8/29/2006
Hello, moms out there. I could have used your help this week. Cinderella's out there in funeral-land, dealing with the ghastly details. I'm here manning the fort (manfully). Three kids, two dogs (one of them a crap-factory puppy--she's a Puggle, if you're keeping score), a cat and a parrot. Hauling out of bed at 6:00 to oversee the various preparations, breakfasts, lunch-makings, snits, complaints, cartoons, dog walks, animal feedings, fashion panics. But now Eric is a big mon and drives Megan and her pal Elizabeth to school. He steals my car every morning. Then, when they're gone, I go get Chayo up. Fortunately, Rudy the rat terrier, now that the psychotic Puggle is here, has become some kind of Lassie dog. All noble and mature. So I say, "Let's wake up Chayo," and he runs upstairs and gets in her bed and starts licking her face, thuse getting my job started for me. And here we go again--breakfasts and dressing and get the backpack and the lunch pail and lately the umbrella and walk to the school bus stop where all the moms gather and think, What the hell is he doing here? How do you do it? I quietly crawl back in bed at 7:50 and pull the pillows over my head. Those of you who have known me for long know that I used to crawl into bed around 7:50 a.m., so it's almost like my past...Not. But then we had the unexpected strike: the school nurse called with the news that Chayo is shivering and nauseous. I leap into the World's Biggest Van to drive to her school and realize I'm not sure where her school is! But I find it! I scoop her up and get her home when suddenly she spikes a massive fever and starts barfing. I can't get Cinderella on the cell phone because she's in the funeral home. The puppy craps on the carpet and I step in it. Chayo barfs. I'm running around with a bucket. Fever goes to 103. I think the kid's dying. Dog craps on the kitchen floor--and I step in it again! Suddenly, Mrs. Hreska, from across the street, calls me to tell me she's bringing us supper tonight. Can you believe that? That good ol' midwestern thing. I tell her what's happening and she coaches me through. She's right on every count. Then Kim from down the street shows up with Gatorade and Seven Up. The Moms save me and my child. And feed us. Yes, chicks dig me. All this time I'm trying to contact my students via email because I'm missing classes due to the chaos. And I'm working on a new TV series outline with my friend NineDragon over the internet. And I'm trying to get ready because today I have to fly to SF to meet the mayor. Those neighbor ladies will ride to my rescue again and take the girls. I don't know if I'm coming or going, and wifey and I call each other late at night not liking the recent turn of events one bit. But I go west to a fancy hotel and will eat breakfast with the mayor and tour some schools with him and start the SF all-city-read of Hummingbird's Daughter with an exhausted bang then rush home tomorrow night to make sure the kids are all right, and we'll get up early Thursday and everyone will head off for school again. So, you know, I love you, but don't call me until noon. I'll have a pillow over my head. --The Daddinator
Angel of Sorrow
8/25/2006
Last night we got that call everyone dreads. You know it when it comes--you know something's wrong in the first seconds. Cinderella's kid sister died yesterday. Now chaos hits our home, as Cindy packs to leave tomorrow for awful funereal details and family mourning. I try to run the family here, except I have to be in San Francisco by Wednesday. It's an unshakable appointment: SF is announcing the all-city-read of Hummingbird, and I have to eat breakfast with the mayor, then visit school with him. How bad is that timing? How about this: Tuesday, classes at UIC are supposed to start.
My big brother Juan is going in for his second open-heart surgery while I'll be on the road.
What do you do? You make do. You buckle up and count on your neighbors and forge ahead and hope your boss understands. But deep down you don't really care if they understand or not--you have to attend to your wife and kids first. Though one weird feature for me is that I have been doing interview after interview lately. Just today, I had to do yet another immigration radio show with angry Pittsburghers calling in and yelling at me. I hate it. I don't even like The Devil's Highway that much, and I really don't like immigration at all! How ironic. I get in a squabble with a screaming anti-Mexican woman on the radio while my wife is trying to arrange over the phone for her sister to be cremated in Seattle.
Strange days, my friends. Strange days. The school bus is coming soon--I have to go get Chayo. I know the immigration maniacs who have heard and read me talking over the last week will soon send angry e-mails. Pinheads will threaten me or my family again. I am always astounded that a "Christian" nation is so violently angry when anyone suggests we need to show a little Christian compassion. Screw that--human compassion. If I go out and suggest the "illegals" are human, then I am accused of being a traitor, or of being an advocate for lawlessness and the destruction of America. It never fails to happen. And I don't understand it.
So, to all you Patriots out there who are sick of the book: so am I. I'm tired of it. And the issue. And of you. Go out and buy Hummingbird's Daughter. Let's forget about the controversy. Pat Buchanan can have fun with it for a while.
Embrace your loved ones, my friends. Hold tight. Smell their hair. Laugh. And do the same for yourselves. Because the Angel of Sorrow is not far from our doors. Remember that the phone call will come for all of us...until it's about each of us. Have a little compassion for the small and tender lives that, like you and me, only want to stay here on this sweet earth. "Thank you World."
I miss you all, Luis
Birthday
My big brother Juan is going in for his second open-heart surgery while I'll be on the road.
What do you do? You make do. You buckle up and count on your neighbors and forge ahead and hope your boss understands. But deep down you don't really care if they understand or not--you have to attend to your wife and kids first. Though one weird feature for me is that I have been doing interview after interview lately. Just today, I had to do yet another immigration radio show with angry Pittsburghers calling in and yelling at me. I hate it. I don't even like The Devil's Highway that much, and I really don't like immigration at all! How ironic. I get in a squabble with a screaming anti-Mexican woman on the radio while my wife is trying to arrange over the phone for her sister to be cremated in Seattle.
Strange days, my friends. Strange days. The school bus is coming soon--I have to go get Chayo. I know the immigration maniacs who have heard and read me talking over the last week will soon send angry e-mails. Pinheads will threaten me or my family again. I am always astounded that a "Christian" nation is so violently angry when anyone suggests we need to show a little Christian compassion. Screw that--human compassion. If I go out and suggest the "illegals" are human, then I am accused of being a traitor, or of being an advocate for lawlessness and the destruction of America. It never fails to happen. And I don't understand it.
So, to all you Patriots out there who are sick of the book: so am I. I'm tired of it. And the issue. And of you. Go out and buy Hummingbird's Daughter. Let's forget about the controversy. Pat Buchanan can have fun with it for a while.
Embrace your loved ones, my friends. Hold tight. Smell their hair. Laugh. And do the same for yourselves. Because the Angel of Sorrow is not far from our doors. Remember that the phone call will come for all of us...until it's about each of us. Have a little compassion for the small and tender lives that, like you and me, only want to stay here on this sweet earth. "Thank you World."
I miss you all, Luis
8/20/2006
This was my big day. Last night, Cinderella and I were at a bar listening to our next-door neighbor's band, The Coyotees. If you know me at all, you know how rare it is that I'm in a bar, but Big John was waling on his Strat. One of my neighbors got drunk and told me I was an asshole. About nine times. This is why you don't see me in bars. But David, my oldest friend from prehistoric days, had the same birthday two weeks ago. We are both, officially, TOO OLD FOR THIS SHIT. I am getting AARP stuff in the mail. Much to my delight, the DEA agent at our table (hey--I am an international man of mystery, after all) said to me: "Just wait till you hit your forties." Ha! Hahahahaha! I was way older than everybody there except, maybe, the band! My forties? That was so long ago, I need to consult a history book to remember any of it. My double-chin was older than some of the merry-makers. Probably even the lady who was calling me an asshole. Why do famous guys buy ranches outside Aspen and hide? When I go up the Big Rocky Mtn Valley, I won't be coming out. Maybe you can come by for a visit. If you get past the bikers and the wild boars I set loose at the front of the property. Then the next few acres I'm giving over to my FBI, Border Patrol, Chicago City Police, Mexican Beta coppers and DEA agent friends for retirement properties. I'll be way in the back--out where the mountains hit the lake, where you can see UFO's and meteorites cutting through the milky way; I'll be where the buffalo's snorting and the pigs frolic; Chayo wants giraffes, too. Maybe peacocks. Dave will be in the barn, where we'll hide the recording studio. Thanks for dropping by for by day, I appreciate it. I had my once-a-year slice of cake. Saw a great movie. Got some awesome toys--even got an ant-farm! Blessings--The Old Man
AUDIO
8/17/2006
I got a sweet happy birthday message from my amigas and amigos at Aspen High. Hey, y'all--como estan? Now, for the Hummingbird audiobook! Yes, it's almost here. It's 19 hours of yrs truly babbling. Longer than "Tommy." Longer than "Quadrophenia." So, here's the deal--you can get it at Audible.com, if you want it. It will also be on iTunes. Rumor has it, this is happening "any day." So check it out. And remember Shawn Phillips is with me on it, so you "Second Contribution" and "Bright White" fans can get some sweet new Phillips instrumentals. That's all I know. Will tell you more when I get it. (Should we put some of it on this website so you can hear it?) Viva Aspen High--le mando abrazos y besos de vuelta, baby! ----Luis
Teresita Post-Cards
8/16/2006
Whew. Lots to do. But at least we're not driving and flying around the country--for now. So I've been getting emails from fans saying Hey! Where's my free Teresita post-card! They're sitting right here! I'm looking at 'em. I'm catching up with myself, so expect your card to come (finally) as I clear the decks. If you haven't asked for one, go ahead. I can handle it. Also, by the way, getting ready for the Fall Leg of the Perpetual Book Tour. Leaving for San Fran at the end of the month. (By the way, it's my birthday on Sunday! Aug. 20. Let's not count years. Let's lie and say we're 35 forever.) -- Luis
The man from God knows where
8/14/2006
My amigo Tom Russell has a great new cd out called Love & Fear. Those of you keeping score might know that I did some blurbage for Tom on his last album and his recent book of poems and letters w/ Charles Bukowski. Tom is one of those long handsome bad-eyed men in a cowboy hat, toting a guitar through some harsh desert winds. Well, along with the new album, he has a single--or really, an ep--that any of my Devil's Highway readers will love. It's called "Who's Gonna Build Your Wall?" It's aimed right at the center of the warped immigration debate. And Tom has added his Border Patrol classic, "California Snow." All you Migra agents who feel unloved and misunderstood need to get it now! The cd has three other good songs on it, too. It's on Hightone Records. www.hightone.com. Or Tom has a merch catalogue at 800-327-5264. Or, finally, check out the Russell website--www.tomrussell.com. He's a bad man & he writes the best lonesome songs in America.
Thank You World
8/12/2006
In the 1980's, did you ever listen to World Party? The album Goodbye Jumbo has one of my personal anthems (maybe it's a hymn) on it. It's called "Thankyou World." Do you know it?
Colours scents and symphonies
Fall on me like tears
And time around me stretches back
And forth across the years
Was I sent to see your beauty
Just to please my aching heart
Well I want to say good morning
But I don't know where to start
Thankyou World
Thankyou World
Thankyou World....
Oh, no--it's not ironic or cynical! Wouldn't fit in the hip world now. But maybe being straight and sincere is daring now. Maybe the ones who aren't "cutting edge" are the real cutting edge. Don't you wish you could get the truth without a sneer or a knowing wink?
Thank you, world: how do you pray? Now, in this bad epoch, how? What do you say? "Dear God--don't blow up the world yet." "Dear God--spare my children." How could you ask for anything when Darfur is bleeding. The Sudan. Iraq. Iran. The war in Lebanon. North Korea. Global warming. Big oil. Oh holy Christ! Is it a sin to pray "Dear God--Holy Shit!" So I ask for nothing. I just report for duty every day and night, and let the Ineffable deal the hand. (Oops, sorry--that's not ironic either, and it's really square to believe in the things I believe in...but after writing Hummingbird, I figure there's nowhere to hide).
Well I'm lying in the dew
And I'm staring at the stars
Yeah He laid me down this blanket
Now I call this blanket grass
And the sun is my alarm
And the moon she makes me dream
And my food is wild honey pie
And water from the stream
Thankyou World
Thankyou World
For giving me my children
Thankyou World
For keeping me alive....
I warned my students at Fishtrap last month that we could not remain in the open-heart position. To make writing miracles (and life miracles) available, you have to be naked and innocent and willing to be foolish. Ah, but this other world is always waiting for us. And we have to put on our armor. For example, if I were to teach classes at UIC the way I really teach, if I were to make the class shamanic and weird and open to levitations and bird nests in the windows, they'd laugh me out of the classroom. We're so industrial in dntn Chicago. So much cement.
So I go out in my yard with the dogs and we stare at the trees. I can't believe the small forest I seem to live in. The giant maples (King Raplh and Queen Sally, according to Chayo)share the far end of the yard with a single with paperbacrk birch (looking enough like a holy aspen to make me feel like I'm back in the Rockies). And behind the forsythia hedge, a huge weeping willow drops its curtains of green. Red cardinals go "weep-weep-weep" in the bushes. Butterflies drop from the canopy and inspect my butterfly bushes. On some mornings, the wild turkeys come through bitching about the day.
I cannot write yet. But I can pray.
Yeah yeah yeah
Are you getting the vibe?
Yeah yeah yeah
Are you really alive?
Thankyou World.
She is everything I need
She is living guaranteed
She's what I mean when I say
Everything's all right
She got diamonds she got pearls
She got wisdom
And this girl is all you need
To know everything's all right
And I need to know everything's all right.
(Lyrics: Karl Wallinger.)
Put on your armor, but stay fresh behind the steel. Make some coffee. I need to sit and write. Keep a light on for me--I'm making my way through the smoke.
L
Hello, It's Me
Colours scents and symphonies
Fall on me like tears
And time around me stretches back
And forth across the years
Was I sent to see your beauty
Just to please my aching heart
Well I want to say good morning
But I don't know where to start
Thankyou World
Thankyou World
Thankyou World....
Oh, no--it's not ironic or cynical! Wouldn't fit in the hip world now. But maybe being straight and sincere is daring now. Maybe the ones who aren't "cutting edge" are the real cutting edge. Don't you wish you could get the truth without a sneer or a knowing wink?
Thank you, world: how do you pray? Now, in this bad epoch, how? What do you say? "Dear God--don't blow up the world yet." "Dear God--spare my children." How could you ask for anything when Darfur is bleeding. The Sudan. Iraq. Iran. The war in Lebanon. North Korea. Global warming. Big oil. Oh holy Christ! Is it a sin to pray "Dear God--Holy Shit!" So I ask for nothing. I just report for duty every day and night, and let the Ineffable deal the hand. (Oops, sorry--that's not ironic either, and it's really square to believe in the things I believe in...but after writing Hummingbird, I figure there's nowhere to hide).
Well I'm lying in the dew
And I'm staring at the stars
Yeah He laid me down this blanket
Now I call this blanket grass
And the sun is my alarm
And the moon she makes me dream
And my food is wild honey pie
And water from the stream
Thankyou World
Thankyou World
For giving me my children
Thankyou World
For keeping me alive....
I warned my students at Fishtrap last month that we could not remain in the open-heart position. To make writing miracles (and life miracles) available, you have to be naked and innocent and willing to be foolish. Ah, but this other world is always waiting for us. And we have to put on our armor. For example, if I were to teach classes at UIC the way I really teach, if I were to make the class shamanic and weird and open to levitations and bird nests in the windows, they'd laugh me out of the classroom. We're so industrial in dntn Chicago. So much cement.
So I go out in my yard with the dogs and we stare at the trees. I can't believe the small forest I seem to live in. The giant maples (King Raplh and Queen Sally, according to Chayo)share the far end of the yard with a single with paperbacrk birch (looking enough like a holy aspen to make me feel like I'm back in the Rockies). And behind the forsythia hedge, a huge weeping willow drops its curtains of green. Red cardinals go "weep-weep-weep" in the bushes. Butterflies drop from the canopy and inspect my butterfly bushes. On some mornings, the wild turkeys come through bitching about the day.
I cannot write yet. But I can pray.
Yeah yeah yeah
Are you getting the vibe?
Yeah yeah yeah
Are you really alive?
Thankyou World.
She is everything I need
She is living guaranteed
She's what I mean when I say
Everything's all right
She got diamonds she got pearls
She got wisdom
And this girl is all you need
To know everything's all right
And I need to know everything's all right.
(Lyrics: Karl Wallinger.)
Put on your armor, but stay fresh behind the steel. Make some coffee. I need to sit and write. Keep a light on for me--I'm making my way through the smoke.
L
8/08/2006
Long miles going far.
As the song used to say: "Hello, it's me...I haven't seen you for a long long time...." Are you all right? It seems like years since we last met.
I don't even know where to pick up the narrative thread. After the ghastly experience of submitting myself to the Playboy Universe (and after all the madness, which perhaps I'll tell you about one day, they dropped all the photos anyway--many thousands of dollars of effort gone like a puff of smoke--which, to tell you the truth, I'm happy about), I walked through late night NYC with a new hand-made billion dollar suit (Playboy's gift). I stayed in a billion dollar hotel--full butler service, sliced fruit on the china on my sideboard, plasma TV rising from the footboard of the bed. The next morning I dashed to La Guardia and flew to Denver, there to catch up the The Family Stone. Cindy and Eric drove through hailstorms and heat waves.
We donkey ranched with Tony and Pam for about two days, then drove over the Rockies to Aspen. Oh yes. Yess yesss. Aspen!
The high life continued thanks to the Aspen book festival--they put us up in a lovely condo for a week. The Gant. Streams and waterfalls running through the buildings. We hooked up with Denise Chavez there, and saw many friends: Patty Limerick, Bill Kittredge, Pam Houston, Christopher Merrill, Ted Conover. I was honored to hang out again with N. Scott Momaday, though he looks at me every time we meet with this friendly, yet slightly baffled expression. Met my new pal, Mr. Childs, the great outdoor writer. Broke bread with Annie Denver.
Then we bid lovely Aspen adieu (driving past the little airport there that is crammed with Lear jets and small private ariliners like Price Club here is crowded with mini-vans).
Down and across the desert wastes to Dinosaur, so the kids could look at dino-bones. Up Flaming Gorge, and into Jim Bridger's fort. And along the Oregon Trail, haunted by wagon ruts and the tails of the pioneers. To Seattle, and family, and a rented house on the water--fireworks in Puget Sound right in front of us. We met up with our pal Debra Dean and went to the Experience Music museum so I could gaze upon Hendrix flostam. Was stoked, dude, that they had a Sci Fi museum attached, and we got to look at the queen alien from the scary movies.
And then out the great Columbia River gorge--we stopped and picked cherries at an orchard. Hiked up to watch waterfalls drop. Made it all the way east to Holy Wallowa--Joseph and the lake and Fishtrap. I'm telling you again--if you want a writing miracle to happen, go to Fishtrap. Look it up on the internet. Meet you there next summer for the 20th anniversary gathering. Eric joined the song writing workshop--my God, they've grown up. Hung out with Susan Power, my great amiga.
After that, we drove to Deadwood.
Now we're here, and I'm trying to get a hundred things taken care of. Yes, I remember I told you I'd keep you involved in the Hummingbird 2 writing process. Not happening yet! It's coming (I think...I hope). Have to get ready for UIC fall semester starting, and I'm reading for a major lit award--got nearly 700 new books piled in my library. No kidding. And doing the endless promo. I'm grateful it never goes away. (Did a radio show this week for NPR.) I'll be in San Fran a LOT in the fall, in Phoenix, in Boston, in Salt Lake City, in Houston.
The audiobook--with a "Teresita Suite" of music by Shawn Phillips, should be available at any time from Little, Brown. Check the website. And the Spanish Hummingbird will be available Sep 6.
Thinking of you...all of you.
Yrs 4ever, L
As the song used to say: "Hello, it's me...I haven't seen you for a long long time...." Are you all right? It seems like years since we last met.
I don't even know where to pick up the narrative thread. After the ghastly experience of submitting myself to the Playboy Universe (and after all the madness, which perhaps I'll tell you about one day, they dropped all the photos anyway--many thousands of dollars of effort gone like a puff of smoke--which, to tell you the truth, I'm happy about), I walked through late night NYC with a new hand-made billion dollar suit (Playboy's gift). I stayed in a billion dollar hotel--full butler service, sliced fruit on the china on my sideboard, plasma TV rising from the footboard of the bed. The next morning I dashed to La Guardia and flew to Denver, there to catch up the The Family Stone. Cindy and Eric drove through hailstorms and heat waves.
We donkey ranched with Tony and Pam for about two days, then drove over the Rockies to Aspen. Oh yes. Yess yesss. Aspen!
The high life continued thanks to the Aspen book festival--they put us up in a lovely condo for a week. The Gant. Streams and waterfalls running through the buildings. We hooked up with Denise Chavez there, and saw many friends: Patty Limerick, Bill Kittredge, Pam Houston, Christopher Merrill, Ted Conover. I was honored to hang out again with N. Scott Momaday, though he looks at me every time we meet with this friendly, yet slightly baffled expression. Met my new pal, Mr. Childs, the great outdoor writer. Broke bread with Annie Denver.
Then we bid lovely Aspen adieu (driving past the little airport there that is crammed with Lear jets and small private ariliners like Price Club here is crowded with mini-vans).
Down and across the desert wastes to Dinosaur, so the kids could look at dino-bones. Up Flaming Gorge, and into Jim Bridger's fort. And along the Oregon Trail, haunted by wagon ruts and the tails of the pioneers. To Seattle, and family, and a rented house on the water--fireworks in Puget Sound right in front of us. We met up with our pal Debra Dean and went to the Experience Music museum so I could gaze upon Hendrix flostam. Was stoked, dude, that they had a Sci Fi museum attached, and we got to look at the queen alien from the scary movies.
And then out the great Columbia River gorge--we stopped and picked cherries at an orchard. Hiked up to watch waterfalls drop. Made it all the way east to Holy Wallowa--Joseph and the lake and Fishtrap. I'm telling you again--if you want a writing miracle to happen, go to Fishtrap. Look it up on the internet. Meet you there next summer for the 20th anniversary gathering. Eric joined the song writing workshop--my God, they've grown up. Hung out with Susan Power, my great amiga.
After that, we drove to Deadwood.
Now we're here, and I'm trying to get a hundred things taken care of. Yes, I remember I told you I'd keep you involved in the Hummingbird 2 writing process. Not happening yet! It's coming (I think...I hope). Have to get ready for UIC fall semester starting, and I'm reading for a major lit award--got nearly 700 new books piled in my library. No kidding. And doing the endless promo. I'm grateful it never goes away. (Did a radio show this week for NPR.) I'll be in San Fran a LOT in the fall, in Phoenix, in Boston, in Salt Lake City, in Houston.
The audiobook--with a "Teresita Suite" of music by Shawn Phillips, should be available at any time from Little, Brown. Check the website. And the Spanish Hummingbird will be available Sep 6.
Thinking of you...all of you.
Yrs 4ever, L
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