What was I thinking?

hello dear breeders,

You know what sucks? The Wombury's life. Professionally, personally, romantically, financially, emotionally, psychologically. How many confidence-shattering experiences can one fellar handle? Of course, in the Wombury's warped way of viewing existence, all life is a series of crimes and punishments, so therefore all the caca that is piling up around the Wombury is totally natural and expected. And yes, I do consider teaching sixth grade from 9-1pm a valid form of punishment. It's punishment on a mythical level. Everyday the Wombury is front of those kids is akin to Prometheus having his guts pecked out by ravenous vultures, only to heal overnight and repeat the ordeal the next day. And what is our sin? Giving the gift of fire to mankind, or in the Wombury's case, giving the gift of reading xeroxed packets of short stories.

To ameliorate all this bullshit the Wombury decided to buy a new pair of glasses with the vain hope of "starting over." Starting over. Hey, now the Wombury can wear what he wants to wear and date whom he wants to date, right? Let's hope the dates go better than buying glasses. The pair of spectacles in question is so ridiculous as to arouse suspicion in the people selling beer that the Wombury is wearing a disguise. Why would the Korean ladies at the corner think such a thing? Probably because the glasses look like those classic Groucho Marx glasses with the attached nose and mustache. You would only wear these if you were trying to impersonate someone socially maladjusted from 1964. Or Michael Douglas from the movie Falling Down, where he plays a nerdy white dude who guy crazy waiting for fast food at a Los Angeles burger joint. The glasses are so unattractive that the Wombury refused to wear them to work. He wore his old pair, and then showed his new students the new pair, and they booed and hissed. One girl refused to look at me when I put on the new pair. She averted her eyes like the Wombury was hideously disfigured. It's not bad enough that the Wombury is back in middle school as a teacher, he also has the opportunity to re-experience all the charms of public humiliation that he enjoyed so much when he was a middle school student.

And now for a picture of a woman from Latvia,

(I'm pretty sure I'm starting to dislike you strongly)

Until then,

The Wombury

The Wombury Doesn't Feel Like It

Hello Dear Breeders,

The Wombury here. The mojo's been running low lately. That's the new thing for me to say. "Aint' got no mojo." Not sure if the word is outdated, or if it's cyclical and therefore usable, but either way it's precise.


Thus, here's a picture of a man from the Netherlands,

(Are the Cure a good band? Or do they just have 8 good songs?)

Until then,

The Wombury

The Wombury's Dream Concert Series

Hello Dear Breeders,

Today's the big day for the Wilco tickets. As you may or may not know, the Wilco tickles the Wombury's fancy. Is any other artist worth listening to? Maybe not. For years, the Wombury has listened religiously to every Wilco album, sponging up every chord, note, and lyric as if they hold the secret to life. He's seen them twice in concert, once in 2004 at Carnegie Hall, and once this past June in Shelburne, VT, not far from the Loaf of Bread (the 2007 concert was sans N, and precipitated their fateful summer reunion.)

Seeing Wilco changed the way the Wombury viewed live music, but not for the better. It dawned on him that Rock Concerts sort of blow. At least for the Wombury. The Wombury is an album listener. He grew up Abbey Road, The Joshua Tree, Led Zepplin IV. These are unified works of art, not a collection of 10 singles. That's why the Wombuy hated 90s music. Bands like Better than Ezra, who were a dime a dozen, would toss off one decent song for the radio, you'd buy the album and the other 11 tracks sounded like they were composed by mentally handicapped gradeschoolers with access to recording equipment.

Now, the Wombury never got the chance to see his favorite bands in their heyday, the once exception being U2's Pop Tour in 1997, which was terrible, and Bruce Springsteen in 1999. What he realized is that concerts are unfulfilling because they're like listening to mix tape of the band's best songs, or like a radio station that plays only favorite bands songs in all the wrong order. It drives the Wombury crazy. He hates change, which is why it angered so much when his mother cut and permed her hair back in 1983. The order of tracks on an album is important to good bands. Good bands deliberate for hours on end about the best possible sequence. It's nearly impossible for me to listen to "Jesus, etc." without first hearing "War on War,". So, back in 2004 the Wombury announced he was giving up Rock Concerts in favor of more satisfying genres like Jazz or Symphonies. Pure improvisation or Pure Composition. Nothing else. The perfect show, he said, back in 2004, would be for a band to play an album live, like Phish use to do (but they covered other bands' albums), from beginning to end. This was like a crusade of mine. Rock Concerts suck, anyone who says otherwise is stupid.

Somehow the Gods of Rock have smiled upon me, and presented me with the ultimate experience. My favorite band playing five nights in a row, playing their entire catalogue, one album per night. Just sit with that awesomeness for a second. Sit with it. Play with it. Tickle it under the chin and make cooing noises at it. Take the awesomeness, put it a greased pan and bake into an awesomeness cake.

So, in ten minutes the scramble will begin online for tickets. Right now we have a solid strategy to score tickets for each night. We have a posse. There's Wilco fan extraordinaire, E, from Madison, her brother P, the Wombury and Mlevy. Each person gets a different night, four tickets apiece.

Let the games begin. And yes, I know this is a boring post. Give me a free pass. Bedgaro is back in town and we were up late having dinner in Queens of all places.

And now for a picture of a woman from Iowa,

(You have nothing to worry about, other than you)

Until then,

The Wombury

The Wombury Tries to Move On, Literally

Hello Dear Breeders,

Craziest thing happened to the Wombury today. I'm standing at the corner of Myrtle and Flatbush in Brooklyn, in a part of Brooklyn I rarely frequent, on my way to get the results of my TB shot. The time is, I don't know, 2:15 pm, and as I'm standing on the curb I debate whether or not to cross the street. It wasn't the Wombury's right of way, but the traffic light was stalling, so crossing in front of the cars was feasible. Typical me, I held back. Well who should take the right turn onto Flatbush, right in front of me, but N. No kidding. As soon as the familiar dented and scratched rear-end bumper made it's appearance, I knew it was N's car.

How strange and amazing is coincidence? There was just enough coincidence involved to bring the Wombury within a hair's breadth of seeing N for the first time in over a month, but not enough coincidence to make legitimate eye contact. Not to mention that this was exactly the scenario the Wombury stated publicly he dreamt about, which is something that didn't dawn on him at the time. Eerie, in a way. Then again, that's the Wombury's existential torment: all of his dark dreams come true, but none of his exquisite fantasies.

So the Wombury whipped out his cell phone and called N, under the impression that a cell phone call would act as an invisible lasso to pull the car back to the aforementioned intersection. The human mind is a thing of wonder. Anyway, there was a brief phone call. Polite, pleasant, neutral talk about holiday shopping and weather and traffic. It was fine, in a neutral sort of way.

There was another layer of twinged regret in not seeing N. He's moving on, literally, to another apartment and borough by the end of the month. The likely candidates for his new location are the Bronx, Harlem, and the Upper West Side. The Bronx is the most intriguing. On the one hand it's the Bronx. On the other hand it's 600 dollars a month. On the other hand the borough feels totally isolated from Manhattan, even thought its ten minutes away, because it has almost none of the hyperactivity of Manhattan. On the other hand it's ten minutes from work. On the other hand, you wonder about the Weekends, Saturday nights, being so far from Brooklyn. On the other hand, Fort Greene is poisoned for me. On the other hand, the Bronx has none of Brooklyn's transplanted-midwestern charm. On the other hand, the Bronx has none of Brooklyn's transplanted-midwestern annoyance, and besides, it's kind of cool to be a white dude living in the Bronx. It's like being Daniel Boone. Without the slaughtering of innocent of Native Americans on the frontier. (But then again, why were the N.A.s so stubborn about claiming it as "theirs"?).

Ultimately, the Bronx works for the Wombury. It's the perfect place for him to edit his masterpiece. Furthermore, deep down inside, the Wombury has a love-hate relationship with white people, Park Slope, Fort Greene, and Manhattan. Part of him sort doesn't like one aspect of how "cute" and "awesome" and "hip" all those places are. It's like boot camp for people moving up the social ladder, (or Montclair, NJ, whichever comes first). Deep inside, the Wombury's favorite neighborhood of all-time is his Aunt Margaret's neighborhood in Sioux City, IA, and the Bronx is the most Sioux City-esque of the five boroughs, filled with Working class, salt-of-the-earth families. Not Montclair Families with Volvos and a hard-on for Panera Bread (and yes, I've had Panera. Someday I plan on buying the joint-issued, Panera designed Volvo Sandwich Wagon). The point is not to disparage Montclair, but that all things considered, there is a pretty decent chance, barring mathematically-bizarre coincidences like today, that the Wombury may not see N in the foreseeable future.

And now for a picture of men from Uzbekistan.

(How many roads must a man walk before his hemorrhoids start to burn? Just ask Brian Edgar)

Until then,

The Wombury

The Wombury Has a Dream

Hello Dear Breeders,

Last night the Wombury had a dream about N. When he awoke he asked himself what might have prompted such torment from his unmerciful unconscious mind. He concluded that it stems from last night's activities, which included a first-peek at the footage from the Wombury's travels with Bob. That's right, Bob and the Wombury re-united for the first time since parting ways on David and Elizabeth's farm back in mid-October, nearly two months. We met in the Park Slope apartment with two editors who were interested in looking at the footage.

They seemed to like the stories and the footage, but said more groundwork needs to be done before they would consider tackling the project. They said it was mandatory that the Wombury sit down with the footage, all 60 hours, watch it, and write a script based on the larger themes. Well, it's already clear what this piece is about. It's about a quest for the true meaning of freedom and commitment undertaken by someone who is being consumed by his inability to choose either one. Bob is the Jiminy Cricket who attempts to pull me back from the edge. In the end, the Wombury returns to where he started, in the Bronx, sadder but wiser.

The task is to find any and all footage that fits this story-line description. which will be a time-consuming project, but worthy nonetheless. The real question is the emotional toll it will take on the Wombury as he is forced to confront repeatedly this rather slow, painful disintegration on film day after day. Not that all the footage is depressing, far from it. There's a recurring joke about donating sperm in case I die before the movie is finished. At one point I'm convinced Bob and I are going to be kidnapped by a 19 year old hippie named Lucas. Lucas plays saxaphone on the street for spare change, which endears him to Bob but frightens me. As we wait for Lucas to give us a lift I get all worked up. I'm worried they'll make Bob do something horrible, like tie me up and cut my "boyz" off. I ask Bob on camera if he's going to do the deed. Bob says he would but he promises to keep my boys in a warm glass of water. Keeps the sperm alive longer. It's a pretty funny scene.

And so the Wombury had his dream. In his dream the neighborhood was bright with sunshine. The Wombury's friends burst into his house to inform him they had just seen N with "Jules." The Wombury was curious. He had never seen "Jules" nor had he ever seen N with someone else. He stepped out into the sunshine to have a look, but she disappeared. The Wombury asked his friends if she looked happy. His friends said they could not see her face, but that she skipped as she went to meet "Jules." The Wombury thought about N skipping to meet "Jules." She must be happy, he thought. It'd been awhile since she skipped for him.

And now, since the last two posts have been somewhat somber in tone, the Wombury presents a picture of somebody from another country,

Until then,

The Wombury

The Wombury Says Goodbye

Hello,

Some loyal readers have been writing the Wombury for more information on the saga of his relationship with N. I've thought long and hard about what to put into words and what to omit. In truth, the Wombury's quest to reignite his relationship ended in disappointment. In an earlier post I compared the Wombury's and N's situation to Jules et Jim, the french film about two men competing for the same woman. It wasn't an accurate comparison since Jules knew about Jim and Jim knew about Jules. In the case of the Wombury, the Wombury knew about "Jules", but "Jules" didn't know about the Wombury. Upon further reflection, perhaps Leonard Cohen's Famous Blue Raincoat is a more apt comparison. At any rate, the Wombury is no longer in the picture, it is only "Jules."

It's incredibly difficult to conceive of a life without N. It's more difficult to remember how many opportunities the Wombury had to solidify his relationship with N, to even make her "Mrs. Wombury" for life, and how he squandered all of those moments for...well, it's hard to remember for what treasures he sold his true feelings, but what is clear is how the Wombury paid dearly for what now seems nothing more than a pocket full of baubles. N has told the Wombury several times that she wants to be with someone who treats her well, someone who will be there no matter what or when. Unfortunately, the Wombury cannot claim he was always that man; and she stopped believing his promises that he could become him.

It is probably better to not dwell on such thoughts, but what man in the Wombury's shoes hasn't? In truth, the real danger to the heart isn't found in memories of enmity or regret; the true peril lies in the memory of those tiny delicate throwaway moments that passed blithely between the Wombury and his lady, whether they were a stolen morning caress in the kitchen, or a terrifically lurid session of holding hands, often as a way to keep each other warm while strolling around Brooklyn; or more troublesome yet, the memories of the way she would sweep her locks of hair up in a gaggle of barrettes while mugging innocently for the mirror. Tender memories like those can keep a man, even one as enamored of flight as the Wombury, shackled to his thoughts.

So while the Wombury will most likely continue to nurse that last bit of dying hope, as so many fools before him have, that his lady will come back to him someday, he knows that the only logical recourse is to move on, to let things be, to keep to keep his feet moving, to keep marching, rain or shine, in this silly parade we call existence.

Until then,

The Wombury

The Wombury Returns

Hello Dear Breeders,

Oy Vey! What a week it's been for the muthafuckin' Wombury! Let me start by apologizing for the lack of posts. The Wombury's trusty Macbook went on the fritz, making it nearly impossible to write. Secondly, the Wombury's existence has fallen into a vortex of personal and professional obligations, and no, I'm not referring to my previous life as a male escort to the stars. I'm talking about waiting for three hours at the Flatbush branch of the Department of Health to receive TB shot. Why is it that all public departments feature the same combination of poor customer service and bad flourescent lighting? Anyway, I was told I have a large vein three times by the nurse in charge of extracting my precious blood, a compliment the Wombury took in stride. The funny part of the experience came during a question and answer period. One of the required questions was, "Have you been depressed in the last month?" The Wombury's spirits lifted immediately. "Why yes I have? Can we talk about it?" We could. So we did. The Wombury and the nurse discussed all the ways relationships fall apart and their impact on the human psyche; then she put a needle in my arm and I nearly fainted.

You're probably saying, "Sweet Melissa, Wombury, with all the hubbub in your life, how do you still manage to be so devilishly attractive?" It's not easy, kiddies, it's not easy.

On the job front, the Tour-Guide job is dead to me. My old school up in the Bronx has made me a very attractive offer that promises security, benefits, a good schedule, and nice pay. In short, the good folk of Bronx Letters are willing to make sure the Wombury has both time and money. Who doesn't want more of those two things?


And now for a photograph of woman from Fiji.

(There is nothing without, there is only within. I should've made you breakfast more often.)

Until then,

The Wombury

The Wombury's Worst Jobs

Hello Dear Breeders,

The Wombury here. Just finished reading about Presidential Candidates' worst jobs from their past. Hillary gut fish, Mitt cut sewage pipe, Ron Paul was a pirate on the high seas. The Wombury had some pretty crappy jobs back in the day. Dishwasher, floor scrubber, telemarketer, political canvasser, New York City tour guide. Today, in fact, the Wombury is heading out to get TB shot from a free clinic in Brooklyn in order to get a substitute's license. For the next three weeks the Wombury is going to be the 6th grade art teacher at the Bronx Academy of Letters. He also gets to be a guest lecturer for the 11th graders who are reading Walden. How nice. Then in January he will become the 11th grade math teacher for two weeks. Good stuff for the Wombury.

And now for you daily photograph of somebody from another country. Today's country is the Philippines.

(Honey, I miss you, come back to me. I'll be a good boy.)

Until Then,

The Wombury

What's the Deal, Wombury, Why You So Cute?

Hello Deer Breeders,

The Wombury is heading to the Bronx to set up shop as the new substitute teacher. Tomorrow it's a long day traipsing through the halls of the Department of Education. Things are pretty busy for the old Wombury these days. It's the holiday season. The Wombury has to buy gifts and care about people. On top of that he has to worry about the falling US Dollar, Chinese manufacturer's, Buddhist principles of detachment, his narrative documentary, Iran's disconcerting alliance with Venezuela, his recently infected pinkie finger, the price of oil, the volatile stock market, his smoking habit, his not running habit.

So I'm trying to promote this blog, so I joined this website.

And now for a picture of a Scandinavian couple.

(True love is only possible once you realize there is no such as true love)

Until then,

The Wombury

The Wombury Updates

The Wombury is in Park Slope, Brooklyn, where the baby carriages roam wide and free, and the shops are clean, and the teeth are straight, the lesbians are everywhere.

Work update: The Wombury will be looking to pick up work at his old job at Gray Line tours. Unfortunately, people don't like to sit on the top level of Double Decker buses in 30 degree weather, so the pickings are slim. The good news is that the Wombury's old school want him to sub-work, which is cool beans. Also, the Wombury is applying for food stamps to help reduce the cost of living.

As for our project, we're meeting with editors to see if collaboration is a possibility.

and now for a picture of Croatians.

(people of the bottle)

And in other news, alert readers Sarah U. and John Glaza sent this news-worthy item in, just this past week.

These are actual comments made on students' report cards by teachers in the New York City public school system. All teachers were reprimanded but, boy, are these funny!!!

1. Since my last report, your child has reached rock bottom and has started to dig.
2. I would not allow this student to breed.
3. Your child has delusions of adequacy.
4. Your son is depriving a village somewhere of an idiot.
5. Your son sets low personal standards and then consistently fails to achieve them.
6. The student has a "full six-pack" but lacks the plastic thing to hold it all together.
7. This child has been working with glue too much.
8. When your daughter's IQ reaches 50, she should sell.
9. The gates are down, the lights are flashing, but the train isn't coming.
10. If this student were any more stupid, he'd have to be watered twice a week.
11. It's impossible to believe the sperm that created this child beat out 1,000,000 others.
12. The wheel is turning but the hamster is definitely dead.


Until then,

The Wombury

The Wombury Updates Stuff.

Hello Deer Breeders,

The Wombury here with a few updates. Writing from my parent's "home office" in Sioux City, Iowa, on this blustery, bone-chilling, ball-shrinking day.

As some of you may know, today is the Wombury's 30th birthday. Oh joy. Let the crippling anxiety begin! The Wombury will pass up the opportunity to reflect on the first 30 years of his life, as such ruminations tend to produce massive bouts of self-pity, drinking, and illegal nudity.

One of the rituals associated with the Wombury's birthday is butting heads with Ma Wombury's choice of gifts. In years past the Wombury has chafed at the knowledge that Ma Wombury will most likely be giving him a sweater from JC Penney's clearance rack. This year, however, she gave him a five-piece luggage set, which was very much needed, and a book. A special kind of book we call Self-Help. The book is called, (drum roll), Worry.

Thanks. The book is about worrying. I just took the "How much of Worrier are You!" 50 question quiz found on page 78. Here's an example of a question. A "Yes" is three points, a "No" is 0 points.


44. Do you lose perspective easily, worrying over some relatively minor matter as if it were a major concern?

32. Are you insecure?

97. Are you worried that being unemployed, aimless, spiritually and financially broke is a problem? No? That's interesting. Have you considered the stress this places on your parents? Your friends, or any one who cares about you? Probably not considering you're a self-centered prick. Oh, you do care? Oh, you're upset about the way things have gone in your life thus far? Wow. That is special. Welcome to adulthood.

Here is the scoring scale.

0-25 Low. You are not an excessive worrier.


26-75 Potential Danger Zone. You may have some tendencies toward worry that this book can help you with.

76-150 Danger Zone. If you worry this much, consider consulting a professional. This much worry is not good for you physically, emotionally, or spiritually, and it can impair your life at home, at work, and especially when you're by yourself. The only person who has willing entered the Danger Zone is Kenny Loggins, back in 1986. (maybe that last part was added)

The Wombury's score? 135. Egads, people! It's me and Kenny Loggins!

So, I need professional help? Who doesn't? But no help will be forthcoming until the Wombury gets back to New York City in three days. First it's off to Iowa City, IA. Then it's Springfield, IL, then it's Chicago. Then it's New York.

Until then,

The Wombury

The Traveling Wombury Says Goodbye to the Farm and Colorado

Well okay, Colorado; it's so long and farewell, the Wombury has to keep on keepin' on. Goodbye to Cousin Tyler, Ali, David, Elizabeth, and George. He's packed the bags, made the bed, wiped the counters, washed the dishes, and scrubbed the floors. There were hugs and soggy good-byes. The only thing left to do was to write a posting.

The Wombury heads back to the mother-country of Sioux City, Iowa. From there he will wend his way to Springfield to bid a merry x-mas to his Gramma Clarke, then up to Chicago and off to New York City. I'm coming home via Chicago. How nice is that?

See, dear readers, the Wombury has his story now-he got what he came for, so now he can go home.

Until then,

The Traveling Wombury

The Wombury Watches a Movie

I'm watching Dr. Zhivago today. It's all about the Russian Revolution. I'm only about an hour into the movie, to the beginning of World War I, three years before the Revolution begins. The narrator (Alec Guinness), has just explained to the audience that from the conventional Bourgeoisie point of view, the war is between Germany and Russia but from the Bolshevik point of view it is between the German upper classes and the Russian upper classes. The Bolsheviks instructed ol' Alec to enlist in order to sabotage the war effort. Why would the Bolsheviks want to lose? Because a loss in the Great War abroad would mean victory at home for the Bolsheviks. The peasants who comprised the bulk of the army would turn against the command and revolt once the supplies ran out. This is historically accurate, by the way. The Wombury got something out of teaching world history for two years.

The thing is, there hasn't been much face time for the character of Dr. Zhivago. We know he's a doctor (very good work detective) and a poet and he just got engaged and he hates this sleazy dude (Rod Steiger) who was his father's executor of will and who callously discarded Lara (Julie Christie). He's sympathetic to the Revolutionaries as he is sympathetic to the downtrodden in general.

So here's the existential aspect role-playing aspect of viewing Dr. Zhivago, or any movie for that matter. You ask yourself: what character would I be? What choices would I make? What would the feckin' Wombury do? Would he be like Pasha and join the Revolution? Would he be like Yuri, or the Rich Dude? So many choices. What would Jesus do? Would Jesus join the Revolution? Would he be a healer like Yuri?

If you say "no" you're a Republican. Republicans don't understand Jesus, but liberals don't understand Christianity. Didn't Jesus say, "As you do to the least among us, you do to me."

There are no Revolutions without Jesus,

Until Then,

The Wombury

Thanksgiving Day

(Don't you look sweet, smiling like that? I'll be smiling too after I eat your marbled loins.)

Hello Dear Readers,

There's a lot on my mind on this blustery snowy morning in Colorado. Snow has blanketed the land for as far as the eye can see, and the mountains, normally visible, are shrouded behind an impenetrable veil of total whiteness. Later today David and Elizabeth are leaving for Buena Vista, a town 150 miles up in the Rockies. Once again, the Wombury will find himself alone on the farm, and we know what happened last time. Quick, get the boy his meds! Wellbutrin, Paxil, Where are you? Oh my heavens, jokes about psychotropic drugs never get old, do they? Now, now, hold on, I know what you're saying. You're saying, hey Wombury, having a pharmaceutical condition is no laughing matter. You're right, you, it's not. Unless you need Cialis.

But tomorrow all will be well. The Wombury is heading to Cousin Tyler's for the Thanksgiving, where he will break bread with Cousin Tyler and little Alison and the neighbors Tom and Marsha. For the main feast Cousin Tyler is preparing the Pheasant we whacked on Saturday. Four of them. The only drawback looming on the horizon is the slightly unpleasant notion that the Wombury is on Cousin Tyler's Shit List. What? How did that happen, you ask, knowing the Wombury is not one known for getting on other's Lists of Dung.

Well, it's simple really. Remember George? The guy who was deeply disappointed in the Wombury's unannounced escapade to NYC? Well, on Monday morning George extended the olive branch to the Wombury by inviting him to Thanksgiving Dinner. The Wombury genuinely appreciated the fine peacemaking gesture on the part of trusty ol' George, but respectfully declined as he is wont to do. But then George got to describing the tasty vittles that would be on the menu. There would be turkey, of course, squash from the garden, and lamb. Freshly butchered lamb, a meat near and dear to the Wombury's heart and stomach. (As you may know, the blood of the Arabian Peoples-they invented the Lamb-and the number zero-runs through the Wombury's veins, and as such it carries a deep and abiding affection for the rich taste of baby sheep).

Just hearing the word Lamb spurred the Wombury's fevered brain into action, resulting in this thought: what if Tyler and Alison came to the farm? One big happy Thanksgiving feast!

First the Wombury sent an email to Cousin Tyler, a well-written missive describing the bountiful pleasures of sharing Thanksgiving Day with George, complete with the caveat that Alison would have a playmate in Olivia, George's quasi-offspring. Then the Wombury phoned up George to ask permission to invite Cousin Tyler and little Alison. George said he had twelve coming to the table. Then he asked me how old Alison was. Little Alison is a six-year-old, George. George said, huh. Same age as Olivia. Sounded pleased to think he could make his lady Kim happy by making Olivia happy. Everyone seemed to be lining up for the happy dance. George said he'd call me back, but that something could surely be worked out.

Except it couldn't. Cousin Tyler sent me a one-sentence reply two hours later. If I would rather stay on the farm that was cool; he just preferred to stay at his own place. Oh boy. The Wombury should've known better. Cousin Tyler is a Papa bear and his home is his cave, his lair. Papa Bears leave their caves for two reasons only, to find food and to find Mama Bears. Papa Bears don't travel to farms for Thanksgiving. Not only that, but it was clear Cousin Tyler doubted the Wombury's desire to spend Thanksgiving with him. But the Wombury just wanted Lamb. It wasn't his fault, he didn't make himself be descended from the Peoples of the Fertile Crescent. That was the Wombury's Mother and Father's fault. His Mick dad could've mated with someone less likely to pass on a craving for slaughtered Ewe babies, someone Japanese or Swedish.

Suddenly his predilection for all things sheep felt less like a blessing and more like a curse. But the Wombury couldn't tell Cousin Tyler the truth, the truth that he was willing to rock the boat of Family Harmony for a well roasted piece of lamb flesh, however tender and delicious it most likely will be.

And of course, two hours later George calls back with the good news that he and Kim would just love to invite Cousin Tyler and Little Ali to dinner. Oh really, George, that's terrific, the Wombury is totally thrilled, can't wait to ask Cousin Tyler. The Wombury pretended he had to run the idea by Cousin Tyler, and called George back ten minutes later to inform him Tyler couldn't make it. The day ended with plans being exactly as they were that morning, only now George and Tyler are sore at the Wombury, put out with the Wombury. Can you believe it, dear readers? This is what it is to be me.

Until Then,

The W.

The Wombury Responds to a Complaint

(Have you ever been to Africa?)

Did you know the Wombury was a DJ at two different periods in his life? It's true. In college he trained to be a Wedding DJ for three months, which is 2 months and 2 weeks too long, before finally having the reins turned over to him in April of 1999. His first and only gig was held on the outskirts of Madison in the basement of a small Catholic church. The results were disastrous from the standpoint of everyone involved. The bride was in tears, which made the father of the bride furious, and the groom wouldn't look the Wombury in the face. For nearly 5 years the memory of the Wedding DJ Disaster haunted the Wombury, post-traumatic images of angry wedding guests seared on his mind's eye. His friends tried to placate him, even going so far as to hire Robin Williams to recreate his role as Dr. Sean for one personal therapy session. "It's not your fault, it's not your fault, it's not your fault."

It wasn't until the summer of 2004, the Wombury's first summer at a school called Bread Loaf, that he dared to touch the mixing board once more. Once more to the lighthouse, I say. What? Whatever, no one likes you. See, Bread Loaf is like a mating camp for English teachers, mostly from boarding school. As a teacher, you spend nine months working with children of various ages and rarely see other adults. Relationships are difficult. Enter the 'Loaf. 6 weeks in the verdant pastures of Vermont, stuck on a mountainside, and plenty of free alcohol. Every Saturday night there is a barn dance held, literally, in a fuckin' barn, complete with two kegs of Otter's Creek beer. It was customary to ask a student to DJ at least three of the six dances. So they asked the Wombury. He was a presence okay? Someone to reckon with in those days, okay? Lay off, you don't know me. I'm taking boxing lessons; I'll punch you in the neck.

So I DJ-ed. It was a success. Here's what I learned. To entertain people, to get them to dance, you have to suspend judgment and personal preference. Put the crowd first. I understood the crowd because I went to school with them, was familiar with their backgrounds. That's the Wombury's thing you know? He generalizes what people like to listen to based on who they are, and generalizes who people are based on what they like to listen to. I knew the formula. Input: Northeastern Boarding School English Teachers. Output: My Sharona, Like a Virgin, It's the End of the World, Bust a Groove, Baby Got Back, Hey Ya', and finish the night with Sweet Child of Mine and everyone goes away with a smile on their face, a buzz in their ears, and sweet lovin' on their mind.

Did I like the music I played? No. But is the Wombury about to play Wilco and John Coltrane at the Barn Dance? No, he is not. In fact, when another student DJ insisted on imposing his love of early 70s funk on the hapless crowd of Boarding School Teachers it truly pissed off the Wombury. What are you doin', dude? No one's dancing for a reason. Give the people what they want.

Okay, so what's the moral of the story? Well, some readers have asked me not to write about things like Resistance, the Underground, or Consumption. The posts aren't interesting, he's told. They have a point. No denying it. The Wombury sees merit in the complaint that he's alienating his reader base. It was all fun and games and laughter and now he's talking about the Buddha and the economy. Nobody wants to read about about Buddha and the economy, and what's the point of the blog if one reads it, right?

I think it comes back to DJ-ing, but instead of playing songs, I'm telling stories. The Wombury doesn't have the option of dishing up the obviously big tasty servings of Madonna and REM and Billy Joel and AC/DC so everyone will go on having a good time. He's got to go further. Now it's time to explain why the less obviously tasty bands like Wilco are delicious too, even if they're not so popular and why Wilco is worth listening to even if takes patience to realize that.

Is that a confusing and lazy analogy? Maybe. I like Wilco, though, so I really don't care if the message is lost. Is it lost? Please no. Mommy.

Until then,

The Wombury

The Wombury Get Serious About Economics and Buddha

(This is Buddha. He's dreamy. So are you. Give me a call sometime. I'm kidding. No I'm not.)

Hello Dear Readers,

You're probably sick of this string of posts by now, I imagine. Maybe you saying, What happened to funny stories about going to the Gym in underwear and black socks? These posts sound like the Wombury is taking himself seriously. Don't worry. I'm still an asshole with the emotional maturity of a child. But if I'm ever going to finish this book I need to wrestle with these ideas, either with myself or with other people. Right now the only person who will wrestle with me is a 65 year-old doctor who runs marathons. And BrettFavre. Where, oh, where are you BFMP? You stop by, tease us with your intelligence and then split? I'll keep a light on waiting for you to come back.

So Elizabeth and I are talking at the breakfast table, having our coffee. We're discussing the economy. Society. Elizabeth is an investor. A savvy investor, and she's rewarded for it handsomely. I know because I had to file her papers for two hours. She has connections. These connections tell her a recession is 1-2 years off. Now the Republicans who read this will scoff because Republicans are naturally very patriotic about America and America is all about Economic Power. So telling Republicans that America's economy is slowing down, weakening, even, is like telling some macho dude he can't get it up anymore. What, they say, the market isn't up? Who told you? That's not true. It's always up. ALWAYS.

But here's the deal. The writing is on the wall. The Wombury reads it. And the Wombury is not happy about this. The Wombury has NO JOB. All he has is his opinions. Regardless, it's important to know what the hell is going on out there on the Street, so the Wombury listens.

And here's what the smart dudes are saying. We are a "consumer-based" economy. No argument from the Wombury. As long as the dude down the street has a job and and is willing and able to spend his hard-earned dollar to buy cars, sunglasses, and homes then shit is copacetic. Again, this is ringing true. Buying stuff is good. Especially homes. It takes a lot of people and material to build a home. The more homes built the more wealth and jobs are created. Win-win.

But look what happened. A bunch of predatory lending cocksuckers got a little too greedy and scared and lied to Joe Schmo about the cost of homes. Made them seem affordable. They weren't. Joe Schmo defaults on the mortgage. Bank takes house. The system is hurt. The system is cut. The cut doesn' t heal. The it gets infected, and now the smart dudes are saying the infection is spreading. Now we have a national situation where thousands of Joe Schmos and even a few Middle Class Miltons are losing their number one economic asset-their homes. Pretty soon they stop spending as much money. Hold those dollars closer to the vest. Maybe this X-mas the wife doesn't get that fur coat and junior only gets one video game and no X-box. More people lose their jobs, and the economic forecast isn't sunny, get ready for some recessional rain. Are we on the same page? Has the Wombury ignored some exceptionally hard-core fact that unravels the thread? If not, let's keep talking.

See, there's something about all this Consumer Economy that doesn't sit right with the Wombury. It's a riddle wrapped in puzzle surrounded by Goat Cheese.

Take a moment and consider all the warm and fuzzy Buddhism you remember from school. Remember the part about unhappiness and desire? Desire is never-ending. You'll never have enough because you'll always want more. (Jesus sort of said the same thing. The only difference is that he set himself up as the one acceptable thing to want). Okay, let's assume the motherfucking Enlightened One is correct. Consumption will never make us happy. Granted. But on the other hand, we also know that struggling for food and survival severely handicaps any chance of experiencing self-actualization. What's a poor boy to do?

So, we know buying shit in and of itself will never make us spiritually happy, but without buying shit we'll never have the jobs that are a necessary pre-requisite for survival. People who sell us crap know this true, so they work very diligently to convince us otherwise.

That's all for now. For our next post we'll consider how we got into this mess.

The Wombury Responds to a Reader

(Drink the Kool-Aid)

It's Sunday morning: the Weekend is coming to a close. I went away, as the Wombury is wont to do, gallivanting around, off on another one of my zany adventures, which is merely part of my ongoing quest to understand the underlying nature of this inexorable march toward death we call life. This time my quest took me 130 miles east of Denver to Laybourn Farms. Actually Cousin Tyler's pick up truck ferried us (two friends of Tyler, Kevin and Roger accompanied us, along with Kevin's lady friend Christine) to Laybourn farms, where we spent the day hunting pheasants. Out of the 10 "planted" for us, we "harvested" 4. So see, it isn't senseless, gratuitous destruction of God's creatures-it's Harvesting. Harvesting is good. Americans harvest amber waves of grain, corn, sometimes internal organs if you believe the one about the guy who partied in Las Vegas, which you don't because your smart.

When I returned from Hunting I checked the blog and read a very intelligent critique of some recent postings, to which I thought I would respond.

In recent postings, the Wombury attempted to clarify a few things. What is the Grid, what is Off the Grid, what is the central question at the heart of his quest. One blog featured a minor epiphany regarding the desire to seek out the underground (examples of major epiphanies: Exile on Main Street is better than Abbey Road; You're not that Special; I'm Ruggedly Handsome). Once detailing my desire to know the identity, if one exists, of the Underground Resistance, I considered what the Underground would Resist against. And while I refrained from going so far as to name it, I did imply there was in fact something out there happening.

BrettFavreandtheMerryPackers responded by saying my language was "lazy" and "confused," which is appropos since those adjectives also apply to my personality. I was asked to clarify if "Revolution" or the "Underground, " is the prize I seek. I was told that the Revolution against myself is the True Revolution.

I'll be the first to admit that my pre-occupation with the idea of "Resistance" and the "Underground" contain hints of personal struggles. The opposite of Resistance is Commitment. We can commit ourselves or be committed, as in my friends and family recently had me committed to Bellvue's psych ward. The monks from St. Isaac's commit their lives and chastity to the monastery. Men and women commit to each other in marriage. I'm intrigued by anyone who commits to anything. I think commitment makes us larger than ourselves, but ultimately there's an article of faith involved, a placebo effect, if you will, regarding the ameliorating consequences of committing for commitment's sake. Just make a choice and stick with it.

I've never committed to anything. Why would I? Once "God is dead" what's the point? It's all shit we invent to make ourselves feel better. Once I left Catholic school I lost my faith in Catholicism. Catholicism was important to me because it provided a useful guideline for action and behavior. Also, I rejected a call to the Priesthood. Couldn't stomach the idea of living without family. Who would want to live in a world bereft of Wombury Juniors scampering about?

In other words, if I may be so bold to impose a narrative on the past, since I've been 18 years old I've struggled to fill the "God-shaped Hole" with an viable substitute. For a few years it was Judaism, then it was teaching, then it was piano lessons, then it was theater, then it was Bread Loaf, then it was comedy, then it was a mate, then it was this project. Do I really believe there is no point to commitment? No. Do I believe that true meaning can be found outside of ourselves? No, I don't. If you ever have a cup of coffee with the Wombury he will sit with you and tell you how commitment isn't a prison, it's a path. The Wombury will dispense wisdom with the best of them, dear readers.

Let me finish this post by sharing a ongoing habit of the Wombury. Over the years I've been fascinated by the idea of worship and losing oneself in the act of worship. What does it feel like? Is it real? So, whenever the Wombury takes in a movie or attends a religious service he likes to turn and watch the audience or the congregation as they watch or worship. Something inside the Wombury won't surrender his being. Something inside keeps resisting, and he's resisting out of faith, faith that he'll stop resisting when the time is right. Someday he'll drink the kool-aid. What's he waiting for?

Until Then,

The Wombury

The Wombury Offers Up A Few Ideas on Resistance

Maybe you've noticed, or maybe you're too preoccupied with financial algorithms, but in recent posts I've been discussing the nature of Off the Grid communities, looking for the "underground" and the general state of Affairs of the world. If you haven't already, stop what you're doing and catch up on the entries (if not to read the past blogs then to save yourself the embarrassment of doing that).

For this post, the Wombury considers the connection between Off the Grid communities and resistance.

Let's start with the idea of a resistance movement.

Is there are resistance movement in America? Should there be? Could there be?

A resistance movement is not something most would associate with America. When I think of Resistance Movements I think of the Free French Forces of World War II, commanded by Charles de Gaulle, and the Rebel Alliance, commanded by Mon Motha and Admiral Ackbar. Charles de Gaulle resisted the Nazis, while the Rebel Alliance resisted Darth Vader and the Evil Galactic Empire. With apologies to Hitler and Darth Vader, Lord of the Sith I think we can all agree Hitler and Darth Vader are good reasons to resistance, rebel, and revolt.

In America, the source of irritation and political agitation is more difficult to pin down. On the surface it appears there are NO reasons to resist, rebel, and revolt. We have constitutional freedoms (no snickering about unwarranted wire taps/the Patriotic Act/Income Tax), as well as financial and social freedoms. So what could cause resistance?

Until Then,

The Wombury

The Wombury Underground

Finally! I get it! Hallelujah! Clarity. I have clarity of vision. Sweet Jumping Ju Ju Bees. (spelling?)

Here's the deal. I'm starting to understand what I was looking for on our trip out to the Anarchists, the Monastery, the Radical Faeries. I'm looking for the "underground", the "Revolution." Is that crazy? Maybe. But here's my central, driving question: is there an extant, organized, viable "underground"? If so, what does it look like? Where is it? If there isn't an underground, why not?

In a way, the communities we visited contain elements of what we think of, or imagine the underground would be. The same with all the communities in the directory (link on the front page). Many of the people we saw seem like they were extras on from the Zion Rave scene from the Matrix Reloaded. Especially Dreamtime Village. The catch is, no one would ever cop to being a part of the underground, or even admitted the underground existed. Then again, that cold be a caveat of joining the underground: you don't talk about the underground.

Basically, I'm looking for the earthly equivalent of Morpheus, Neo, and Trinity.

So, if you know where the underground is, or where Zion is, please tell me.

Until then,

The Wombury

Morpheus

Angry Me, Happy Me

(Is there a shittier band than Matchbox 20? I submit there is not.)

This is Angry Me. Why is the Wombury angry you ask, in between sips of your cheap rotgut? Because he wants the proud legions of Wombury readers to step up to the plate, buckle down, and get serious about stuff. I have no idea what I'm talking about. Really I just wanted to post this photograph of Cousin Tyler's Meat Drawer.

(I was good at my multiplication tables in the third grade. Beat that Alison.)

This is Happy Me. This photo is how the Wombury feels when the Proud Legions stand up and get serious about stuff. This is how the Wombury will feel once the donations start pouring in, along with a pay check for stuff. Also, there's a cute kid and a kitten next to him. This photo is going to be my Season's Greeting Card, and it was brought you by Cousin Tyler's kid, Ali. Resist this cuteness, I dare you.


So what's the lesson here? It's simple. We need to get serious about stuff.

Until then,

The Wombury

What the Hell is Off the Grid?

I think it's time we get down to brass tacks, DAMMIT. We need to discuss What Off the Grid means.

Enough of this bullshit about what's going in with my personal life. Although, I must tell you that The Wombury is proving to be a bit more handy than you would think. With no small help from me, we've managed to nearly complete the Solid Basic Home Fitness Gym. Elizabeth said I have a gift for seeing three-dimensional space. Wait a second. Huh. All humans visualize in three dimensions. Elizabeth complimented me on the fact that I have human vision.

Anywho, where were we? Ah, yes, Off the Grid communities. A lot of people who read this blog have no idea what an Off the Grid community or person is. This is my fault since I blab on about farmhands, boxing lessons, and lost dreams. I thought today would be a good day to do some explaining, mostly since I can't drive anywhere on account of leaving my wallet at Cousin Tyler's place, so I posted a link to an intentional community directory.

So here's the deal. Here's what we want:


A website devoted to our project. We want to put up video clips, articles, interactive stuff, chat rooms, you name it. But I don't know how to construct a website. If you're reading this, and you know someone with technical acumen, please send me their information.

We also want information on anyone who is doing cool, weird, Off the Grid kinds of things. We want to find interesting communities that few people know about.

What are the hallmarks of the kind of communities we study?

1. Separation from the mainstream, either physically, financially, or spiritually

2. Driven by a philosophy

3. Often individual members were not born into the community

4. Often individual members take on another name

5. Often there are vows, spoken or non-spoken, that the members agree to take on in order to live in the community.

6. Often their political beliefs are an unusual mixture of left and right.


Until then,

The Wombury

Machines

I've been ordered to reassemble the home gym equipment currently lying in shambles in the garage.

When I was in kindergarten I was reprimanded on Thanksgiving Day for my poor construction of a paper pilgrim. I put the arms where the legs go and vice versa.

I'm sleepy,

The Wombury

The Aisle of 6

Let me tell you a story, dear readers. Elizabeth and I had coffee yesterday, and over coffee we were talking about changing, becoming happy, getting therapy. Elizabeth says it's about feeling secure in our identity, and that becoming secure only comes from WITHIN. She's big on the within. Nobody else can make us secure, she says. You accept who you are, take responsibility for who you are, and then you can release all the anger of the past. She told me I could go out back into the farm and release my anger if I wasn't busy later in the day. She told me the only thing I have to do is write my book.

That was yesterday right around lunch time. Re-invigorated , inspired, I decided to turn over a new leaf, put my nose to the grindstone right after watching 5 hours of season three of The Wire. I'm a junkie. I'm a blackhole of productivity and negativity. This is my identity. A graveyard for lost dreams. Is that sour way of looking at life? Right now I look like fucking Farmer John the Junkie sitting in the basement with this laptop, unshaven, unshowered, and hopelessly indecisive as a person.

Which reminds me of a story. Once, about ten years ago I was in the check-out line at a busy grocery store in Madison with my friend Praveen and he forgot to buy a bottle of salad dressing so he sent me to pick one out, my choice, and I got all proud at being given the important task by an important man, and I happily obliged, but once I got to aisle 6 my good feeling evaporated only to be replaced by sheer dread as the thought occurred to me that Praveen would form conclusions about my character based on my selection of dressing-did I value quality or price or a skillful balance of both?- and for 10 minutes I stared hopelessly at the endless variety of Hidden Valley's, Newman's Owns, and the array of vinaigrette's, french's, and russian's, and soon became totally daunted by having to decide what dressing would be the "correct" choice. So I opted to lie down the aisle and rest until Praveen found me and cursed me out.

And now I'm supposed to make decisions about career, marriage, and family? I mean the weight of the reality of my situation is really coming home to me. Really sinking into my skull. I'm living on borrowed time AND money.

Then I realize I've taking a nap since the day I finished school. Elizabeth says it's easy for us as people to examine our lives, to ask what we need; she says the hard part is the answer. It can take years to deal with the answer.

Until Then,

The Traveling Wombury

Bad News for the Project

It's Tuesday morning.

Things are back to "normal". David took me swimming this morning. Afterwards we took to the stationary bike. I didn't realize this would be part of the deal, so I didn't bring shorts, just the nut-hugger baby blue swim trunks that David gave to me. And I didn't have a t-shirt, just a wife-beater. And I didn't have proper gym socks, just black dress socks. Picture your dad, Mr. Business Man, when would get home from work and take off his suit and hang it up in the closet and he's standing in his boxers and undershirt and dress socks, and then picture your dad walking around the local gym dresed like that. And then picture all the gym regulars in stylishly matched gym outfits seeing your dad in his underwear and then you have my morning. A deranged Ward Cleaver.

Anyway, David told me there's a documentary showing in the New York Documentary Film Festival called "Off the Grid," but that the subject matter is very specific. If anyone finds out anything on the web, let the Wombury know. Also, I'm sending Bob on a mission to check it out tomorrow.

I'm going to back to the boxing gym tonight. Got some things to think about. Need to hit the heavy bags, maybe do some shadow boxing. Actually, I just need to practice punching without falling down. My balance is terrible as anyone who knows me can attest. The Wombury comes from a long line of men who have barrel chests on top of chicken legs, which is why I fell down six times during boxing lessons just trying to throw a straight right hand.

So I'm going to work on not falling down.

Until then,

The Wombury

George Ain't Happy with The Wombury

Yeah, George was pissed alright. When I went to look for him he was in a serious piece of machinery digging a serious hole in the backyard. Not sure how to approach him I opted for a joke.

"Digging a grave there, George?"

Without missing a beat, George nods at me and goes, "Yeah; yours."

Well, okay then. Then he broke it down for me.

"One second you're here, the next you're gone. You could've been dead in the mountains for all I knew."

Then he asked me if everything worked out.

Hard to say, George, hard to say. Depends on what you mean by working out.

Well, I'm nearly done sealing the grout. Got the tunes jacked up, got the Boss singing to me. Gettin' the job done. The stores carry this spray seal. Modern chemistry is a wonderful thing.

Until then,

The Wombury

Grout Seal

It's back to work today. I'm off to the hardware store to buy crap that seals the grout of the basment. I'm leery of meeting George face to face. I sort of abandoned ship last week.

Back in Lafayette

I'm back in Lafayette. 1:30 am. Need sleep.

I'm not sure how to process all of this. This feels like Time Bandits to me, like I keep falling into time-space Portals, almost accidentally, wake up in New York, fall asleep in Lafayette, rinse, dry repeat.

Until then,

The Wombury

"ELAINE!" (Remember Dustin Hoffman Pounding on the Glass of the Wedding Chapel?)

The wombury is in NYC. To quote Good Will Hunting, he came to see about a girl. But not just any girl, my girl, the girl. The only girl.

Until Then,

The Traveling Wombury

Permutations on a Theme

Tomorrow the nature of this blog will shift and expand in order to accommodate the wider scope originally intended for this blog. Writing about personal matters was not my original intention; writing about The Grid, and people Off of It. But the blog was what it was. And now I realize that writing about personal things can backfire. Not in the way that some readers of this blog hoped or predicted it would. I will remind anyone who reads this regularly or periodically that writers write what they know. They may refashion what they know into fictitious creations, but it's that's material. It's all material.

Nobody said this blog was supposed to be an exercise in happiness or a celebration of frivolity, evidence to the contrary notwithstanding. I am not Dave Barry or David Sedaris. I'm a New York City history teacher who came to Colorado to become reacquainted with the inner workings of his body, mind, and spirit. These blogs can only be testament and witness to that metamorphosis, if one should occur. What lies at the other end I cannot say. My hope is to have a body, mind, and spirit strong enough to live out what my conscience dictates is right and true.

Many people have asked me what my book is about. It's about Power. It's about the Power of the almighty Dollar as well as the Power of those who refuse to spend it. It's about how individuals can find power in community and communities find power in individuals. It's about addiction in all of its permutations. Buying and Spending are addictions. There is a fine line between habit and addiction. We are not addicted to oil, as the President said, we are addicted to our TVs, our cars, our restaurants, our camping gear, our clothes, our charities, our subscriptions, our prescriptions..

There are as many points of view on the nature of power as people living. My parents feel power comes from a cross and the carpenter hanging on it. Chairman Mao said power is at the end of the barrel of a gun. Michel Foucault said power is everywhere. Cops and Robbers, Cowboys and Indians, the State and the Individual. There's power everywhere. I suspect Joan Didion was closest to the truth when she said power is self-respect, and self-respect never comes from anyone but the self.

Many people have questioned my motivations for quitting my job, leaving New York, traveling with Bob, and coming to Colorado. I questioned them too. What was the purpose? Was it all vanity? Maybe it's vain, if vanity means treating one's life like an art project or an experiment or financial investment or a metaphor for development and process. The Wombury's father likes to say people don't fail, they just quit before succeeding. He also wishes he was more adventurous. I talk about change and power, but like most people we meet, it frightens me. It always had. That's why stories about Puberty stick with me. Puberty is change. But there are other changes too. Childood friends no longer call or return your calls, old schools are razed to the ground, boyhood homes in disrepair, old girlfriends with new boyfriends. Our realities change, and change is a kind of death that leaves behind a ghost of memory to haunt you. I'm here to make establish a baseline of self-respect to draw upon after I leave.

So, tomorrow, this blog will expand. It will be more and more about the Grid and things On and Off of It. Some days it will be all irony and jest; but not everyday.

The only thing I want to do is tell the truth.

Until then,

The Wombury

Updates

(This is Spalding Gray being casually awesome)

The Wombury will not be posting for a few days. Tonight he heads to Tyler's place for pizza and beer and health insurance. The Wombury's dad is making him get flippin' short term medical coverage. Also, the Wombury has had a minor breakthrough with the book is trying to not not write, so he may have to re-allocate his mental resources towards that project. On the other hand, if he notices a bevy of fan-mail, he may change his mind. In the meantime he will be channeling the spirit of Spalding Gray, a man who told the truth.

Me and George, A couple of Cool Hand Lukes

(This Is Karl Marx. Guess who likes Karl Marx? Smart people. Guess who doesn't? Baby-eaters)

G is a pretty neat guy. We got to talking while we disassembled Rich Dude's Pristine Home Exercise equipment. The Marxist Critic in me couldn't help but notice the class antagonism in George's voice as he joked about Rich Dude's palatial digs (4, 500 square feet). No one was around since Rich Dude had already moved to a new house (11,000 square feet), and G was acting overly conscientious about not tracking in any dirt or sheep crap on the posh marble foyer. Then he made a joke about the asking permission to use the bathroom, even though the place was empty.

(Steely Dan is underrated by hipsters and overrated by coke heads)

Anyway, G. He's 57. Grew up in Wheat's Ridge, Colorado, not far from Lafayette, in a blue collar neighborhood. In college he played bass guitar for extra pocket money. His group did lots of covers, 70s stuff like Steely Dan, the Doobie Brothers. I think hearing Neil Young play on my laptop scored a few kudos with G, which is important. He knows I'm not farm material yet. He knows I'm soft around the edges after years of city living, of years of paying people to do my laundry and fix my bicycle. Lately he's been teasing me about the book I'm trying to not not write. When other farmers ask who the guy with him is, G will crack on me. "That's the guy staying in the basement. Says he's writing a book, but we never see it."

(You wouldn't know it by his pinstripes, but Hank here has some hefty stones on him)

The thing about G is that he's tough. He doesn't need Rehab. G survived cancer of the lymph nodes. Said the radiation burned his throat and mouth. Now he doesn't like candy bars as much. Married once, then divorced, G has no biological kids that he knows of. He's got a serious girlfriend he met online a year ago, K, and her adorable 6 year-old daughter, Olivia. It's pretty obvious Olivia is adopted. Polite as hell. She handled the "very nice to meet you" business really quite professionally. George doesn't say much, but he lights up when he's on the phone with K. Calls her "Good lookin', " like Hank Williams.

(Did you ever notice high-end luxury automobiles tend to have hood ornaments? Tacky)

G and K want to settle down, buy some land, and build a house. You know what construction material he plans to use for the house? Straw. Bales of straw. I know this because G told me a story about the time a bale of hay fell off the Ford a mile from the house. I asked him how he handled it. He said he had to get the tractor. Bales of hay weigh 800 pounds. I said, "You could build a house with that!" He said, "I know." G said the "R" factor (wind resistance) of straw is a million times better than that pink fiberglass insulation shit you see in most homes. Plus they want to build their straw home into the side of hill to save more energy. I speculated on the ease of heating and cooling such an earthen home. Geore said, "I suspect you could warm it with a candle and cool with an ice cube." That there is some fine sustainable living.

Who's Off the Grid now?

Until then,

The Traveling Wombury

Farm Work is the New Yoga

(this is block of marble. Your parents hate you)

Hey. How's your day going? Getting lots of work done at the office? Really? Solitaire? I love the Superficial.com too. Yeah, uh huh. Coffee break, gotcha, lunch, right on. You're selling that on ebay? I'll wait till the price comes down; next generation iPhones will be better anyway. Who me? What I'm doing? Funny you should ask. I'm trying to not not write a book. Writer's block. Someone told me I'm not a writing a book because there isn't a book to be written. Oh, there's a book to be written. It' s in my mind somewhere; I just need to chisel it out with my tools. It's all how you look it things. Perception. You see a formless block of marble. Michaelangelo sees a gigantic naked dude. I see a book.

(Charles Schulz had a foot fetish )

I'm doing double Mope duty today. I'm moping for George. See George has sheep and goats, so he leases farm land from David to raise them. Sheep got some stones on them, let me tell you. Sheep love pumpkins and squash as much as people do, but people stop loving Jack O' Lanterns the day after Halloween (and thus all reality is a construct), so the pumpkin stands give the leftover pumpkins and squash to George who in turn gives them to his sheep and his Llama, Max. We're on a break now.

(The Scottish aren't insecure about their manhood, are they?)

Loading pumpkins onto the back of a parked Ford-250 XLT can be sort of a boring, repetitious activity so you need to use your imagination to make it interesting. I like to plant my feet roughly 12 feet from the back of the trailer and pretend Pumpkin Tossing is a sanctioned event in the Highland games, and then do my own sports-casting as I do it. "It's Ewan MacGregor with the toss! Ohh, that was a shite throw if I ever seen one." Another method of making pumpkin tossing interesting is finding internal acceptance of who you are in the universe. Crystal Meth helps too.


Until then,

The Traveling Wombury

From Book VIII of The Odyssey

"Nothing makes a man so famous for life as what he can do with his hands and feet."



"Come along then and have a try, casting your cares aside; for it won't be long before you are off on your journey."

Getting Stronger

Visited the Front Range Boxing gym. It had the all the right ingredients for the Wombury. It's set off the road, in a hard to reach location at the base of a dead end. The facility was empty and rough around the edges, looking more like a seaside shanty that a facility. I hate facilities. Inside there was one dude and one dude only, pounding the Heavy Bag, and it was the owner, Dave. I like an owner who's not afraid to use the product. Dave told me to wait while he finished his round, proving he's not a slave to customer service. On the wall were faded, yellowed newspaper clippings detailing Dave's boxing triumphs from back in the day. On the wall there were two quotations: "Timing Beats Speed" and "Accuracy Beats Power." Concise, encouraging, pithy. Sealing the deal was the music: Dylan's Blonde on Blonde was playing on the stereo, ("Stuck inside of Mobile") loud and clear as the azure summer sky in autumn. Good music, sweaty owner, rough outside, clean inside. Sold. Sunday, 1 pm, is my first lesson.

Until then,

The Traveling Wombury

Kingpins and Mopes

You know, after watching The Wire I have a new appreciation for things like chain of command and the business process. It's also given me a vocabulary to describe how I feel working for David. David is like the Kingpin, and George is like the muscle, and I'm the mope. The mope helps the muscle. And we're all in the "game." In the world of The Wire the game is buying and dealing dope. In the world of David, the game is doing something, anything. David wants to throw away all the old office equipment, so he tells George, and George tells me, and we go to the office and get the equipment. David's friend wants to unload a pristine home fitness machine--George and I are summoned and dispatched to a 5,000 square foot abode on the edge of town. George and I spend a perfectly beautiful day unscrewing bolts and disassembling metal parts and hauling up the stairs, down the corridor and out to the trailer. Does it matter that David will most likely never use the equipment? No, it doesn't. It's not our place to question the Kingpin, because we're the mopes. Kingpins got the cheddar, we don't.

On the other hand, working for David is also like the Karate Kid. You know how Ralph Macchio doesn't see the larger design in the Mr. Miyagi's seemingly pointless assignments? It's like that. David sees the bigger picture in making a mope like me use a wrench and unfasten things and carry stuff and grunt and wipe my greasy hands on my clothes. I don't use socket wrenches. I don't have socket wrenches. Rehab. Getting tough.

On the way back from our run this morning David told me how he met Elizabeth. He said it was a Friday morning medical conference on Infectious Diseases. He had the day off and decided to attend. He was late on account of being hung over. There was only one seat left, next to some lady in a mini skirt and leather boots. David takes the seat, 'cause he doesn't want to disrupt the conference. David and the chick get to chatting; David asks her if she's going to the post-conference cocktail party. She was. She offers him a ride. Then he turns to me, half smiles, and goes, "She drove a Mercedes Benz; 220 SE Coupe....Classic, ya' know?" I don't, but that' okay. "Drives real fast, ya know?" David says the lady, who we all know is Elizabeth, was "trolling." I said, "looks like she snagged you." He nods, then tells me a psych doc also gave him her number. "I went out with her first but she was crazy." What do you mean by crazy I asked. "What do I mean? I mean she was dingier than shit, that's I what I mean." I got a kick out that. Dingier. Then it occurred to me just how random shit can be. He doesn't come hungover, he doesn't sit the back; or maybe he decides he doens't go at all. Either way, the outcome and direction of his life could've been radically different.

It's 4:45 pm. Trying to get hold on things. Trying to understand. I'm off to Front Range Boxing.

But The Fighter Still Remains

The Traveling Wombury is running "mile repeats" with David, then it's off to Walmart for an eye exam to get contacts. Why is the Wombury getting contacts?

Because you can't box wearing spectacles, and the Traveling Wombury is looking into boxing lessons. Part of the Getting Tough Betty Ford Rehab process. The Wombury has wanted to learn how to box since he was in the first grade and chickened out in fight with Johnny Hurley. This pattern continued on up until a few years ago, when he was in bar in New York poked a man in the eyes out of fear. But first the Wombury accused the individual of impersonating a mentally handicapped peoples. This was not a peace-making statement.

The Wombury Answers the Mail

It's Comment Day!!!




Hello Dear Readers, it's the Wombury. There's been a flurry of responses after yesterday's posts, so I thought today would be as good as time as ever to answer some reader mail and comments. Elizabeth says having the stones to write about every aspect of my personal life is part of the Betty Ford Rehab process. When I told her about the fallout, she said, "Who the fuck cares? Let me ask you something: do you masturbate? Me too. Everybody does. If you told your family during Thanksgiving dinner you masturbate do you think they would love you less? No. They'll get over it."



Thanks Elizabeth. For what it's worth, I've never considered telling my family during any kind of meal that I masturbate, but if I did I'm pretty sure they would love me a little less.

D from Long Island, NY, and a 10th grade Literature teacher sent this comment in this morning, Oct 30:

"charles, franco, will, and i sat here yesterday and read your blogs. and the monday before too. they are alternately amused, frightened, concerned, and stuck in dictionaries...so...even in your absence, they are learning.

that was a compliment."

Thanks, D Glad to hear you are reading the blog. I remember the time I told Franco to read Plato's Allegory of the Cave and he didn't. And what's with never capitalizing anything ms ee cummings?

My question is: what are you frightened of, concerned about, or amused by? The fact that I share deeply personal moments because of mental instability? The fact that I refer to myself as the Traveling Wombury? Please be specific, D. And why do you need a dictionary? Have I used words like "obstreperous" or "quotidian"? (Quotidian is a latin noun that means rancid cheese. Or maybe it's a type of sprocket.).

One of the students in question left this comment back on October 5th:

So u delicate little flower u this is what u left our peaceful city for? to go on the adventures of Ren and Stimpy?"




Much obliged, Charles. D finishes her comments with some questions: "hope colorado is stressfree. how's life, on a personal level? how's nicole?"


How's Nicole? Good or bad, depending how you feel about being caught between two men. Haven't you ever seen Jules et Jim ? Classic French New Wave cinema? What the crap are they teaching at that school? Math?

Jeanne Moreau falls in love with two men and they fall in love with her. I think she drives off a french bridge at the end of the film. It's a film, not a movie. Anyway, it really didn't work. Polyandry is quite rare in the world. Only a few cultures practice. Polygamy is far more popular. In the gay community it works too, as evidenced by Chip, Michael, and Jaime's happy arrangement. Picture please:


But to answer your question, D I'm not sure. I know after yesterday's blog she was not very happy. She said to me, "You're a fucking fuck" which, as we all know is a Scandinavian term of endearment. The problem with the Traveling Wombury, among others, is that he takes the Path of Least Resistance, POLR, at all stages of life. Some people call this "Laziness." The other problem with The Wombury is that, despite his disconcerting lack of ambition and laziness, he is also oppositional. He criticizes everything. Nicole made this clear when she calmly explained that she wanted a happy life and "to get married and shop at Bed, Bath, and Beyond and not hear you BITCH ABOUT IT!"



The Wombury will admit Nicole has a point there. I'm more of a Sonoma/Williams guy, maybe even Cracker Barrel. See, there's a common misconception about the Wombury, which is that he doesn't like consumption. So wrong. I love consumption. I like going to Walmart. I consume all kinds of things: burgers, computers, cameras, magazines, sunglasses, gloves, boots, hangers, lightbulbs, rentals of season 2 of The Wire. I just happen to think Americans consume too much for no good reason other than it temporarily distracts from our shitty, empty lives. Hold on. I just remembered I'm almost 30 and unemployed and my mom thinks I need more Jesus in my life and that I'm going to hell and I have the devil in me and I have NO FUCKING MONEY except what Chase will lend me. I just bought a Foreman Grill and a lamp. That's better.


Until then,

The Traveling Wombury