So, I am somewhat fascinated with this movie. The Bridge is a documentary about the Golden Gate Bridge and why it is such a magnet for suicide. It was spawned from a New Yorker article by Tad Friend, which chronicled the stories of some people who had jumped and perished, and the movement to erect a "suicide barrier" to protect others from jumping. Eric Steele's film actually captures people jumping from the bridge and then delves into some their lives with interviews from their families and friends.

Having crossed the bridge a few times myself, I remember pondering how people would jump from there. The view is stunning and one you would want as your last if that was your thing, but the drive to end your life would have to be so unbearably strong. Dr. Lanny Berman, the executive director of the American Association of Suicidology says, "Jumpers are drawn to the Golden Gate because they believe it's a gateway to another place." Back in my metaphysical book shop days, I remember a woman talking to me about the nexus of spiritual energy also that flowed into the city of San Francisco. Something about the energy grid and how it was very concentrated in that town. It caused those who lived there to be more sensitive to the supernatural and more in touch with our connection to the other side. Those that lived in San Francisco were drawn to it for reasons of their soul's needs.

So do some souls feel the need to bring an end to their lives? And if so, what drives them? Is it something out of one's control? It all brings me back to the one friend I had in junior high who committed suicide on my block. I understood why he did what he did based on what I knew of him. But I also felt guilt, and I felt anger. At the time, I wished that I could have helped him see the light through his pain.

I don't completely know how I feel about this film, and how it captures these people's deaths forever on celluloid for their loved ones to see. Obviously, they approved it all, but still, is it wrong? I guess not if it delves into the why of it all and perhaps helps heal another from taking such a decisive route. I guess that is what I am mostly drawn to. As a storyteller by artistic trade, I wonder what it is that compels people to act as they do. We are all so inherently motivated in our actions, that I feel the more varied expressions of emotion we become aware of, the better we will be to understand everyone.

Including ourselves.

In a world where men and women are strapping bombs to their bodies as vehicles of homicide, there has never been a more important time to understand who we are at a basic human level. With hope, that understanding can someday lead us to a place of peace.

That is my hope.

What about it?

Yesterday, I let spontaneity rule.

After an amazing brunch at the amazing Off Vine with an amazing guy, I was going to go to the Sunset Junction because it just seemed like the natural thing for a Silverlakian to do. But I really wanted to go to the Hollywood Bowl for the sold-out KCRW World Music Festival. I had already given myself a lecture earlier on about how I allow myself to miss out on too much, so this was another peg on the corkboard. Sis called and said that I should just check for tickets. "You never know." So I went home and proved that I do never know, as there WERE tickets. Ten minutes later, I had two tickets and an assignment to make sis and I some sandwiches.

Walking home from a quick Trader Joe's excursion, I was proud of myself. My goal with this whole life thing is to be living a full life of meaning. In that moment, I felt like I had expanded my perception of what that means. Yes, if I had some crew of good friends to go tool around the Junction with, it could have been hours of drunken fun, and I may even have a nice tan today. But, choosing to put my physical and financial energy towards live music, which I love, and time spent with my sister, who I love, seemed the far more superior option to me. And it was a blast.

Sis and I did it right. We had a picnic at the Bowl which consisted of champagne, salads from Joans on Third, and my love-filled sandwiches. We laughed and got excited for our upcoming Puerto Rico trip. Oh yes, we going in 3 WEEKS! And we enjoyed some amazing music, including the fantastic Gotan Project and my beloved Zero 7. I was extra in love because Zero 7 was being joined by one of my favorite vocalists, Sia. Their performance of the gorgeous Destiny last night was completely otherwordly. And I was so excited to expose my sis to them for the first time. All in all, a good night of dancing under the Los Angeles night sky.

Later, as I wandered very slowly off to a restless sleep, I thought again of how good it felt to see my life as something other than a career. Most of my life, I've focused on career so much that other aspects just faded to the sidelines. And sure it's great to want to achieve a goal, but does one's job define one's life? I am very passionate about what I want to do, but am I missing out the joys of everything else a life makes? I mean, I love and get along with my parents, but we're not as close as we could be. I am finally now going on what I would consider my life's first REAL vacation. I am wanting a substantial relationship. A home. All of these things that I have THOUGHT of, but until now have always ridden in the back seat to the driver, CAREER. Perhaps it's because I am actually happy with my career path now that the doors of perception are opening, when I never even saw them closed before. Who knows? As I had found out earlier that day, I sure don't. But I do know that it's time to allow for more. And I am definitely looking forward to making life more of a Hollywood Bowl picnic. That's for sure.

And I would love Zero 7 to do the soundtrack.

What about it?

"I've had so many lives since I was a child. And I realize how many times I've died." - Madonna

Going through old photos and notebooks, I am awash with history. I think this river raft ride down the past of my life has been inspired by the fantastic documentary I watched this morning, "Yo Soy Boricua!". Rosie Perez directs the film chronicling her family's lineage and culture. It was so eye-opening for me as a Puerto Rican man who is preparing for his first trip there. Three weeks from today, I will be there.

CRAZY.

Anywho, that's another story and not the one I want to tell today. Piecing through my bags of belongings, I stumbled upon an address to one of the many jobs I held in New York. I labeled packages for shipping. In an assembly line.

It was about four and a half years ago, and I was still sleeping on a friend's couch. Her dad's couch actually. There was no real room for me bartending at Hannah's uptown, and I didn't really want to be a bartender there anyway. The few times I had done it had reduced me to sexual meat to the lonely and elderly gay patrons. It was not a time to feel flattered, and my skin was like paper. So, I freaked and started reading tarot there instead to help keep money flowing in. But that was not enough if I wanted to get on my feet. And the kindness of strangers was starting to come with a price. So, a really nice guy who frequented the bar, Duane, offered me a job working for him.

The labels.

At first I resisted to what sounded like a menial job. I was in my mid-twenties, and I had gone to college for crying out loud. But it was New York, and I had nothing. And Duane was one of the nice guys. Sixty. A family man without a family. And he didn't want to get down my pants. So, he gave me an address in the City Hall area and requested that I report for duty.

The city was cold that winter, and the lack of warmth was elevated by the recent events of 9-11. Downtown was a cavern of energy. No air could escape. One walked around careful to breathe in the toxic potion of fumes and death. I had always seen my life as larger than its existence, but my viewpoint from the fantastical amplified in those moments as I chose to walk around the old World Trade site. People like zombies. Fear in the sidewalk cracks, and ash. I'll never forget that smell. And the view from my position just feet away from Ground Zero. Moving to New York mere weeks after the greatest American tragedy to date was profound and growth-inducing, as was the entire two year experience there.

So many lives.

Anyway labels. There were about four of us men, all varying in background and age. They were the blue-collar men. Flannels and wool-lined gloves. And me. In my mittens. And Diesels. I definitely learned more about people, and myself. I gained humility, and it opened my eyes to people outside the 818. And the suburban. The hippie-city folk of San Francisco. These were men born and raised in Brooklyn. Queens. Working for an old gay guy in a warehouse on West Broadway. We assembly lined labeling the packages and sorting them to their respective zip codes. They spoke of sports and killing the terrorists as we worked to the sounds of oldies. I just labeled quietly and daydreamed, like the Puerto Ricans before me had done. And I looked to a time when I would be working creatively and using my talents. Like now.

Sigh.

I lasted a week. The commute was a bitch, and I was becoming one too. There was a tiny romanticism to working downtown, gruff and grungy. But I was depressed and not writing. I finally found an apartment in the East Village (a living room in some woman's place), and I took a job at a sandwich shop two blocks away. Where I sold and delivered sandwiches. For seven dollars an hour. Again, more humility. Or stupidity. You decide.

Seriously though, do I judge the people whose lives ARE those jobs? No. Having watched this documentary, I saw that my people pushed to be here and struggled to succeed. They were displaced and systematically abused. And they were forced to kill dreams for a reality they had a battle in creating. But I had choice. And the gift of a better era and situation. I knew that I wanted to do something different with my life, and I was blessed with opportunity beyond it. It just took me a while to see it, and for opportunity to find my address. Guess it's cause it took me a long time too.

Like Rosie says at the end of the movie, Puerto Ricans are "like weeble-wobbles. You push us down and we spring right back up."

Yo Soy Boricua.





What about it?

Tori Amos turns 43 today.
By far one of the most influential artists to affect my life. How many moments live distinctly in one's mind? For me, not many dozens, but I can recall the moment I was handed a tape of Little Earthquakes in Spanish class, circa 1992, and told, "You're gonna like this." And did I ever? Being that I was a 16 year old gay boy living in Suburbia, I could not directly relate to all of Tori's musings. But there was still something so cathartic to her songs that made the connection so powerful. "Tears on the sleeve of a man, don't want to be a boy today" starts the second album, Under the Pink, and I knew what that meant. What it meant to her, I have no clue, but to me, the imagery rang true. And as I struggled to grow beyond my basic existence into one of more weight and artistic hunger, Tori became a guide. And still is.

I have seen Tori live numerous times. I once camped out on Geary St. for tickets to see her at my favorite San Francisco venue, The Fillmore. Another time, I volunteered to work the onsale at my Tower Records job so I could get first dibs. Thanks to that, my friends and I saw her front row in San Jose as she encored in a full-body tiger outfit to Raspberry Swirl.

I mean, really.

I love her for that.

I have also gotten to see Tori at Radio City Music hall twice, post 9/11. I saw her at Royce Hall at UCLA, where she tore the house down with a stirring cover of "Livin' on a Prayer".

And, I saw her final show of the last tour, which took place at my all-time favorite venue, The Greek Theatre, with one of my best friends Jessica, and it was BRILLIANT. She played some of my favorite songs that come to mind when I actually think of what some of my favorite Tori songs are: A Sorta Fairytale. Winter. Cooling. And thankfully Jessica and my anthem at the time, Cars and Guitars.

If you don't know Tori, and you made it this far in the blog, please open yourself to her. Her music and subsequent piano playing is powerful and immense. And her lyrics unspool like an emotional riddle that once solved serve the most gorgeous of poetic gifts to the listener. Little Earthquakes is by far my favorite album of all time. And her recent book, Tori Amos, Piece By Piece, is a stunning portrait of an artist's growth in both her creative and spiritual life.

Sure, a lot of people classify her as a kook. She claims her songs are all "girls" who come to her like ghosts. She built a "fairy ring" which helped her to write her life-altering first album. And she likens the phases of her life to those of Greek Goddesses. This, and the cat suit, is why I love her. She found her way on a path very few can imagine. But it brought her to this destiny and opened her life up far beyond her imaginings. I believe it is her belief in the outer realms of reality that not only keeps her relevant in the outskirts of the musical world, but also grips her rabid fan base, myself included. She is someone who may not have reached the mainstream, but she has cast her light on an important party of the creative hemisphere, and that is a life worth noting.

Happy Birthday Tori.

Come back soon.

Until then, I'm going to get to work on building me a fairy ring.

What about it?

It's been so long since I have written, and I have no good excuse. So what have I observed in the last week or so since I wrote. I am aware that making up your mind can be a bitch. And that is only half the battle.

I know that my friend Katie will ALWAYS change outfits midway through her birthday party, and I will NEVER be that fierce. And I am okay with that.

I have learned that it's okay to feel like a relationship is outgrown. There does not need to be guilt there.

Snakes on a Plane is much better than I expected. Does that mean it is a good movie? Not entirely. But it's a damn good time. And I still don't like flying. Snakes, I can handle. Though I will consider that I may get bit when I board from now on.

Goobers are also much better than I ever expected.

Little Miss Sunshine is not better than I expected. But it's still cute, and I enjoyed it. It made me want to find the next great "smart" comedy to get produced. Anyone have one stuffed in a drawer somewhere?

Venice is not so foreign and much nicer than I remembered. I need to get out there more often.

A soy latte can be the perfect antidote to lethargy.

I am pretty good at poker.

Premiere parties...not so fun. Unless it's your movie.

Snotty assistants can ruin my day. Working out can make it better.

I'm doing pretty damn well for where I'm at, despite what I may think at times.

I'm doing pretty damn well.

But I can always be doing better.

What about it?

Shockingly, I have never traveled outside of the continental United States. I will be thirty next year. The most international locales I have seen are in Epcot Center. So, my sister is offering to help me go to Puerto Rico and the Dominican Republic. In like three weeks. And I am slow on the jump. I mean literally, my attitude is like "neah." How can one who is so adventurous in his outlook on life be so trepidatious to get his travel on?

Practically everyone I know traveled in college or since. Most did the Europe thing. Some went to Asia with their family. I have one friend who lived in New Zealand for a year. Another who went traveling to teach English in Thailand years ago and has gone on to study yoga in India and is now "married with child" in Israel. And here I am, thirsty to make films and "shake the world", yet I have not seen any of it. I have lived in New York, San Francisco, and L.A. I have seen the sun rise over the Wyoming plains and fallen into snow mounds around New Jersey. But I know that to be the true artist I intend to be, I MUST see the world.

Florence.
Rome.
London.
Egypt.
Tokyo.

Puerto Rico.

The Dominican Republic.

My roots.

The homeland of my grandmother and grandfather, both of whom are since gone.

Writing about it has made me more excited.

I think I'm taking a vacation. Oh, and where would we be staying?

What about it?

Last night, I dreamt of being chased through a small town - a cross between what I imagine to be Tuscany and the backlot of Universal Studios. I knew that I was supposed to make my way to a house, which in my mind existed somewhere in the northwest part of the San Fernando Valley. But I didn't know how to elude my enemies. There was rain also, so I found refuge in a damp yellowed building. There, a young girl, probably six, welcomed me into her home.

Once inside, I saw how she and her tiny brother and mother lived in a one room apartment. "This is where my brother and I sleep" she told me, as she pointed to a tiny single bed covered in dirty Elmo sheets. In the corner was a couch. "This is where mother sleeps."

"On a couch?"

"No silly", she scolded. "It pulls out into a bed." I was the fool.

She plopped down on the ground in her faded pink nightgown and began to play with toys made long ago. There was such sweetness in her face, and she seemed to avoid any sort of fear or concern about her situation. This was simply her life, and she loved her family. Later, her mother appeared and she helped me to get the proper clothing and directions I needed to finish my journey. And then, I was off.

But the little girl's slightly sunken eyes haunted me as I stepped back out into the night. So much so, that I still can feel her presence. I made it to my destination unharmed, but something in me stayed with that little girl. I wanted to go back for her, and her family. I wanted to help them rise above their situation as they had helped to calm and protect me.

Now this was all just a dream, but I did still want to go back and find her. Perhaps she is a character that I need to explore. That is what I was thinking, and still am. However, she has also reminded me of more as the morning has become day has become night. Something more real to life than a fictional creation.

Twenty-three years ago today, my mother went into labor in the middle of a family party. Hours passed, and the phone call came. I had a baby sister. As they would not let children into the room my mother was in, my dad used his policeman pull to sneak my older sister and I up an outside staircase so we could meet our new sibling. "Heather Nicole", my mom presented. It was magical. I still can remember that moment she wrapped her tiny hand around my finger. She wouldn't let go. I loved her instantly, and I wanted to protect her. But I didn't know how. I don't know if I ever did, as I retreated soon into my own adolescence, and selfishness

Sis now lives in Nebraska, which I hate. But I understand, and it's okay. I was gone for a long time too, so this is my lifetime karmic redemption. And together, we went through a lot of growing up in a terribly quick fashion. Our eyes too were sunken at a very young age. Perhaps the dream was my remembrance to go back for that childhood moment before the pain came in. When even though the room was small, the toys scattered the floor and love seemed to live there. And to know that the innocence from that time still thrives inside of me. And I know it does in her, as she is one of the most loving people I know.

I can't forget that I may get older, but the dangers I peril through need not shroud my spirit. Or then, like in the dream, I am the fool.

Happy birthday little sis.

May your lovely innocence last a lifetime.

Six and a half years younger than me, AND she taught me how to drive.

What about it?

Driving home tonight from a good time in Santa Monica, my mind reflected on the masses of people that share this town, this earth, this confusion we call life. I was blinded by the grandeur of this thought, and the headlights from the traffic on the 110. There are really no words for all this. How big it all is. How much one's life counts in the flurry.

In a city like L.A., where so many struggle to make a place at the big kids table, it's easy to get caught in the tiny bubble of one's existence. "How I will get from point A to point B?", completely losing out on the millions of peeps I pass along the highway. Having gone out this weekend in so many social settings, it's mind-blowing to me how many lives we touch in one day. Yet still, it's not enough. Too many people to talk to for one day. So many sitting bumper to bumper, and we can't connect.

No wonder I can't find him.

There are so many people in between. Or perhaps, just a wall.
Who knows?

But the distance from here to utopia is miles long, and I can't seem to get over into the lane I need to make my interchange. I don't want to miss the road to greatness. I don't want to miss my true love exit. I want to make sure my directions are correct, cause I have gotten turned around before on my way to Success Junction. And evangelical Christians may want to let the air out of my tires.
What's a boy to do?

So many lights. So many people. This town is so big.

I want to build a village of like-minded souls and make music that touches all.

My hopes are large - the size of America and Africa combined.

What about it?