All I am is what I remember. And where does it go? Who sees it other than me? IN THE PHOTO BELOW: The Paramount lot was across the street from my first Hollywood apartment. I lived in a one-bedroom with seven other people and a mallard duck. Jeff and Kathleen took off one night without paying their back rent. Erika moved downtown, became the worst sort of crack addict, then cleaned up, got her degree and is now a successful set designer. Michael keeps plugging away at his guitar, dreaming of a revival of the beat era. Robert became a helpless (and dangerous) schizophrenic. Todd turned junkie and was murdered in prison. The duck, I imagine, lived to a ripe old age...IN THE PHOTO, The door to the left of the sky is where they produced "Star Trek". The blue pavement behind the white fence is acutually a water tank; Tim Hutton nearly drowned there in "Ordinary People"... I presently live back on ten wooded acres at the foot of the Catskills. We've got my own fucking private forest. The evil stepsisters have kidnapped Grandma and whisked her to the retirement Riviera that is Bayonne. I only hope someone stays sober long enough to see she gets food and water...
...nothing to know... I tell stories like Spaulding Grey, sing like Chet Baker, draw like Aubrey Beardsley, read Middle English like Geoffrey Chaucer, smoke like a house on fire and reason like a Jesuit on Benzedrine. Once in a while I write something. I'm considered an expert on the life and works of Raymond Thornton Chandler--I don't know how I got to be one or how he'd feel about it. I've authored and co-authored a number of short films--documentary, industrial and featurette. I blew all the money I made on Scotch and steak dinners. No kidding--I'm broke.
I have a systemic auto-immune disorder, similar to Lupus, just like old Uncle Jack (to whom I bear an unconfortable-for-Texas resemblance); in three years, I've done more steroids than the entire American League. I can place a round from a .357 cleaner than ten Dirty Harry's. I can ride a camel. I know how to make gravy. I find all these skills, traits and trivial abilities singularly uninteresting. I'd like to throw a baseball like Mark Prior used to or kick ass like Matt Hughes still does, but it ain't happening. I have respect for people who know things I don't and gratitude for people who try to teach what they know; I can't find enough on either account. Shit--did I just write that? So be it; it stays.
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Myself, upon arriving in America...
Willowbrook Farm, My Home: The Ghost Barn
