to his seat in the back of the plane. Not a first class passenger who had paid through the nose for a warm towel, but some schlub, like me, like the rest of us in coach. He looked pissed off but resigned. Then I got it. It was the Air Marshal. Another relatively new addition to the confusing world of travel.

I play games at the airport. I watch people and wonder how they can live. What sustains them, keeps them alive, who dresses them and why are they still married to that guy. It’s fun and keeps me occupied. I have a paperback novel, a comic book and an iPod in my carryon, but I get bored and uncomfortable unless I’m monitoring and criticizing others. One of my games is “Spot the Cop”.

There may be an air marshal on every flight, or only on five percent of them. The government keeps that information confidential so that, I guess, we can never be sure. Helpful. I figure there’s an air marshal on every flight I’m on and I try to guess who it is. It’s pretty easy. A slim man or woman in good physical condition, conservatively dressed and well groomed. They don’t stand out, and they are unusually comfortable in the crappy onboard environment. They have the same look in their eyes as the flight crew, a look that says, “I hate my job but I have to keep coming back in order to pay my mortgage, my alimony, my health insurance and these needy, ugly, badly behaved people are cattle and why should I care if they don’t like the food or are uncomfortable and afraid of flying? Frigging airline is about a week from bankruptcy, again, anyway. Hope something kicks off today. I need the bonus.”

The air cops are the only passengers carrying nothing but a small bag, no bigger than a wallet. Gun?

Mr. Ticketing Problem was not young, though. He was near retirement, burned out, in his mid-fifties, and rumpled. His graying hair stuck up on top of his head and he was wearing faded Levis, a sport shirt and a quilted down vest; an odd ensemble for a flight from Paris. I watched as he plopped in his seat in the back row. Hungover. Badly hungover. So the story was that the captain thought an air marshal was onboard, but when the crew did their head count they noticed an empty seat, discovered that the air cop was not present, called into the terminal for a replacement and got the old guy who had crashed in the break room after a rough night on the town. I’m generally wrong about this stuff, but it keeps me busy during the inevitable delays. I also play Spot the Hooker, Spot the Entitled Prick, Spot the Person Going Home for a Loved One’s Funeral.

I settled down, relieved that I had figured out the truth. It was simply a late arriving, exhausted, hung over, highly pissed off and heavily armed government worker.

I felt good when I identified the marshal, I even said, aloud, “A-ha!” Which drew some nervous looks from those around me. They were worried that they were sitting near the guy with Tourettes Syndrome.

Guns and Snakes

 Last summer I was at a party and asked a friend, who was carrying a two-shot derringer in a belt holster (and showing it to everyone he talked to), why he thought he needed a gun when the only people in the room were friends and family and guests he had personally invited.

His answer? “You never know.”

Why is that always the answer? You never know. Really? Never? Can't you learn?

I've been reading a lot of online chat, arguments and anger about the murders in Connecticut. Twenty children and six adults massacred by a madman with his mother's guns. All of that is so Freudian and so sick that I can't get my head around it. The killer had been identified as “odd” by teachers and family members; a loner who showed no emotion. His mom was a “prepper”, a segment of the citizenry who, in their future-based, deluded fantasies, are preparing for Armageddon, which they are convinced is right around the corner. None of this stuff was a secret. There are no answers, yet, but there are plenty of opinions and haranguing and speculation including the old go-to crap about children of divorce and violent video games and porn and bullies, and god or no god.

Rick Perry, the insane governor of Texas, thinks school teachers should be armed. Remember your teachers? Which ones would you like to see waving a firearm while raging at a disruptive student? Are there too many guns in the US? I think so. Also too many knee-jerk strident third rate scholars defending their alleged second amendment rights and am I the only one who is tired of old horseshitters who keep banging away that “cars kill people too, so do you want us to ban cars?” If you don't see the difference, then you definitely shouldn't own a gun. Or drive a car.

Crazy people are everywhere and they are not going away. There are not many services left to deal with them. I'm currently living in Paris and I can attest to the presence of angry, drunken, wild individuals who are unable to integrate into society; I am really glad they aren't armed. Yeah, I know that Anders Breivik killed 85 people at a youth camp in Norway last year and there are instances of gun violence in other countries, but nothing like the overall body count we rack up in the USA.

Aurora, Colorado; Virginia Tech. There is no shortage of information about these killings. Nutty, angry men with access to plenty of guns.

One thread of comments theorizes that America's “war” mentality and international military presence supports a feeling of conflict and the need to be armed and vigilant. That sounds too easy and political. Overall, we are a very young country and still somewhat adolescent, undereducated, insular, overbearing, quick to anger and seek revenge, confused about the value of life. In ways it feels as though we are a developing nation with too many guns, too many loopholes, not enough oversight.

I can't realistically expect the elimination of firearms. That would be impossible because there are too goddamned many of them owned by dangerous assholes who are not about to give them up. What are we going to do, go house to house and confiscate them? That's a surefire path to a bloodbath.

I have many friends who own and shoot firearms. I have a family member who always (always) carries a concealed weapon. So does his wife. And his son. One of my best friends is a firearms instructor and has at least 50 personal handguns. I worked in the criminal justice system for years with decent people who owned and used firearms. I also knew, and worked with, mass murderers who ranged from from calm, funny, and educated, to pissed off, frightened and stupid.

I was one of the last people to shoot a classic .45 caliber Thompson Submachine Gun before it was retired to a museum. Packs a punch I can tell you. I've used shotguns, rifles and handguns on ranges and in the wilderness. I've had guns pointed at me by angry guys, and I was almost shot once, accidentally, by a brain-dead neighbor while I was hiking on the mesa behind my house in New Mexico. The neighbor and I had a serious discussion about gun safety that afternoon. I live in a town where a lot of the residents, men and women, own and carry handguns. Some are quiet about it, others are constantly bragging and blathering about their “piece”. Silly. Scary.

In the bad 1980s, in California, I sometimes carried a gun at the request of a friend who was a coin dealer. He paid cash for coins and silver, legally, and he'd go to private homes for “jewelry parties”. He'd bring expensive diamonds and rings and bracelets to a big house in Sausalito or Tiburon in Marin County and give deep discounts to friends of the wealthy homeowner. All transactions were in cash and I accompanied him, Glock in pocket, to make sure that no one robbed us. I was often drinking and using drugs and it is lucky that the wife of some venture capitalist didn't get plugged in her liposuction. That was thirty-five years ago and I am grateful and relieved that we all survived. Bad times in the 80's.

When I was a kid I took an NRA firearms safety course and learned how to use a weapon and to stay alive while doing so. It was a good thing to know. In my own limited way, I understand many of the uses and possible abuses of firearms.

I work hard to be a realist and I can't think of a way to gather in all the guns on earth and melt them down into plowshares or iPads and then we can all hold hands and live in Rainbow Land. That horse is out of the barn. The bell has been rung. The pistol has been fired. I can't see a way to undo the juggernaut of gun ownership and entitlement.

A guyI know bought a gun last year. He was constantly talking about international conspiracy theories and was manifesting more and more worry about the “roving bands of dangerous criminals” who would break into his house and kill him for his food. I don't know when this was supposed to happen. He bought a handgun and talked about it. A lot. I think he felt better and bigger. He spent hours on the internet checking world financial markets and currencies. He was diagnosed with cancer in March and died in August, still afraid.

Bad guys have guns; good guys have guns. Bad guys use stolen and unregistered firearms. The Pittsburgh father who accidentally shot his seven year old son to death in front of a gun store didn't know his legally purchased and registered gun had a round in the chamber. A breach of basic handgun safety. It happens much too often. We can't legislate against stupidity, or poor memory, can we?

The good news, if that can even be considered a concept at this point, is that dialogue has started and congress and our representatives are going to have to pay attention. Lobbyists may find it a little harder, I hope, to give away gun money to anyone but the most conspicuous congressional whores. The NRA has deactivated their Facebook page, for now, but you can bet that they are gathering their membership, working on clever press releases and digging into their wallets. Harsher penalties for irresponsibility and gun crime are being discussed by elected representatives with an eye towards their next campaign. Mental health evaluations and deeper background checks for purchase of firearms are a possibility. We're all talking about it in coffee shops, bars, schools and even the revered Facebook. With a nation where there are 89 guns for every 100 citizens and there were over 30,000 deaths by firearms in 2007 and over half of those were suicides, that has to be good, right? Talk? Conversation?

A few years ago there were a lot of snakes on my property. Big fucking snakes. I don't like snakes. A primitive, mythological, faux-Christian response, I guess. They would show up on the back patio, quietly eying me when I went outside to read. I stayed in. We had a hot tub and there were plenty of tasty prairie dogs around. The tub was hot and moist all year long and was an ideal herpetarium. The snakes lived underneath it and even when I was lying back looking at the stars, I couldn't stop thinking about what was slithering only a few inches under my naked body. I had the tub removed, and that afternoon I watched as several snakes wriggled away.

At first, I just stayed inside a lot. I'd look out the front and back door to make sure there was nothing coiled, waiting. If I went for a walk and saw a five foot long bullsnake, I'd turn around and jog home. I don't own a firearm, don't want one, but due to my fear of snakes I bought a Benjamin pump action pellet gun. I had one as a kid and it was fun to shoot, easy to use. I kept this one by the door and about once a year, when I saw a snake on the acreage behind the house, I'd shoot it. I was fighting back. So I went from total fear, to killing my perceived enemy, innocent though the poor animal was. I also read a lot about snakes.

I shot a few snakes, watched them die, picked them up with the fireplace tongs and dumped them over the fence at the back of our property. I felt, momentarily, safe. Fool. I knew I couldn't shoot all the snakes in New Mexico.

I was fearful and then I was deadly and then I was interested in my fear and decided to take charge of it. Last year I was hiking in a flat, hot area near where I live and there was a snake lying across my path. Big-assed reptile. Easily over five feet long. I examined it, watched it warming itself in the sun, and then I stepped over it and continued my walk. I came across that same snake several times during the summer and I didn't mind seeing it at all. I have learned about myself and my environment and the creatures that populate it and, for me, that has been the answer to snake-fear.

Somebody else might still need a firearm to address their fears and I can only hope they don't point it at me, drink, have anger issues, are clumsy, prone to sadness, holding a grudge from high school, have recently lost a job, are celebrating a winning season for their favorite sports team or think that they've emptied the weapon before tossing it in the backseat while I'm in the car.

Answering My Own Questions

Are the French people friendly? How's the Weather? Why do you keep coming back to Paris?

I've noticed, for the most part, Parisians are detached, unsmiling and relatively efficient. I was at the Post Office this morning, wondering how the hell to mail a big item in a small envelope, the most for the least, which is my personal motto, and the two young men who helped me were amiable and never even weighed the package, which was way overstuffed with expensive and luxurious Christmas gifts for my family.

I now dig the way the French respond negatively to everything. The first answer, to every question, is “No.” That's cool. I was once a civil servant and I understand that the culture of “Yes” usually leads to more work. But once you break through the “No” barrier clerks and shop keepers are helpful. I do this by either acting completely stupid (not impossible), aggressive (easier), or friendly (a new and effective solution).

I have coffee several times a week at a boulangerie on rue St. Antoine. Nice place, crowded and overheated, like much of the city, and the biggest goddamn croissants on earth. As big as my foot, but tastier. I enter, find a table, and the same young waiter asks for my order. After six weeks he began to interact, ask a few impersonal questions, toss off a joke. I figure, six weeks, that's a good time-frame. Now, most of his co-workers are pleasant, treat us like regulars and look us in the eye during short conversations. However, the cashier is a young woman, average to pretty in appearance, fashionable with black hair and fake-tanned red/orange skin, and she is completely self involved and dismissive and has never even been slightly affable. Huge croissants, though.

Young people are loud, silly, attention-seeking and don't consider anyone over 40 of any importance whatsoever; old people talk to themselves, a lot, and clog up the line at the grocery store while middle-aged men and women watch each other with urban suspicion and distrust.

At lunch yesterday on Rue de Turenne, our waitress asked us where we were from. We answered and she engaged and by the time we were finished with our meal, two hours later, we were exchanging Facebook info. I've done this before and I usually expect to have my bank account drained by Corsican cyber-pirates, but, so far, no one has asked me to sponsor their families for immigration or buy Amway products or save the Nigerian royal prince. I think they look at my Facebook page and decide not to pursue the relationship.

I'm pretty comfortable with that.

The weather. Today it's chilly and cloudy with a light rain. There was a little snow last week but I've only opened my umbrella about a dozen times in the past two months. I enjoy the cold and the dark, so the weather isn't much of a problem and I've learned to appreciate rain. There are less people out when it rains, so walking around the city is easier, not as much contact on the street and when the lights reflect off of the pavement at night it looks mysterious and appealing; it could be anytime in the city's distant past.

Additionally, if it wasn’t for the rain, there would be no puddles for people to dip their shoes into and wash off the dog doo. It's a real urban challenge and test of agility, striding down the pavement, making sure to look up at the oncoming crowd, ahead to my destination, and down, to avoid the large amounts of excrement. A couple times a day I watch as a fashion plate shouts, “Oh, la la,” (which they do), and then sidles over to the nearest gutter and dips her overpriced shoes into the rainwater, soaking off the inescapable dogcrap. The great equalizer. The circle of life. Hakuna Scatata

Dog owners are encouraged to clean up after their pets, but they don't. The droppings remain where they are deposited until an unaware pedestrian strides through. When I walk along the Rue de Rivoli, I see the stamp of a Gucci in the excrement and then, treading carefully, I notice the smudge becomes smaller and smaller as it disappears up the street. Sad that he never knew. Embarrassing and I hope I don't sit next to him at lunch.

More people equal more dogs equal more merde. It's one of the universal truths of existence, like the overcrowded metro, and it's a good argument for birth control, both canine and human.

So, why do I keep coming back to Paris? I was in a pharmacy last week, buying some much needed aspirin with codeine, (honestly, believe me, undetectable, no buzz, simple pain relief for a forty-year-old back injury, maybe a slight nodding, early to bed, but no bad behavior, or spilled drinks), and the helpful pharmacist asked why I was in Paris and not another big city.

I told her that, for me, Paris was a large package; history, culture, literature, art. The fact is I can't exactly pinpoint why I love it here. I could be in Rome or London, but Paris has an important history: monarchy, revolution, empire, republic, world wars, student rebellion. The desire to understand the world in relation to history and politics continues, too.

There is a show at Musée d'Art Moderne de la Ville de Paris at the Palais de Tokyo called “L'Art en Guerre”. It covers the art and artists of Paris before, during and after WWII and shows, through the art that was produced at the time, how the world changed. There are drawings and paintings from the concentration camps which are sad, alarming and, sometimes, beautiful. I wasn't that interested at first. As an American, born after the war, I am distant from it. America won, right? Too simple. Most of the whole goddamned World was involved and a lot of people, while they appreciated the peace accord, can never say they “won”. I was amazed by the painting, the cruelty and horror. The show impressed me deeply and I've begun reading about the war from the European point of view, which tells different stories than the ones we learned in school.

Where else is there this much art? Impressionists, Renaissance geniuses,abstract art, mindblowing landscapes, still lifes and graffiti are everywhere. Wandering around the Louvre yesterday I eventually came across the paintings of Camille Corot, a painter about whom I know little. He is a link between neoclassicism and the impressionists and as I looked at his landscapes I felt like I was going to cry. Man, that is a very strange feeling for me, to want to weep when in the presence of beauty; to feel like weeping for any reason. It's one of the definitions of an aesthetic experience; people have been known to pass out or have seizures when overtaken by extreme sensual stimulation. Part of my reaction was that of an appreciative observer, of course, but I was also drawn into the pictorial representation of what I would like in my own life; serenity, purity, calm, nature, quiet, solitude. And I also realized that I already have that, if I want it, if I recognize it. So, my repressed tears were for beauty, desire and gratitude, which is a complicated cycle of feeling and something that I appreciate and haven't really experienced until I started traveling to Paris.

The French writers of the Nineteenth century own the epic historical novel. If I had not read Victor Hugo, Alexandre Dumas, Emile Zola I would have missed some of the greatest reading experiences of my life. The 20^th century giants, Jean-Paul Sartre,Claude Simon, Albert Camus, Simone de Beauvoir, Alain Robbe-Grillet, are stylists and scholars who have changed the way I write, read and think. My life is better and I am happier since I've been introduced to these authors and I don't believe I would have taken the chance to read them if I hadn't spent lots of time in the environment that has inspired discontent with the status quo, extraordinary stylistic experimentation, and the establishment of absurdity as an acceptable adaptation to the modern world.

Oh yeah, and cheese. There is nothing like ripe Camembert. I don't think I'd ever experienced it until I came to Paris for the first time. I can tell when I'm within 30 feet of a decent round of real Camembert. It has the aromatic decay chain of Uranium-235 and even though it is sealed in waxed paper, tightly seated in a form-fitting wooden box, wrapped in plastic, stored at the bottom of the refrigerator, in a separate drawer, the fridge snugly closed and the kitchen shut and locked, I can still tell if I have any fresh Camembert on the menu when I walk in the front door. I love that. I will miss that.

How Do You Spell “Merde” Without an “M”?

Lately, I'm distracted from writing fiction. I've been seeing astounding art, monitoring expenditures, trying to overcome my obsessive, controlling tendencies and visiting and dining and with friends. All crises solved, all questions answered. No sweat. I'm about three-quarters of the way through an outline for a new novel, but I will have to wait until I get back to the quiet solitude of New Mexico to do the actual composition. For now, I focus on the outline, short stories, notes, observations, irritations, enlightenment and the discovery of new, important and mindblowing French literature. An easy, worthwhile compromise.

I haven't found a decent place to write.

That's not true. I write everywhere, but I haven't found a place to set up my computer in a comfortable environment and relax and compose. I can plug in the earphones, turn on the Jazz, drown out the surrounding ambient sounds, but I am usually hemmed in by others. There are forty percent too many people everywhere on earth, even, I'm sure, in the middle of fucking Antarctica. I've taught myself to write in airports, coffee shops, amusement parks and on trains, but trying to write fiction in a crowded room is really challenging.

I often use the library and I have a French library card that gives me a feeling of belonging. When I enter the bibliothèque I present my card to the nice person behind the counter and he assigns me a numbered seat at one of the tables reserved for “travaux”, work or study. There are about ten polished wooden tables and 80 spots, four people to a side, facing each other. Each place has the same amount of room as a tiny table-top in a packed restaurant. A chair, of course, and a lamp. The individually-assigned area is covered by a two foot square of hard leather, similar to the kind that one finds on an antique writing desk. It's pleasant and every effort has been made to create a scholarly and serious atmosphere.

Under the table, nearly impossible to locate, is a plug for the computer. The French outlet is byzantine and complicated and never looks stable or safe. I expect sparks, fire and sewage to spew forth. The first day or two I spent fifteen minutes wrestling with my power cord and eventually had to ask a librarian how to hook it up. She showed me and since then it's been easy. I bend down, scramble around, hit and miss, and finally, et voila, the odd shaped adapter slips into the dangerous foreign outlet. I felt pretty stupid the first few times; doubled over, groping under the table, grunting suspiciously, muttering and swearing in English. Now I see that almost everyone, French, Chinese, American, Italian, has the same trouble when searching for an electrical connection. Confusion. When the architects designed the building in 1590 they didn't consider the future invention of the computer, electricity, the internet, smart phones, email, world wide pornography and Netflix, so the outlets had to be retrofitted into the historical building a few years ago. They've done a good job of hiding the modern essentials from view and everyone soon resolves the question of connectivity.

The library patrons are all very well behaved, too. This is not an American library, which often serves as a toilet for the homeless. I've entered the library in Taos, New Mexico, and mentioned to the staff that it smells like last call at the old Lucky 7 in San Francisco's Tenderloin. No one snores, drinks or talks to themselves in the historical Paris libraries. On the streets, bridges and in doorways, sure, of course, but the library clients are students and scholars. I take sidelong glances at their work and see that the young woman next to me has notebooks full of complex equations on graph paper and she's making entries on a spreadsheet.

An older man, older than me, balding, fat, waddles up and down the aisles, carrying heavy, leather-bound books of maps and charts back to his spot where he stacks them up and searches through them for hours, his head bent and his nose almost touching the open page. He doesn't use a computer, probably has never had an argument with someone about the Mac versus the PC. I envy him.

I travel with a netbook computer; efficient, small, utilitarian. I've had it for about six years and it's been everywhere with me, Asia, Europe, Mexico. It finally shorted out a few weeks ago and I panicked. How can I live without a computer? Right? Jesus.

The first time I traveled to Europe I didn't have a cell phone or a laptop. Everything I owned was in a carryon bag and S and I spent five months on trains and in second class hotels, checking schedules, learning the language. I had to make computations every time I crossed a border to figure out the money.

If I wanted to write, I'd use a lined notebook and fill up pages. It was fun and easy and when I had a long message to send, I'd work it out on the page and then find an internet cafe and email it to my friends. I remember learning to use a pay phone in Italy. I was living in Lucca, outside of Florence, and there was a phone booth across the street from the apartment. I watched Italian people drop in their coins (Lira in those pre-euro times) or insert incomprehensible phone cards, punch a few keys and talk, loudly, to their friends and family. I wanted to do that, so I found a place to buy a phone card, plugged it into the telephone, failed again and again, scolded by the disembodied Italian phone lady, and eventually got through to my friend Jonathan Lucero in the US. We just bullshitted like we usually do, no big conversation, but I felt completely assured and that was the moment that I knew I could solve any problem on my own. I was capable and imaginative. If I could learn to use an Italian pay phone, the sky was the limit.

If I got lost I had to figure out how to read a map. When I couldn't find a place to stay, I walked until I did. Questions were answered without Google, Wikipedia or translation programs. I acquired enough Italian to take care of all my needs. I even made some friends.

I use tech stuff at home and when I travel; I like the convenience and the programs and devices have become integral to my life. I was so freaked when my computer crashed a couple of weeks ago that I bought a new one right away, here, in Paris, in French (l'ordinateur = computer), with a weird French keyboard. (Why the crap would anyone switch the “A” with the “Q” and the “S” with the “Z”? That's just nuts. Where the hell is the “M”? The French use “M”, don't they? How can I write without an “M”?) It's cheap, slow, but I can email, write, and of course, check out maps, find when the Louvre closes, look up movies, bookstores and bus schedules. Amazing, indeed, but I felt, dependent, isolated and deprived when the stupid computer crapped out and I really didn't dig that at all.

I admire the old guy in the Paris bibliothèque, trudging from shelf to shelf, schlepping his giant, antique books around, doing something that he thinks is important, self contained and focused, without distractions.

I'd like to learn to unload the pain-in-the-ass cell phones and computers when I travel and go back to pay phones and writing long hand and using internet coffee shops, which are everywhere. I trust myself to surmount the inevitable difficulties that arise when I'm on the road, away from home. Christ, I've overcome bigger problems than bus schedules in the past twenty years. I don't have GPS on any device I own and here I am, safe, indoors, warm and comfortable. I write about four hundred words a day in my notebook, anyway; I could probably save it up and transcribe it into a computer when I returned home. I think, in the old days, that was called “revising”. What's the hurry?

Still, here I am, at the library, plugged in, typing quietly, navigating this goddamn weird-assed keyboard and I'm elbow to elbow with my table mates and, even though they are polite and quiet, I can feel them exhaling, shifting in their chairs, looking over my shoulder at my work, snickering at my inability to create believable characters and an engaging narrative. I often end up writing these blog posts because much of the time it's all I can manage in this environment and it keeps me occupied. I'm not sure it's real writing.

The old guy at the next table leans forward, breathing hard, his face an inch from a seventeenth century map, analyzing, nodding, scribbling strange words in a battered ledger. He doesn't have any devices other than his brain and his interest in his subject. Nothing to plug in, connect, recharge. I like all my stuff, sure, it's fun and pretty and efficient, but, today, I think my library card is a greater asset.

Rue de Foin

Sunday on the Rue de Foin

          After two years of sipping mineral water, Martin is desperate for a drink as he pulls on his pants, a t-shirt, and slips into his overcoat. He wears shoes without socks and takes the spiral staircase down four floors, pushes open the heavy street door and walks to the Tapas Bar on the corner. It is a typical overpriced Paris bar, but when he awoke from his nap he imagined the dark wood inside. He has passed by every night, looking guiltily through the front window, on his way home. He is standing at the bar, trying to find out how much the drinks cost, asking the questions in a language of gibberish and confusion. He has forgotten so much. What's the word for “red”? Red, rouge, rose, russ, ruff, rust. Damn. He is sure that “rojo” is the right word in Spanish, but this was Paris. He asks for red.

“Red what?” The barman answers in English.

Wine. Red wine.

“OK.”

Martin hopes that it isn't more than four euros a glass. Even cheap wine has become expensive. He worries that it will cost too much.

Now there is a tall, full glass of wine on the bar in front of Martin. The bartender takes one of the bills that Martin has dropped on the bar and walks away.

It is as he imagined. The first mouthful is bitter. It settles on his tongue and he considers spitting it out but it slips down and he feels the soft burn on his palate, the descent and arrival in his stomach; he closes his eyes and becomes aware of swallowing and taste.

         The next is sweeter, welcomed and when the glass is empty he summons the young man.

Again.

Encore.

Autre.

More.

Two, please.

Yes, two glasses, side by side, with no questions.

It is 11:30. He is finished.

Steadying himself, he enters the wet, empty street. The man who had been watching through the cafe's window is walking a block ahead. Martin sees him as the man disappears in the darkness between the streetlights, becomes visible, fades.

Now Martin is alone and there is a soft mist that quiets the street. He is relaxed, enjoying the wine, the flush of early intoxication. When he passes his building he does not press the numbers of the digicode, does not go home. He walks and, after some time, he is near the The Cafe de les Musees on Rue de Foin. The restaurant is shut tight, as is the Absinthe shop next door. The metal rolling doors are lowered and locked. The post card kiosk is also dark.

He thinks, I will walk for a while but stay in my quartier. It's been a long time since I've had the warmth of wine, and I want to be near my apartment in the event that old thoughts begin to bloom. I should avoid wandering into alleys and becoming lost.

He's not alone anymore. There are footsteps. Not the hard wooden heels of the men and women who are the aggressive, committed travelers, who take up too much space on the sidewalk and expect others to move aside. A softer tread follows Martin, who concludes by the sound that the walker is twenty feet behind. It is a guess, but he is confident that he has assessed the distance accurately. He doesn't want to turn around; that would be a sign of weakness and may neutralize the effects of the wine.

It is a man.

The footsteps speed up. Martin is grabbed from behind and can't turn. The attacker is strong, heavy and round, and determined to take him to the ground. A large wrist encircles Martin's neck and the a hand is groping in the pocket of his overcoat, searching.

A cheap, simple thief, but one who is desperate enough to attack. Martin bends his knees, instinctively, but also weak; he collapses and falls to the ground and the other man follows along, his broad arm still across Martin's throat, squeezing.

“Is he tying to kill me?”

This thought and the answer, “Yes”, take an instant and, falling, Martin turns to look, to see what is happening, to learn how he is going to die and who is going to kill him and the round man, now beneath Martin, slams onto the cobblestones and there is a dreadful, vegetable sound; the head. The arm spasms, jerks against Martin's neck, hard, and Martin wonders if he will now die of choking. The grip loosens and falls away. Silence.

Breathless, Martin rolls to his left, climbs to his knees and stands, leaning on the wall of a clothing store. A sale on shirts on the Rue de Foin.

The eyes are open, but there is a wide pool of blood seeping around the man's head. Martin turns away, fast, and retraces his steps, follows the empty street for many blocks, keeping to the shadows. He is relieved, exhausted and elated.

Again he slips by his front door and continues on to the rue Saint Antoine. Here there are people. L'Arsenal is open and a few stragglers gather there, finishing a final glass of beer, a coffee, a conversation. In the distance the pale green column of the Bastille points to the sky like a decomposing finger. Clouds are low and fast moving. More rain soon.

The two-tone notes of an emergency vehicle echo. Martin follows the sound and after a while he is back on Rue Turenne, near Rue de Foin. He should turn around, go home, lock up his door and sit quietly, forget what has happened, but he wants to see.

The thief lies on the sidewalk. The purple blood spreads out around the shaved white head. Yes, the sapeurs-pompiers, the firemen, have arrived and they are hard at work. A small crowd has gathered from their apartments, from the shadows, and are watching as the young handsome men pound on Martin's attacker. They have exposed the flabby chest, pulled up a yellow and brown polo shirt, and torn off his jacket, a parka; black and shiny, it lies discarded in the street like the shell of a enormous beetle. They pound on the body and with each blow folds of fat wobble up and down the pale torso like waves in a bowl of thick cream. So white; too white. He is both shorter and fatter than Martin thought, when the man was choking him and searching through his pockets. Martin is still drunk and ashamed. He knows that they are too late, the young men, the strong men. Their square van is parked at an angle in the street, its lights flashing amber.

They will not save him. Martin recalls the gunshot noise of the man's head when the body hit the sidewalk. But it is the glowing blackred halo of blood that surrounds the big, shaved skull that convinces Martin. The man is surely, completely dead. The head is whiter than the fat abdomen, but maybe that's because it is in contrast with the blood and the wet street.

Martin imagines that he is the dead man. He is humiliated by his own dying, by the care they are giving to his corpse, and by the crowd who watch his body, critically.

“He's dead.”

“He's fat.”

“He's ugly.”

“He's old.”

“He dresses badly.”

“He's bleeding. His skin is so white.”

“Let him lie.”

“Let him die.”

“Pick him up.”

“Roll him over. Cover him.”

“Is today Sunday?”

Martin wants to come back when they are gone, come back to the spot before the rain washes away the blood. He would touch the toe of his shoe to it. Perhaps dip his finger in and feel it turn sticky as it dries.

He licks his thumb, to feel the wet; the wine was three euros a glass.

Existentialism Explained

Misdiagnosis of the day: Liver cancer.

Actual affliction: Minor lower back pain

Duration of orthopedic condition: 30 years

Time spent worrying about cancer: 2 hours

Ratio of reality to fantasy: 101,400:1

Conclusion: I'm a fucking baboon.

Yesterday I didn't leave the apartment. S has gone to Germany to explore and I stayed in Paris because I love the city and wanted to do some walking/writing/reading/isolating. I listened to music, read an early novel by Sartre, browsed the news, ate a salad. By 9 p.m. I had decided that I'd wasted my life, the news was dismal, I ate too much, and Avant Garde jazz was making me jittery. The Sartre was terrific, though. In 1964 he became the only person to refuse the Nobel Prize for Literature. He is a great novelist and philosopher and I've been deeply caught up in his “Roads to Freedom” trilogy. It's an extraordinary literary experience, but I wonder if perhaps I've been influenced by his occasionally dark observations and malaise. Was I suffering from a case of unconscious existential anxiety.

I went to bed at midnight determined to awaken early. Early, in Paris, is between 8 and 9 a.m. The sun doesn't come up until then, the construction next door doesn't begin until 8:30 and the only people on the streets are those who look like they're just getting home. Nothing opens before 10. I've shifted easily into a Parisian schedule, but most mornings I have to set my alarm for 8 o'clock just in case the guys next door don't show up due to a strike or surprise holiday and the muffled pounding of hammers doesn't reach through the wall and provoke me into semi-consciousness. I've learned to appreciate their efforts. In a city this old, there is constant rebuilding and restoration. I'm glad they care.

This morning the unseen workmen were right on time and by 9:15 I was dressed and ready to leave, feeling good, feeling rested, preparing to overcome the previous day's indolence and get involved in Life, goddamnit.

I hit the street at 10-ish and decided that I'd walk to the bookstore near the Concorde. I'd ordered “Iron in the Soul”, the last of the Sartre trilogy, and they'd sent me a text informing me that the book had arrived. It would be a good hike, three urban miles from Le Marais, through dark alleyways, past drunks and beggars, along the lovely and picturesque Seine, into the courtyard of the Louvre and the length of the Tuilleries; the weather was dry and cool and I was sure that I'd feel better, active and oxygenated, from a good brisk walk.

I was right. Nothing like a little exercise for a welcomed re-set of all psychic and physical levels. I stopped in the gardens half-way through the Tuilleries and had a coffee. At Place de la Concorde I crossed the street and entered the bookstore on Rue de Rivoli. It wasn't too crowded and I browsed the shelves for a few minutes.

I am a big fan of another famous and important French writer named Alain Robbe-Grillet. He is one of the originators of the Nouveau Roman, a radical modern approach to the novel and I'm astounded by his writing. It's strange, disturbing, but also hypnotic and brilliant. I've looked for his book, “The Voyeur”, but haven't been able to find it. I didn't see it on the shelf so I decided to ask if they had a copy.

The severe, thick-browed short woman at the information desk ignored me for a few minutes while she pretended to look at her computer screen. That's cool, I'm used to it, all French service personnel ignore everyone for a while, French, American, Italian, everyone, just to let the customer know who's in charge. I get it. I've learned to be patient while being disregarded. Fine by me.

She eventually looked up, glanced away from me and said, in English, “Yes?”

I asked for “The Voyeur” by Alain Robbe-Grillet. She immediately corrected my pronunciation, but started tapping on her keyboard.

“No.”

“No? No what? You haven't got it or you won't give it to me?” A bit prickly, but I was starting to feel a tweak in my lower back, on the left side. A wave of concern washed over me.

What the hell is that pain, I asked myself?

“We haven't had that book in the store for four years.”

I placed my hand on my left flank, massaged my lumbar area, searching for a tumor, a tender spot, inflammation. I wonder if it's cancer? I hadn't thought about cancer for several weeks and was dismayed that it, the thought, had come back. I had hoped it was in remission.

The store had not had a single copy of a book by one of France's most celebrated modern novelists in four years. I would have engaged her in critical conversation, but I was preoccupied by physical discomfort and a growing cancer scare. I shrugged, which is an acceptable mode of conversation in Paris; it communicates all manner of dismay, disapproval and sarcasm. I'm getting good at it.

To obtain the book I'd ordered, the Sartre, I had to go upstairs, down a long hall, turn left and wander around a poorly-lit room until I saw a desk designated “Customer Orders.” It was staffed by a woman who resembled her counterpart at the Information Desk; short, stocky, unhappy. She was on the phone. I pressed my thumb deeply into the area below my bottom rib, probing.

I waited, with increasing concern regarding my medical status, for a full six minutes before she ended her call. She was speaking French, but I've learned enough of the language to know when someone is making lunch plans with a friend. I lapsed into my reverie, recounting all of my acquaintances who have died of cancer in the past forty years.

Finally, she asked, in English, what I wanted. I told her my name and the title of the book I'd ordered. I could see it on the shelf but she kept going past it. I directed her, in my rudimentary French. “A gauche”, I said, and she went too far. “ A droit.”

After some time she found it and placed it on the counter.

“Twenty-seven euros.”

I knew the price when I'd ordered it a week ago, but Jesus Christ, that is thirty-four dollars. All the books here are terribly overpriced. The same book, titled “Troubled Sleep” in an English version, is fourteen dollars from Amazon. As a bit of an obsessive-compulsive reader, I had to have it, can't get American Amazon to work here, so I paid my twenty-seven euros and left the store. I wondered if I'd be able to make it home; the sharp pain in my back became worse with every euro I spent, every person I bumped into on the street, every instance of neglect I experienced from a clerk. I decided to take the metro. The Concorde station is right outside the bookstore and goes directly to my block. I got on the train, stood against the rear door and felt massaged by the gently rocking car. I kept my eyes straight ahead, looking at my reflection in a window across the aisle. Cancer. That man has cancer. That man is me. C'est moi.

I felt very existential. Deep underground in a rattling train filled with other insignificant creatures, on my way to an empty apartment, over-charged, under appreciated, contemplating my own obscurity, doomed, diseased, barely sentient.

As I exited the St. Paul metro I saw that “Aux Desirs de Manon”, the local, spectacular boulangerie, was opened and I stood in line for a baguette. While waiting among the well behaved patrons, examining the colorful, delicious pastries, inhaling the aroma of fresh bread, I remembered that I might have cancer but, miraculously, it was no longer troubling me. While climbing the stairs to the apartment I recalled that, for thirty years, I've had a chronic back problem and once or twice a week it gives me some discomfort. It comes upon me, and it goes away. It always has. My first thought, even after all these years, is catastrophic. Cancer. Cirrhosis. Emphysema, Aneurysm, Kidney Stones, Ebola.

I know that chronic back pain affects the majority of adults. Most times, there is no definite cause. It starts, it stops. Following a lazy day of indolence and morbid self-reflection, it is no surprise that it manifested after a long walk in a busy city and being overcharged by an unattractive, disrespectful clerk. The cure was a short ride on a crowded yet efficient transport system and the purchase of fresh bread.

I spend a lot of time alone and I've been told I think too much, which is bullshit. I'm just glad I don't have cancer, today, and I'm really looking forward to digging deeper into existentialism. I've got the book and the baguette. What could go wrong?