June 23, 2008 I just found out that George Carlin died. He was only 71. He could have run for President still. I hope George found Bo Diddley in heaven and is having a good party. I hope that he is somewhere he can use every word he feels like using. Every good swear. It's hot here. We haven't had a natural disaster in North Hollywood. No fires. We haven't even experienced the presence of the local gangbangers. Someone got busted, no everyone is gone and it is peaceful. Charlie the cat is on Tapazole for his hyper-thyroidism, and gets an intravenous SUB-Q drip once a day. He's eating just fine, drinking plenty of water, having poop problems every now and then, and sleeping in the bed, only to wake up the world consistently at 5am every morning. And I am taking a break this week from teaching music at old people's land. My friend Arika egged me into going to a yoga studio. Threatens to be a life-changing series. I haven't been sad really in a few months. Then again, I haven't felt much of anything. There's plenty of happy on television. Hyper happy, buy me try me, hasten to the mall kind of bliss. Fat is not fun, though, and it seems that a lot of Americans are more than pudgy. Prices are up. Times are tough. You"re best hanging on to the job you have even if you don't like it that much. Somewhere along the way in buying the American dream.. little house in the Valley with the white picket fence, mortgage, property tax, and neighbours, rather than flat mates, something happened. A chip attached itself to my shoulder. A sense of entitlement said "Have that Haagen Dazs. come on you're worth it, you deserve it" but it wasn't really an opportunity to award myself. The consuming has become a load, a punishment in itself, a heaviness, a glut. Now in getting clean and clear of living to consume, the little creative burst hovers, waiting in some corner, silently pleading to be noticed once more. Will I? Won't I? Is it too late? Is it too late for everything? Is all life just a matter of finding minimal comfort and then collapsing into it? A great escape until you die? I don't know what George Carlin's last year was like. Maybe he kept performing, writing new stuff up until the end? Maybe he lived to be edgy. Maybe the edginess eventually got to him. I keep coming back to the same questions. How does a person live well, but not too well? How to keep the edge? Is it better to burn out than to fade away? How tocare without caring so much you feel too much you can do so little? Feeling too much has never been my friend. Feel too much, do too little. Too hot for The Bloomfield. Meanwhile, I return to a labour of love, finishing this record Number Five. A summer gestation. Maybe in October, I'll buy a bike. And ride it all the time, of course. Love asks little; fear takes all. Fjaere