Presents from Mom

I got this shirt. I don't think I could wear it. This goes to Panauh.

The jacket on the otherhand was very Rock 'n' Roll.

Thank you, Moman. I love you.

Have ya'll heard about the 16 year old kid who went to Iraq for Christmas break without telling his parents, and is now being flown home by the 101st Airborne? I thought you'd get a kick out of it.

Here it is.

The Christian and Me

The Christian and I sit together. I give him some paper and a pen.

Moments pass. I watch pigeons make love on an air conditioner. I smile at a cute Armenian couple doting on one another. I beam like a proud father as the Christian draws.

"That's a nice tree," I say.

"I drew it," he tells me. "It's the tree from across the street."

"Yeah," I say. "Looks good."

"Yeah," he says.

I draw the Christian.

He smiles.

"Want a cigarette?" I ask.

"Yeah," he says.

Just Like This

I am done chasing love. It really doesn't make for a well-adjusted-me.

I don't really know why it happens either. It does though. I just start looking for other people to fill me up, rather than filling myself up on my own.

Maybe this happens for everyone. I don't know. I am done with it though. I am holding out now.

I am going to pay attention to me.

I will act in commercials and whatever else comes to me.
I will learn how to make cartoons on flash.
I am going to put out Mars or Bust, the Soundtrack on the 14th.
I'm going to put out Dear Mr. President on March 21.
I will write some novels after that.

It may seem like a lot. It really isn't though. It's just little bit, little bit, boom...

That's all. It's this simple.

I am not looking for love.

I already got it.

Mistranslation and the Koran

Bob is questioning the language behind the Koran. This is a great service to the world. In his most recent post, he questions the filtered language behind Islam's view of homosexuality. This has raised some eyebrows from the Islamic community.

I support you completely, Bob. Injustice anywhere is truly a threat to justice everywhere. Thank you for bringing your flashlight to bare.

Bearded Me No More

Okay, here it was with the beard. Massoud posing as a Slipshod Swinger.

Today I look completely different.

Today I can turn green.

I am the lizard schwing.

I can do anything.

Gulf War Film: Acting up a Storm

As some of you might know, I'm in Hollywood. This means that acting keeps coming up for me. I enjoy it very much.

Today I finished shooting for a film. I played the part of Massoud, an Iraqi prisoner who befriends an American soldier.

I grew a beard and gained about 10 pounds. It was fun. The crew were real professional, and the other actors were great.

Saima played my daughter in the film. She gave me a lesson or two.

"I don't like your accent," she said.

"Okay," I said.

"You're weird," she said.

"That's true," I said.

I have no pics of her. I did get a few of the American soldiers.

James Gilbert played opposite me as ALAN. [on left]

Eliah played JESSUP. [right]

And Mr. Tough Guy (not his name), played MCCLAINE.

Here they are altogether. They are a good bunch, don't you think? Who will be on your Television in the next year??

Shikow TV: "The Great Fitzby"

Me holding the camera again. Not so bad. It was hard though. Again, the Great Fitz makes me laugh a bit too hard. This time I just let it out. That's the only way.

Now Fitz is in Philly. The end of an era. Hopefully we will be able to make more films in March when his tour comes back to Los Angeles.

This film is a little repoire that he and I would jump into when things got a bit slow at the office.

It goes out to L.O.U., Posatko, IndianaGirl, and all my wonderful friends at the WG. I will see you all soon. I love you, P.

Click here or on pic to see The Great Fitzby in action.

Horse Less Press

Horse Less Review #3 is out.

Slipshod's Theme

When I met you I was alone
Yeah, so alone
But you came into my life
and I said
I need you
all the time

Slipshod's Theme will be a track on Mars or Bust, the Soundtrack(Febraury 14th Release). This is the rough and fun cut. One take. No directions to any of the players. No lyrics. Just go. Just the way I like it. Just like this.

This song goes out to Fitz and all the rest of you crazy cats at Weller Grossman. I'll see you in 2 weeks. Keep smiling.

Click here or on Music Bar to hear Slipshod's Theme...

Vocal and Rhythm Guitar: Frank Ewing
Bass Guitar and Vocals: P. M. Kalayeh
Backing Vocals: Fitz, J. Peterson, Justin
The Slipshod Swingers
Slipshod's Theme


Shikow TV: "Fitz, the Logger"

"Fitz, the Logger"

Fitz: Larry Thomas Moore

I did the camera work here. Sorry. I couldn't stop laughing. It shakes the whole way through.

Click here or on pic to see Fitz do an impersonation of yours truly.

What a Librarian!

I love stories about libraries. Here is the latest from New Goo.

3 Level Humor Test

I took the 3-level humor test. Thanks, JP.

This is what I am.

the Ham
(47% dark, 76% spontaneous, 36% vulgar)
your humor style:

Your style's goofy, innocent and feel-good. Perfect for parties and for the dads who chaperone them. You can actually get away with corny jokes, and I bet your sense of humor is a guilty pleasure for your friends. People of your type are often the most approachable and popular people in their circle. Your simple & silly good-naturedness is immediately recognizable, and it sets you apart in this sarcastic world.

PEOPLE LIKE YOU: Will Ferrell - Will Smith

What are you?

My Indiana Girl

I am in love. No, that's not the right word. It's not love. It's more like a crush. But it would be better to use the word "crunch" because that’s how I feel when it comes to IndianaGirl. Believe me. I try. I flirt. I show all the signs of saying, "Hey, do you like milk, because I like milk too.” I get looks. A great smile. A Midwest lilt. Laughter. Even smiley faces and lol over and over.

“You got to hit the ball over there,” Dacheux tells me

“Hit the ball?”

“Yeah,” she tells me. “It's not Wimbledon. You just got to hit it

"So you're saying it's more like the Junior's? I got to work myself to the national championship?"

"Yeah, sure." she laughs. "It's the Junior's. Now you got to hit something over there. See what happens."

"Sometimes I feel like I'm in Dangerous Liaisons, the Board Game. You ever see that movie?"

"Yeah," she laughs. "That would be a great board game."

“But it can’t look like Trivial Pursuit. It has to be like Chutes and Ladders with all the ladders and everything.”

“Yeah, then we can slide down.”

Today I sit and stare. I got a heart and paperclips in my pocket. I’ve got a beard. It’s got red in it. I look in the monitor. I am handsome. This is the truth. I tell IndianaGirl. I IM it. James Bond style.

“I can see myself in the monitor. I am handsome. This is the truth. I also dance naked to 80’s jams. It makes me feel good. I am going to dance today after work. That’s it. I’ve decided.”

“I love that you told me that,” her IM giggles. “I dance naked all the time. Most girls do. I like picturing a guy dance naked by themselves. It’s sexy.”

This is the moment. No hesitation.

“You still going to do Wonder Woman for me?”

“Not in the office.”

“Why not?”

I wait for a reply. I listen to The Slipshod Swingers. I don’t do any work. I think about fictional dates. Dacheux tells me it’s the only way.


“Yeah, I go on them all the time. I sit around on my sofa and go to New York City. I imagine what I say, what Allan will say. It’s great.”

“Mmmm. I haven’t ever done that.”

“Oh, you got to.”

It would be nice to go to the House of Pies with IndianaGirl. I would get lemon meringue. A glass of milk. We could talk about Dangerous Liaisons, the Board Game.

“Have you ever heard of it?” I ask her.

“No,” she laughs. “But I have heard of Memoir of Geisha, the Card Game.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah, it’s pretty good. It involves a lot of looking. You got to make people stop in their tracks.”

“I could do that.”

“So you think you could make me stop in my tracks?”

“Sure, watch.”

I give her my look. It could melt butter. It puts Zoolander to shame.

“That’s pretty good,” she laughs. “You want to see mine.”

She tilts her head down to the pie. She laughs a little. Then [lights up.]

A man and woman sit across from one another. The woman is looking down at her pie. The man looks intently at her. She looks up.

Man: Devastating.

Woman: (Laughs) Yeah, right.

Man: No, it’s devastating. I can’t even move. You are the Geisha. You win. I give up.

Woman: (Laughing) I love your style. You need to have your own reality show.

Man: Already got one. It's happening right now. It's you and me.

Woman: Nice.

Man: Yeah, it is.

Woman: You want some of my pie?

Man: Yeah.

Woman picks at pie. Man drinks from his glass.

They look at one another. Then [lights down.]


New Songs by The Slipshod Swingers!! (Cry and Direction)


Cry and Direction will be a couple more tracks off Mars or Bust, the Soundtrack (Febraury 14th Release). These are the rough cuts. The real recordings will be done by master enigneer, Panauh Kalayeh. For now, these are previews. And, who knows? I might even put some of these rough ones on the record. They sound pretty good on the fly. Pretty good in a frog too.

These songs go out to Dacheux and her beautiful smile.

Click here or on Music Bar to hear Cry...

Vocals and Slide Guitar: Larry Thomas More a.k.a "Fitz, the Logger."
Vocal and Rhythm Guitar: Frank Ewing
Bass Guitar and Vocals: P. M. Kalayeh
The Slipshod Swingers
Cry (Back to Philly)


Click here or on Music Bar to hear Direction...

Vocals and Slide Guitar: Larry Thomas More
Vocal and Rhythm Guitar: Frank Ewing
Bass Guitar and Vocals: P. M. Kalayeh
The Slipshod Swingers



she don't need
she don't want
she don't feel
nothing but

heavy on her heart

i think she's
going to start to




i need
another direction
body's deception
to help me along

i need
another correction
body's dissection
to help this song

i don't need to know
where you go
or what you know

Copyright 2005 Pirooz Kalayeh

Fitz, the Logger

Hi. They call me Rooster at work.

Today Fitz made a good joke. He called my first novel, The Big Mac Chronicles. This made us all laugh. Especially me. I know the truth. Fitz is in love with his brain. This is the truth.

I have nothing else. That's it. I could make another movie on my lunch break. I could do this pretty easily. I don't though.

"What are you blogging?" Fitz asks.

I don't say anything. He sits in the chair next to me. Now he is talking again.

"What's that? What are you doing?"

He is talking about my typing. I am typing with two fingers. This is the way I type.

"You don't know how to type."

Now Fitz sings a song about how I can't type.

I am still typing with two fingers.

Tonight is Fitz's going away party. He and the rest of the band have had enough of their 500 square foot studio and Los Angeles. They are going back to Philly.

I will miss his songs. His impersonations of me. I will miss him terribly.

"What are you doing?" he says again. "That is not the way to type. You're a writer. Look how much faster I can type than you."

The office watches him type. He sings another song about my typing. I don't say anything and he gets self-conscious.

"I'm being an asshole," he says. "I'll stop."

"That's okay," I say.

"Okay," he says and then sings, "I'm Pirooz. I write books. They are about value meals. I can't type. I have a family. They are nice. I am Pirooz. I am nice."

It is amazing how much more true this song is than any bio or description has ever come.

I hope Fitz survives me. He would be great at funerals. If I ever get married, I want him to do the toast. In fact, I need to record him making fun of me tonight at the party. I will post it at around 430 AM tonight. Have a good Friday, Bloggers.

Shikow TV: "Sheepman PSA"

Episode One

Director: Vince Braun
Ideaman: P. M. Kalayeh
Sheepman: Jeffrey Peterson
Fitz: Larry Thomas Moore
Audio: Panauh Kalayeh

To watch th
e film click image or here.

Thank you to Jeff Peterson for being in this piece. It was a pleasure to watch you at The Comedy Store. You humble us with Sheepman's presence here at Shikow TV.


Last night's dream:

Byron Katie rubs underneath my chin. She does the same to my parents. This makes us naked.

I am at some type of guru session. There are people crowded around Byron Katie.

I am invited to move up to her. I get in full lotus. She lifts a sheet of rock she is sitting on, and puts my legs underneath to hold me in place.

I hang underneath her. Bat style.

There is nothing underneath me.

We are suspended in the air.


Last Night's Excursion:

I went to the Comedy Store on Sunset. I got to see Jeff and Shannon perform. They did wonderful jobs.

I was surprised how hard the comics were on themselves post-performance.

"That bit needs to be adjusted," one says.

"I was average," another says.

"Comedy is science," the group agrees.

I don't believe any of this. I know better. I have seen the same thing from musicians. I have listened to the same thing from writers. It is such a torturous way to be an artist. The idea that anything is science puts me right back into physics with Mr. Lagsney. It shows me Mr. Liu coaching tennis without being able to hit a ball. It's my dad preaching self-help books by Deepak Chopra while he terrorizes his family. It is Ann telling me my language is too romantic. It is the ESL instructor who made me practice saying "apple" when I was already reading Ghandi's "All Men Are Brothers."

When I hear comedians (can you believe it's comedians?) rip themselves apart, I see every bad teacher on this planet. I see every moment someone was put down or told they weren't good enough. I hear a father shouting about winning and losing. I hear society calling down with rules and procedures. I see the worst of religion. I see corporations squeeze America through a funnel.

I know that "Comedy" or anything as "science" is not the way to make art. I know it is not the way to live life.

Dear Dad,

Tough love does not help or nurture.

Dear Mr. President,

A big stick will not make me bend.

Dear Ghandi,

I know we can offer ourselves better. I know we can hold a better space.

Dear Mrs. Ellis,

I love you. Thank you for saving me. Thank you for believing in me. I won't ever forget.

Dear Comics,

Comedy is not science.

Dear Teddy,

I walk like a penguin and carry a great laugh.

The Desert Rose

P.S. "Dad always thought laughter was the best medicine, that is why several of us died of tuberculosis." -- Jack Handy

Mary Magdeline, the Song


Mary Magdeline will be another track off Mars or Bust, the Soundtrack (Febraury 14th Release). This one was inspired by C. Dale's beautiful post, my own crazy brain, and a visit from a special friend.
Click here or on Music Bar to hear song
Vocals: Panauh Kalayeh

Bass Guitar and Vocals: P. M. Kalayeh
The Slipshod Swingers
Mary Magdeline


Mary Magdeline

Don't you know I don't know
Why I'm alone
Don't you know it's all in my head
Don't you know I'd rather be in bed
But this thought keeps going round
And I don't know how to make it stop

Mary Magdeline...I need you

[I am still writing verses. Not sure where the finished product will go. We have our first recording session this Sunday at 2 pm at the Fortress of Solitude. It will be an all star cast of musicians and artists. I am looking forward to it.]

Copyright 2005 Pirooz Kalayeh

Shikow TV: "Buddha, the Explorer"

Episode Two

Director: Vince Braun
Writer: P. M. Kalayeh
Buddha: Joe Robinson
Fitz: Larry Thomas Moore

To watch th
e film click image or here.

Hear the New Single by The Slipshod Swingers


Present Tense, the Song will be the first single off Mars or Bust, the Soundtrack (Febraury 14th Release). It was catalysed in a jam session with K. Thanks, K. It is for my crazy heart, all you ladies, and my beautiful brother, Paiman.

I would also like to take this time to introduce the newest member of The Slipshod Swingers, Frank Ewing. He plays in the L.A. band, Downtown Harvest.

Click here or on Music Bar to hear song
Guitar and Vocals: Frank Ewing

Bass Guitar and Vocals: P. M. Kalayeh
The Slipshod Swingers
Present Tense, the Song


Present Tense, the Song

Why oh Why am I all alone
I want you to take me home
I don’t know where I am
I got no master plan

What oh what have you done to me
Don’t you know it’s no mystery
You broke my heart in two
and now I’m calling you

Oh Oh Oh
Da Da…
I love you my girl
You make my world
Oh, so beautiful…

You broke my heart
right from the start
but I still love you girl
yeah, I love you girl

How oh how can I kill this pain?
I want to drown in the rain.
But I can’t seem to forget.
The worst of what was said.

When oh when will she leave you now
That question don’t make me proud
Cause you know I’ve asked it too
and made it all come true

Where oh where is my cap and gown
I think I have learned it now
It just doesn’t make sense
Unless it’s present tense.

Copyright 2005 Pirooz Kalayeh

Mine: Bomber Dream with Clams

Strange dream. Visions. I am awake. It is 7:27 AM. I am at my Michaelangelo Desk. There are scraps of paper tacked to the wall. A stapler to my left. My painting to my right. Hold on...

I burn sage and sweet grass. I open the curtains. Sunlight fills the room. I stare at a drawing on my altar. It is one of the first comics I did in Pittsford. The Knights of the round table. Me as King Arthur. My dad's hope for his sons. Knights.

The dream... Mine. (in photographs)...


Part I: The Bomber

1. A huge bomber is flying over China. It unleashes several million bombs. They land on the coastline. They explode. The bombs continue to fall.

2. I watch this scene with fear. I think about retaliation.

3. Missilles are shot at the bomber.

4. The bomber explodes.


Part II: Listening and Surfing

I am looking at a canopy of birds and nature. I see bugs and creepy crawly things. I watch as the birds eat the bugs. Each of the animals eating one another. I look over at my father who is watching from a distance. I tell him how beautiful it is. Then I dive into the canopy with my pillow. I surf up and down through the air like it is water. Then it becomes water.

As I surf, the pillow smooshes unwanted bugs. It is like a lawnmower clearing paths.

There are people along the shoreline. People are hungry. They are waiting for the clams to be dropped into the water. There are some clams which are already falling. Then, without warning, a huge cargo of clams emerges from the ocean. The people cheer.

I am excited and slightly terrified by the clams.


Part III: Zach

Zach Chupa (a boy I grew up with) is running towards me. He has wings. I think, "He is an angel or an angel is behind him."


Now I am looking at the Sharpie pen on my desk. It is 7:59 AM. My walls are creamy white. I have staff paper laid against a frame on my right wall.

Okay. Now I will question my mind.

First thing when I woke up, I thought about war. Then I thought about Nicole. I imagined she was with another guy. This was painful. I put my mind to inquiry right away. I asked, "Is this true?" My mind wanted to change it to "could it be true?" I asked it again. "Is this true?"

My mind said, "I don't know."

Who would you be without this thought?

"Happy," I said.

I am not my mind. Now what?

Mmmm. I accepted reality. I said, "What is reality?"

Reality is I am no longer with Nicole. Reality is she does not love me in partner terms. Reality is that even in friendship terms she is not available like I want. Reality is that I have and will be with other women. She will also be other men. Reality is that we are not together. Reality is, that although we still have to sign papers, we are divorced.

Turn it around. Nicole is not with another guy or she is. Whose business are you in? Yours, Hers, or God's?

I am in her business.

What trade of business are you in for this lifetime?

I am in the business of me.


Wow. This war dream was intense. The surfing on the bugs and water was fun. My pillow can really boogie.

What does my dream mean?

My Mom and Kandinsky

My mom is beautiful. Last night she creeps into my room. I say creep, because she doesn't like to disturb me. She watches me for a while.

I am looking at Kandinskys on the web. I don't even know why. I can't stop looking. I can't do anything else.

"Pirooz," she says. "What are you doing?"

"Looking at paintings."

She comes and stands next to me.

"Are these your painting?" she asks.

"No," I say. "Kandinsky."

"They're beautiful."

"The most beautiful in the world."

She stands as I scroll through some images. She loves the "Circles" painting. She says how beautiful they are. We look at the paintings for a good while. Then she stops as if an idea has just come to her. She tells me to come sit with her.

"Come, Pirooz," she says. "I want to talk."

We go into the living room. She tells me her worries. She cries a bit. Then the launching starts. Story after story. She talks about a trip to New York City. A forgotten plane ticket. My dad's business trips. How crazy the men in this family are. How crazy I am.

"I save your life, Pirooz. You were so crazy."

I laugh.

"Don't you remember?"


"Come on, boy. You remember. You are blocking it. Don't you remember when you were break from Lynn, and your band is not going together anymore, I tell you to come be with me. I say, 'Pirooz, come stay with me.' But you get so angry. You are like, "NO! I am not going anywhere.' Then one day, you call me and say, 'Mom, I want to come live with you. Come bring the truck.' And I say, 'Thank God,' and I say, 'Pirooz, I do not have truck. I will bring car and we make two trip.' Then I come and we get everything from Lynn's place, and you come home. And, oh my God, Pirooz, you stay in your room day and night. I come in and see you, and you are just looking at the ceiling. Sometime for 10 hours. I say to myself, 'God please save my son.' Then one day you come home and say you want to go to New York. You say mom can I have 50 dollars. And I say, 'Pirooz, I'm sorry honey. I do not have any money.' And you get so crazy. You pick up Panauh's Walkman and you crash it on the ground. Then you take my pot, and it has Shivit Baghali inside, and you just throw it everywhere. I still have this pot. The handle break, but I keep it. And then you crash everything. You go and grab this dish that I keep the candy, this nice crystal, and you take it outside and just crash it."

"Oh, Pirooz, I was so scared. I think my son is really crazy. I run to the bank. I say to you, 'Wait, Pirooz! I am going. I get you the money. I got to the bank like this (shakes her hands), and I get the money. And when I come home I see you have dustbuster and broom, and you are cleaning everything, and I say, 'Here, Pirooz. Here is the money.' "

"Then you say to me, 'Mom am I crazy?' And I say, 'No, honey you are not crazy. You are just depress. Maybe you want to go see psychologist.' And then you say, 'Yes, mom. I want to go to see psychologist, but it has to be a woman, and they have to be this thing, psychiatrist, or psychologist,' you say. I say, 'Thank God,' and for two days I am on the phone to find psychologist, but no one has appointment. Then I go to supermarket, and I see Carla, and she is talking about her son, and say that he is not doing good, and that he see a psychologist who save his life. And I think, 'Oh, thank God, maybe this man save my son life.' But I don't say anything. I just say, 'Is good to have good doctor. Can you give me his number.' And she give it to me. And I call this doctor and I say, 'Please help my son. Do not worry about bill. I pay whatever you need. Please just help my son. Please save his life.' And the doctor say he help."

"Then you go see this doctor, and I see little by little you get better. I call the doctor and I ask, because I do not know if you even go, 'Is he coming?' And he say, 'Oh, yes. He is coming. He is a beautiful boy. Very smart. Very bright.' But he doesn't say anything else. And I think, 'Thank, God.'

"Then one day you come and say you are going to go back to school. And then you go write the letter and you go, and then you move in with Sonny, and then you come to me one day and say, 'I meet this girl Mom. I meet her 6 years ago She is very nice. What do I do?' "

"Because sometime you are still with Lynn. And I say, 'Isn't Lynn with other boy sometime.' And you say, 'Yes." And I say, "Well, then it doen't hurt to go and see.' And you say, 'Okay, mom I go see.'"

"And then you go with Nicole, and everything is nice. And you go to school. And now you are separate, and you are handling so well. You are here. You are so calm. I am so proud of you, son."

"Thanks, mom."

"Yes, all of you are so crazy. I remember one time Paiman come home from school, and he come inside, and I see one second later someone knock the door. I open the door and this woman is here--the one who live with the Indian man--and she is screaming, 'You're F-son! He F this.' And I say, 'What is going on? What happen?' I look at Paiman. I say, 'What did you do?' And he say, 'I didn't do anything.'"

"And this woman is so mad, Pirooz. She is screaming. She say he come and she use the word ---- take his thing, and he just peep right on her tree. 'He take his thing and do it right by my window,' she say."

"And I say, 'I am so sorry.' I look at Paiman, I say, 'Why you do this?' And he say, 'Mom, I try to hold it. I couldn't do it. I was going to explode. You don't know how it is. You are woman. I have to go. This was the best spot.'"

"Oh, it was so funny, Pirooz."

"What happened with the lady?"

"Oh, she was so mad. She say, 'Never again! Do not come near my house. Walk by the road. Don't come to my house again!' She was so mad."

We all laugh. The well has been unleashed though. My mom continues.

"And Panauh, Oh my gosh. He box everyone. One day I see he come home, and then one second later, I hear the ring. These people come who are parents of--what is his name Ben, Brian--"

"Ben ****," my brother says.

"Yes, they are mad. But they are not like that lady. They just say, 'Your son come and box are son, and his nose is bleeding, and we have to go to hospital.' And I turn to Panauh, I say, "Panauh why you do this?" And he say, 'I didn't do anything.'"

"And then these parent confront him, and I say again, 'Why you do this?' And he say, 'He call me gay.'"

"Oh, Pirooz, how many boy he hit. So many. He box so many boy they have a meeting at school. I come and is seven people and one chair for me and I sit. They say, 'If one more time your son box someone, we going to send him to boot camp.' Then I come home and tell Panauh, and the guidance counselor he call Panauh. And then he understand this is real, because we go see a commercial on TV, on this boot camp, and he get scared, and then he doesn't box too much anymore."

My mom stops her storytelling. She looks at the clock. She is right on time.

"Come, Pirooz. Come let us go see this Barbara Walters. Tom cruise is coming."

I prop pillows on the bed, and she lies down. We watch the whole special together. I am moved by Kanye. Jamie Foxx seems to be doing good. My mom persk up when Tom Cruise comes on the screen.

"You love Tom Cruise," I say.

"No," she tells me. "I like him because he look just like you."

I smile. I turn back to the Kandinsky on the screen.

Shikow TV: "Buddha, the Explorer"

Episode One

Director: Vince Braun
Writer: P. M. Kalayeh
Buddha: Joe Robinson
Fitz: Larry Thomas Moore

To watch th
e film click image or here.

Television Wet Dream, Squid and the Whale, The Desert Rose, Ecstasy Proclamation

Last night, I had a dream I was writing an episode of Friends. It was a Thanksgiving episode. Joey and Chandler were doing their usual schtick. Then Joey says a line that sounds a bit off. It was way too smart for his character.

Chandler and him look at each other. They don't know where to go. It's a standstill. The whole show just stops.

This got me excited. It got me thinking too. I wondered what would happen if I inserted lines into every sitcom. They could be slightly off, but just barely. Just enough to make characters aware of their patterns. That would be fun. Woody from Cheers could turn to Norm and say, "Sometimes when I'm alone I read Kafka in the dark."

Frasier looks at Rebecca Howl and says, "Talk dirty to me."

Vin Diesel is a physicist.

John Malkovich stars in Harry Potter. He recites Shakespeare. He does snippets from Chekhov.

Yeah, that would be fun.

Not as good as Squid and the Whale though. That was my first movie in a long time. I saw it with Paiman and John. We were all pretty blown away. It also got the gears turning. I don't like seeing bad movies. I am done with the usual blockbusters. I have no interest in Friends or television. I've decided. I'm going to watch indie films from now on. I am going to write more books. I got to have a better way to entertain myself.

I don't want to see things dressed down. I don't want to be bored. It's got to be good. It's got to move me. It's got to be life and death.

Allison has got it right. It's time to raise the stakes. It's time to give all you got. It's time to start a fire. It's high time for a duel.

You and me, Mr. President. You and me, Mr. Corporation. You and me, Mr. World. I got some scissors. I am going to cut.

Here is the window.

I am making Joey smarter. I am standing on Harry Potter's shoulders. I am handing out awards. I am the new Indiana Jones. I am the new Oscar. Here you go, Christian. You make Abraham Lincoln proud. Here you go, Dacheaux way to 'little bit, little bit, boom!' It's all changing. Don't sweat it, Paiman. Don't sweat it Hooshmand. Don't sweat it Panauh. Don't sweat it Letisha. Don't sweat it anybody. I am turning everything upside down. I am conjuring magic. I am Houdini. I am the rabbit. I am going to celebrate. It's time to celebrate! This is reality. This is so much more real than television. This is the world today. This is my window.

Here are some scissors. Cut yourself a piece. Pass it on. I'll meet you in Study Hall. I'll draw you a picture. It's one of Degas's ballerinas. It's a Kandinsky original. It's Keith Haring on the N uptown. It's Picasso's Guernica. It's me looking at you. It's you looking at me. It's the end of all things. It's the beginning of your life. It's Enlightenment in a Box. It's Whopper Strategies. It's the Blood Red Skies of Shikow. It's Burt Kristbaum. It's Tanto. It's Mmmm. It's Zen. It's world. It's me.

Here you go, Ed Sanders. Here you go, Ann. Here you go Bobbie. Here you go Stegners. Here you go Moksha. Here you go shamans. Here you go Sufis. Here you go Christian. Here you go Lincoln. Cut a piece. Open this window. What do you see?

What are you going to do?

Los Angeles Calling: Bring Our Troops Home!

Dear Mr. President,

Tonight I watch kids bum rush out of the club. Girls are screaming down the street. Chili shouts for me to get inside.

"It's getting hot," he says.

I stick out a bit longer. I watch people jumping out the windows of the club. A hundred people or so running down the block. Then it starts. Pops. Screams. People are running faster now. I look at one of the door guys.

He grabs me by the collar: "Get your ass inside!"

I watch them pull in the potted plants, the velvet rope, even the mat outside the door.

My heart leaps out of my chest. It runs down the block. It screams like a cannon. A thunderous great thump. Loud enough to numb the pain. Loud enough to calm the dead.

Dear Mr. President,

Last week a kid got carjacked outside my apartment.

"You're probably not used to this," my neighbor tells me. "This is all probably new to you."

"Yeah," I say. "I'm just glad they didn't pull a shotgun on me."

"Gang wars," he shrugs. "It's a lot better now."

Atomic bomb. A thunderous great thump. Loud enough to hear war in our midst. Loud enough to make fire.

Dear Mr. President,

Yesterday I go to the Sabe. The Christian is indoors. He won't go outside.

"I don't like those helicopters," he says. "I feel like they're after me."

I watch my heart leap out of my chest. It speaks about mercy. It presses helicopters to the ground. It burns an atomic riot. My fist in the air. Loud enough to calm the dead. Loud enough to hear war in our midst. Loud enough for your thoughts to shudder. Loud enough for a miracle.

Dear Mr. President,

I can't keep this city safe on my own.

The Desert Rose

Schoenberg, Kandinsky, and the Blue Rider


I got the book. It is called "Schoenberg, Kandinsky, and the Blue Rider." This is the one I saw in the window of Counterpoint Books. This is the one I got.

I also picked up a copy of Bomb Magazine. I have not ever read it. I hope it's interesting. It was expensive. That's all I can spend until next month. I have to save. I have to eat. Got to buy those cigarettes. They keep me alive.

The Kandinsky book came with a Shoenberg CD. I ain't ever listened to the cat. It's pretty crazy. Kind of depressing. Reminds me of what happened at work today. I got into it with a girl who works upstairs. She was piping about her night, how she went out with a bunch of friends who got fired, and that when they were at the bar this guy wouldn't play anything but sad cover songs.

"We were all screaming, 'Please play something happy.' "

"Did he?" I asked.

"He did a Bon Jovi song,"

"Which one?"

"I don't know."

"Was it Young Guns II?"

[Fitz pipes in with his rendition of "Blaze of Glory."]

Yeah, Shoenberg seems kind of depressing. Interesting though. It reminds me of those elephants in Thailand. Those are my favorite musicians.

Anyway, I didn't get any hot chocolate. The line was way too slow and long. I went to a bar instead. I got tequila and red wine. I drank the tequila and winced. I watched this guy on the other side of the bar smile at me. He liked me wincing I guess. I have no idea. I wanted to punch him though, or, at the very least, tell him I don't drink warm tequila. (Most bartenders would know to chill tequila, but I got the light bulb of Hollywood; took him 5 minutes to figure out who he sold the tequila too after I handed him my card about 14 nanoseconds to the nanosecond.)

Outside of the bar (Birds on Franklin) , I sat and thought about reading the Kandinsky. He turns me on you know? I didn't read though. There was this old cat there. He must have been 83. (That's a guess, but I think I'm spot on). He was chatting it up with a fine specimen of the female species. She had this low cut number on, and her tits were hanging every which way, and that made it pretty hard to pay attention to their conversation, but I got the gist of it.

"So what happened with your date?" old man asks.

"He didn't look anything like his picture," she sips her beer. "He wasn't no six foot two. Then he had a problem with my height..."

She went on. The old man listens patiently and says, "What was his personality like?"

This gets her all hot and bothered and she is off. I snatch the open seat, and decide to lay into the old man and find out what's getting his tail out at 1 in the morning at his age, and he lays it on me pretty slow, talking about how I am Iranian (because that's how all conversations begin with me being that I'm so ethnically identifiable and beautiful) and how he loves Kirostami, the filmmaker, and that takes us through usual chess moves around Keats and Browning before we even get to the nitty gritty.

"I moved back here 5 days ago," he tells me. "I was in Texas before, Portland before that."

"What was Portland like?"

"Conservative," he sips his coffee. "I am a social person. They were nice and friendly there, but you didn't get past a certain point."

"Mmmm," I say.

I say this a lot. Too much I think. He didn't seem to notice though. James Brown was pumping in the background. I looked down at my foot. It had a mind of its own. I let it pump. It wanted to dance. The rest of me didn't though.

"You been married?" I asked.

"I have had 5 life partners. I believe in marriage. It's hard for artists though. There is so much expectation."

"Sounds like a human thing," I say.

"Yeah," he agrees.

I could say more about the old man, but I don't want to, except to say that I talked to an old man. He was old. I was young. It made me think how all my friends are over 70. That I am going to be a hit at the senior homes.

I already know this though. My first job was working at a Senior home. They liked the way I poured Sanka.

Pearl Jam was big then.

I didn't give two shits about them. I was about the free food we got as waiters. I was one hungry kid.

I did like performing for those old folks though. I would act zany. I would be what they expected. I would be a clown.

Tonight Dick, the old man, and I talked about Charlie Chaplin. I love Charlie. Those movies are some of the greatest inspirations for me. So much so, that as he talked about him, I thought about going to work on Monday as Chaplin. I could get the little mostache and everything.

Dirty Laundry

Tonight was another sad one for the record books. Not sure what's going on. I picked up an old copy of Basketball Diaries, and started plowing through. Pretty soon, the idea of sniffing glue or shooting up sounded attranctive. This was scary and exciting. I have not touched drugs or alcohol in a very long time. But these days there is a big pain, and I can see myself drinking into oblivion.

I remember when I worked at the liquor store in Boulder. I felt bad about giving the homeless alcohol. I even felt sick about giving anyone alcohol. Then a friend laid it to me straight: "You don't know what kind of suffering a person's going through."

I heard the advice then, and I wonder if it's some I need to take myself. I have been afraid to go near alcohol. I have not ever needed it. But, these days, I can see myself drowning in it.

It is so hard to lose a wife.

It would help if I didn't love her. It would help if I could pretend alcohol made a difference. It would help if I could drive into oblivion.

I don't though. I sit with it.

At work, people call me Mr. Rogers (I take off my shoes and all). Larry also does impersonations of me: "I'm Pirooz. I write books. La de da de dah!"

It's all in good fun. It's also pretty on the nose. I might as well work for PBS right?

Last night I talked to the ex-wife and she said I was such a good person and so strong, that whenever I ever came to her with a problem, it freaked her the fuck out.

"So only you could come with your problems," I say. "There was no room for me."

"Yeah," she says.

"I'm vulnerable and fragile like everyone else," I say.

"Yeah," she says. "But no one wants to hear that from you. It scares them. They're like, 'if he can't deal with life, then how can I?' "

This made me want to be flawed. This made me want to scream out loud.

"I am not perfect," I say.

"But if all you give is your strong side, then the other side is going to throw people off. "

I think about this. It strikes a chord. She speaks some truth. I do tend to be asked for advice a lot. I like giving it, if I know anything about the pain, etc. It might be better to keep my mouth shut though. But, if I keep my mouth shut, then who am I? It seems counter to what I am.

I am me. Does anyone understand that?

I certainly don't. I don't understand a thing these days. I don't get that someone loves you, but doesn't want to be with you. I don't get that one at all.

Whatever. This is very secret journaling stuff. But I figure I got to let everyone know that I am hurting. I am hoping this will let me see it in a new light.

What else?

It's strange. I have spent about 3 years alone now. Before, I wrote books, and so my time was filled with the beauty of me and my characters. That reality was much more real than this one.

I also think about Byron Katie's statement: "How do I know I don't need what I want? I don't have it."

I wonder how soon before I go crazy. That statement makes me crazy.

I went and met Byron Katie. Did I tell you? I gave her a copy of "...Strategies." Well, her assistants. She was very sweet, tough, and nice. I do believe she is the real deal for her, but I don't think it really works for me.

Spiritually, I have followed the Sufis. No rules. I know on the other end is something else. They attract me though. Those stories attract me. Yes, the stories attract me.

I know this day will die like all the others. I am here feeling it with you. It reminds me of when an old girlfriend and I had to get an abortion, and then I had to go play a show. I felt so horrible. There was a lot of guilt.

Do I feel guilty about something?

No, I am sad and lonely. Mmmm. Basketball Diaries. That is amazing. Reading this book brings back those old feelings. They have been there all the time. I am looking at them now. Mmmm. Yes, I am suicidal at times. No, big deal. Everyone has tough days. Drugs. Yes...

Do I want to do drugs? It might be interesting. It would be very different now. I don't need it though. Maybe, some tabs of e and 4 hot babes. Ah!

Who is this? What is this?

Mmmm... Hey, dude. I missed you. It's me, guys. It's Pirooz at 23. He is back. He is hanging out. Hold on...

Now it all makes sense. All these young chicks hungry for the MoJo. Rock star Pirooz is back. Actor Pirooz is back. Wow. What do I do?

"Dude, take me out to a party? Lets go have fun."

"It's okay. You can have fun in other ways. I am going to get a hot chocolate. I will drink a glass of wine. I will buy you a book."

"The kandinsky book?"




F*%@ Taboos I'm Happy: A Conversation with Adrian Ryan (September 8-October 20)

Pirooz Kalayeh: I love the freedom in your writing. You will go anywhere. Is this why you gravitate towards comedy? Because of its freedom?

Adrian Ryan: Hi! Thanks a million for your mention of "freedom" in my writing. That fills me with glee. It seems to me that humor is very mysterious and powerful---it transcends just about everything.(This forms the basis of the second of Adrian's Three Magical Rules to Eternal Happiness: "Always laugh at tragedy.")Also, it's simply the way I've always express speaking voice and writing voice are basically indistinguishable from each other.

PK: I hear the laughter - all the way from here. Has it been difficult making this flip for you at certain times. And, if so, how did you manage to laugh? Was it the writing? Was it your imagination? Your heart?

Adran Ryan: i am easily confused. allegedly. let's it difficult for me to make "this flip"? you mean to laugh at awful things? well...this notion wasn't firstly mine you understand; i can't lay claim to it. who was it? mel brooks who said it? "comedy is tragedy, plus time." maybe it wasn't mel brooks. who knows. good heavens. what the fuck were we just talking about?

PK: I love it. Don't sweat the small stuff. (I said that.) Actually, we were talking about how you like to go to humor. I was wondering what brought this on. Was it from facing a lot of tragedy, or just a natural tendency? For me, I end up going cartoon-y at the slightest drop of a hat. I don't know when this shift actually happened. I cried a lot when I was a kid. I'd hit a bird with my light saber, and that was it, crying. I couldn't speak English and got sent to the principal's office, and then I started crying.

I guess crying got replaced with laughing at tragedy because I was tired of crying. It was also a great way to enter a space, laughing and not crying. What was it like for you? Was there a particular moment, when you started laughing at things more?

Adrian Ryan: welp, upon deep and thoughtful consideration of your question, i'd have to say it is just a natural tendency. i suppose something deeeeeeep inside me just sought an expression that mirrored itself; but it seems, upon reflection, entirely organic---this tendency to laugh at extreme things. on that note may i please point out that i loathe and despise trite, polite humor and, dear god, JOKES. i like people who display unique wit and insight, not those who memorize "jokes". egads. the entire notion makes me quiver.

also, on the same subject, wasn't it Gilda Radner who said something like "all of the funniest people I know are also the saddest?" something like that? well, i disagree. i used to agree, way back in high school when i was a wretched drama queen of sorts, i guess, but. not anymore. which is just about the only thing gilda radner and i ever disagreed on. not that i ever new her, of course. at least not in the biblical sense. i'm far too young. word.

PK: Funny you say that about Gilda. I had the same reaction in a weird parallel with rock 'n' roll. As a big drama queen myself, I would often say shit like, "27 is my heaven" or work real hard at being a slinky snake of sexual machismo. Real childish actions that were about me trying to match up with the mythos surrounding Morrison and the rest. Thank, God I grew out of that one. So I hear you on the Radner thing. This whole idea that one needs to be a member of the depressed and insane in order to be funny or an artist is just so yesterday and bad news bears. It's strange how so many artists believe that this is the stepping stone to becoming artists themselves. It's so serious. I can see how valuable your ribs at pop culture are within this framework. The seriousness as to how we take celebrity and the myth surrounding it is so far from the things which make a difference in our day to day lives. Might as well make fun of it. That suddenly makes what was previously useless into a valuable stain-my-pants laugh, and allows for people to take pause on their personal views of reality TV, celebrity, and whatnot.

Do you find yourself going for taboo material? Is this where the magic happens?

Adrian Ryan: do i go for the taboo? indeed, heavens no. that would mean i spend time searching for taboo things to go to, as it were. i merely reflect upon whatever i am faced with--specifically celebrity in the case of Celebrity I Saw U. or whatever i've been thinking about, should i take a mind to put it in print. are we talking about the porn stuff, particularly? indeed? you might be shocked to learn that while i am undoubtedly the most sexually obsessed beast ever to trod sod, i am not an afficianado of porn. i own no videos, no vidio files, no i'm quite peculiar, you understand: i think i probably the most peculiar person i know. and i have a vivid imagination. who needs porn? even for the cheese factor? i have only written the porn pieces etc. as they were either assigned or commissioned. ironically, my erotica has been widely reprinted and published now, including in Susie Bright's latest book (i think). an entire of chapter of that is merely a reprinted email conversation she and i had about seducing hotel bellmen. indeed. peculiar. or are we talking about the prostitutes? or....

PK: We can take taboos wherever you want to take them, or, indeed, not take them, and we are back full circle to freedom. There is no taboo. This equals freedom. It is what you are faced with--be that Celebrity I Saw You or porn or etc. I get it. Have you ever felt like something was off limits? Or was there a time when certain topics were off limits, because you were afraid to put yourself out there like that?

Adrian Ryan: i'm so confused now. let's talk about my gigantic penis.

PK: Okay. Tell me about it.

Adrian Ryan: speak not of my giant penis! not now! i'm in a tori spelling movie! no kidding---that's where i've been (sorry to evaporate), but I’m playing a small part in a horror movie with....well. i already said. a HORROR movie! peculiar.

anyhow! someone on the set said offhandedly, "That's the thing about you, you can say anything, because everything thinks your kidding." i think that sums it up. probably. it's early. they've made me get up early for this movie: i never get up before 9. egads.

PK: What are you doing on a movie set? An actor too? Well, my fine thespian, you'll have to dish some dirt on the film. What got you into acting? And on a Tori Spelling film?

Adrian Ryan: well, yeah: acting. since i was a weeeee little nipper, little nipping. i'm just a smaaaallll part---a horror movie...i can say no more! actually, i can say plenty more, soon...i am rushing off now; this is the first day Tori will be on the set, and i want to poke her with a stick! POKE POKE!

[4 days later]...

my part is done: i was on the set for four days. egads, it was fun. and indeed, tori spelling! i didn't think i would like her, but i did; she was charming and adorable, and we were 15 inches from each other for two days. she smells purdy. it's a horror film, a lovecraftian sort of thing, called Cthulhu. fabulous catering. sorry for the bump in communication. where where we?

PK: Beats me. How about you tell me how acting and writing meld for you?

Adrian Ryan: welp, although not all writers are actors, and certianly not all actors can write, for me the acting and writng (and visual art and singing for that matter---neither of which i really do) are cut from something of the same cloth: the outward expression of an inner idea or process...i haven't acted much lately (i've been writing a book! don't ask: it is top secret!!!), but this little venture has whetted my appetite for it again. i've been acting since i was 13 and writing forever. literally, maybe: the only psychic i ever really believed told me circa 1992---long before i was writing professionally---that i was a writer in England in the 20's in my last life! LOL! that's a weird story...

PK: Tell me a bit more about the psychic. How has seeing psychics, clairvoyants, etc., changed your life?

Adrian Ryan: welp; i don't go to a lot of psychics...see; i worked at an old and famous haunted in hotel in Portland, just out of college. I was the graveyard concierge. after a year there, a strange little guy named Mark was hired as an assistant manager. he was in his late thirties, rather goofy looking, someone you would never, ever notice. but i did notice---many strange things. first: he didn't work graveyard shift, but, indeed, he was always there, finishing up something or other. the thing was, he had almost always been there since around six thirty the previous morning....which meant that by the time 3am rolled around on my shift, he'd been up nearly 24 hours. but he was never tired, nor grouchy---then he'd drive home for three hours and be back, fresh as a daisy, 630am. in fact, he was, indeed, the most inoffensive and, well, kind person i'd ever met. it wasn't drugs: we had plenty of coked up folks, and they were easy to spot. he was not one of them. also, i saw him physically threatened by local crazies, i saw him screamed at and almost assaulted: he never lost his temper or stopped smiling. it was very peculiar.

well, after a few months working with him, one night, through a strange series of events i won't get into, he admitted (under much duress) that he was, indeed, either "crazy or psychic", that he had been taught psychic thises and thats by an old woman of his acquaintance in England, and he had spent the better part of his youth helping to unhaunt houses. that was why he was never tired he said: he could rejuvenate his energy, and he was adept at psychic readings. or, that was his story. testing him, he agreed to go to a secluded part of the hotel one night and "read" me. he blew me away...he was, of course, correct about everything...past present and future. it was an unnerving experience. of course, you meat a zillion people who think they are psychic or whatever, but this guy really took the creepy cake. to this day: he was right about it all.

PK: So what's in store for Adrian Ryan's future?

Adrian Ryan: well, indeed, most of his futuring is now firmly past: this was in the mid 90's...closing in on eight years. at the time i wasn't writing a bit, and he not only told me that writing was indeed my vocation, and that it had been before, but that I would leave portland for a bigger city and become a well known writer...then i would begin acting again, but that that wouldn't happen for close to seven years. we capped off there, but. egads. here we are. i wish i knew whatever happened to that guy..

PK: Well, how much of that is your own will power? It wouldn't have come to fruition if you didn't believe it was possible, right? Isn't this part of the freedom of who you are? I mean you write like you live life. You don't think about taboos. You just roll. You're like, "Seattle what's up?" "Celebrity: I lust you," and then "Tori Spelling she smells purty." That sounds to me like you made some choices, but you were pretty open to see them coming. What do you think?

Adrian Ryan: well, i haven't lived long enough yet, nor gathered enough info on life to make a decision whether or not he merely set up a self fulfilling prophesy for me...but right now? i would have to say no. i believe that guy. i really do. i do not believe many people who claim to be psychic.

PK: Sounds good to me. Anything you care to share about the not-so-distant future. Better yet, what is the magical Adrian Ryan doing right now?

Adrian Ryan: what is the magical adrian doing right now? well, i'm thinking that if you keep calling me magical, there's a good chance i'll have sex with you. so, thinking about that mostly. also, i've been quite busy working on my first book. i mean, i've been IN books, but never did a whole one, all by meself. the subject? TOP SECRET! i'm also working with a local producer to get a series of local theatrical readings done...but that is longer term: we wouldn't run 'til next October. and so!
Adrian Ryan writes for The Stranger (Seattle's only newspaper) and is a fine thespian. You can visit him at to catch up with his past, present, and future.

Woody Loverude can take Vin Diesel if he wasn't looking and Woody had a bazooka.

Woody rips into Vin Diesel. Very funny. Thanks C. Dale for pointing this out. Thanks Woody for making my entire office laugh.

Vince's favorite was the Sun one.

Jeff's favorite was the last one.

Fitz's favorite was the one where Diesel has sex when he's born.

Mine was 29. I also like the sex one when he's born.

1. Billy Sue’s Hips

I joined the mafia last week. They needed someone to run the numbers. They thought I was a good candidate. I didn't wet my pants. That was an important thing to being a criminal. In fact, it was Jacksaw's motto: Don't lose control of your bowels.

He carved it into this statue on his desk. I was staring at the letters as he talked to me. I don't think he noticed. Jacksaw wasn't the type of guy who noticed things. He was more of a henchman. At least that's what Molo told me.

"He's more of a henchman," Molo said, under his breadth. "Just nod when he says bowels."

I nodded pretty much the whole time. I had been up all night. Molo took me out to this club on Sunset. He said I had to figure out how this town worked. That was the only way I could be a right-good-criminal.

"Pay attention to the streets," he said.

That was a tough thing for me. I had Billy Sue on the mind pretty much all the time. I think it was her hips that did it. They went back and forth like a grandfather clock.

I could see them now when Jacksaw said bowels. I didn't let on though. I just noddded.

This impressed Jacksaw. He said I was right-good by him. All I needed was a toothpick. Then I would be prime time.

"Take one," he said.

I put the toothpick in my mouth. I clicked it against my teeth. Cick-click.

"Yeah," he said. "You're prime time now."

“Yeah,” I nodded. “I am.”

Molo did the rest. He sliced right into him. I didn’t stay for the festivities. There was no need. I wasn’t doing the cutting. Molo was. He was doing a good job of it too. It took me a while to get all the blood off that little statue. Then I put it in my pocket. I figured Billy Sue would get a kick out of it. She was into arts and crafts. Not me though. I just wanted to see those hips click.

JP asked me to talk about love. Okay, here it is.

When you have nothing, love is as natural as Hello.

Hi/ My name is P. I dream hard. I been dreaming hard all my life. I write books. I paint too. I don't make no money off it. Well, not yet. But I'm going to do it. I am going to sell my book. I am going to have love. I am going to have a kid. I'm going to accomplish all my dreams. I just wanted to let you know in case you were wondering. I believe in all your dreams too. I am watching them all happen. I won't stop dreaming ever. Come join me. Take 5 mintues. Dream with me. Dream.

Now before I go, I just wanted to say how much I love my family. They put up with my dreaming. I love you Dad and Mom. I love you Paiman. I love you Panauh. I did it. I'm dreaming.

I also want to give a shout out to my boy, Sonny. I love you, man. Thanks for believing in me all those years, and giving me a chance to play music with you. You taught me a lot.

Yo, Mark! Thanks for always believing, bro. I did it. I'm dreaming.

Kev, I know I was tough to put up with back in the day, what with all the, "I'm here to destroy all cover bands. Thanks for believing in me.

Hey, Meg. Thank you for believing me in high school.

Thank you A.I. Tennis Team. You guys helped me make it through some of the toughest years of my life. I couldn't have kept dreaming without. You guys were my Ambassadors of Kwan. Man, it still tears me up, when I think of all you guys running with me during those sprints. It meant a lot. I won't ever forget.

Yo, John Forester. You're still my best friend, man. There is no one I'd rather play basketball with.

Bennet! Thank you for teaching me how to draw. I couldn't have done it without you. 7th grade was awesome with you.

Now I'm pretty far back. But thank you for playing with me Erin Post. You were one of the most special friends of my life. I know you got second place in the Read-A-thon, cause I was so crazy about it, but I knew you would get it the next year after I was over it.

Thank you to all the teachers in my life. Thank you Betty and Katherine. Thank you Michael Cotsell.

Thank you Nicole for being married to me and teaching me all those lessons.

Thank you Loggers United. An extra special thaks to Mickey and Fitz. Mickey I believe in you. I know you can get this record done. Fitz. I love you. I'm going to miss you, man.

To all these bloggers. Jim Goar. Dacheux. My hats off to you. The whole naropa crew. Marlowe, Kyle, Sara. My heart is thumping with you.

Now for my most special shout out. Dear Christian, I love you. Eating fried chicken with you and watching you draw has been some of the greatest moments of my life.

And, of course, life wouldn't be complete, without thanking all the animals in my life. T. J and Zeba. Shah Air. Buddy. Oh, my Buddy. I miss you all.

Thank you all for helping me do it.

I've done it. I'm dreaming.


P{irooz Mahmood Kalayeh

PS. JP! Don't think I fogot about you. I am watching you like a baby eagle. You are constantly teaching me how to fly. I will give you the comic today.

Hiss #1: "I hate it when people deny what they've got and then ask for it like it's something they don't."

Golden Ashtray Looks Good

Well, Golden Ashtray, the comic book has my stamp of approval. It looks good. Perfect bound. Comic book size. 154 pages. Gorgeous cover. Definitely, get a copy today. Paper quality is nice too.

As I said before, it is now available on Amazon or Lulu. It would make a nice gift, toilet book, or other, etc. I am now allowing downloads on Lulu. The price is $5.94. To purchase the printed copy it is $13.52. A nice price for both.

If you do purchase a copy, go write a review on Lulu or Amazon, and tell your friends or show them. It really is a cutie.



An Open Letter

Dear Artists,

I do not know what is best. Take or leave what I have to say.

I believe in one thing as a teacher and that is freedom. To allow students a complete reign to pull and choose from anything they desire. What I hope to provide artists is a fertile and safe ground of discovery. The best method I have found for providing this foundation is by helping individuals lose the idea of a qualitative good and bad in their art.

How easy it is to stop a great idea or a magnificent poem or painting with thoughts like, this line is not good enough or I am not good enough? I know this, because there are times when I have suffered under this totalitarian regime. But, as with all absolutes, there are moments when one begins to see the frailty of the stories we tell ourselves. We question their validity, and, in turn, those questions lead to other possibilities.

In the case of "good and bad in art," it stands to reason that if one does not have such a filter, the work that will be created will be outside any particular standard or expectation, both within the artist, and in their respective communities.

On first contact, this idea is revolutionary. Many react with disgust. There may even be name-calling. This is to be expected. Some minds are very comfortable in chaos. They, in fact, see anything other than their own thinking as the very chaos from which they are a participant.

That is why it is important to offer the idea, and let the mind filter its own choice to participate or withdraw.

Some are very hungry for this possibility. They drink from the cup, and, in turn, bloom very readily. Others are not ready to bloom at all. They are as tight as a fist, and their reactions behave as the very thing they have become.

Now many of you may be reading this with curiousity. How is it possible to have no good or bad in art? We make judgments all the time. This is a very human thing. And I say, "Yes, I agree."

I make judgments all the time. This is what it is to be human. This is reality. Of course, the difference for me lies in perspective. If I am very close to an idea, then I cannot see that it is just an idea. I think that it is absolute, and expect others to behave accordingly. But if I move outside the realm of my concept, I begin to see the interplay between ideas, and in this kaliedoscope of possibility there is no good or bad.

Let me use an example.

Jimmy Smits loves Keith Haring. He thinks he is a fantastic artist. He spends all his moments upholding Keith to any other artist, and when other artists are placed before him, he uses Keith's effect on him as a gauge for the other art he views.

I may show him a William De Kooning painting, or Marcel Duchamp's Urinal, but no matter the validity of these other objects being art--all are seen as sub-par in comparison to Keith Haring.

The same can be said for poetry. Lets say Jimmy Smits loves Jack Spicer. No other poet matches his mastery in language. I can show him Frank O'Hara or Walt Whitman or even Allison Stine, but none of these poets can match the feeling Jimmy has in response to Spicer, and thus, these other poets are beneath his idol.

Now when Jimmy approaches his art he takes this idea with him. He holds a pen in one hand, and Jack Spicer in the other, and begins to write. He soon finds he is not Jack Spicer. He has a different mind. He is a different person. We know this, but Jimmy doesn't. He thinks he is a bad poet.

Pretty soon, Jimmy takes his anger and frustration into the world with him. He cannot be what he wants as a poet, and therefore points fingers and makes classifications of the world around him. He sees a poem by Ann Waldman or Ted Berrigan or maybe even Jack's good friend, Robin Blaser, and begins to see similarities in style. He may even begin to correspond these poets as being close to his idol, Jack Spicer.

This in Jimmy's mind is equatable to good. Anything that is like the feeling that Jack Spicer gave him is good, and he walks with this feeling into the new poetic realms he encounters.

Now something interesting happens. Jimmy has spent so much time searching for other artists that create a similar feeling like his idol, Jack Spicer, that he no longer connects in the same way to his original idol. Now he is a fan of Ferdinand de Saussure or Ludwig Wittgenstein, because he has found their discussions on language fascinating, and he hopes to uncover a semblance of what is good in his own writing, by understanding the philosophical arguments of logocentrics and the interplay between text.

This leads Jimmy down many more years of grappling to understand good and bad, and trying to exhibit in his writing.

During this time, he has put forth many poems. In all, there are many that imitate his idols (for now there are many besides Spicer). There are some that sound very close to his original, and these he prizes above all others.

"This is what's good," he says.

And others, also inclined within the duality of good and bad, and the taste for such an aesthetic, agree with him.

"Yes," they say. "We agree."

This only perpetuates one idea to Jimmy. Jack Spicer is good, and he is shit. This continues to hurt his creative prowess, and he unknowingly believes it is strengthened. This sense of approval from his contemporaries, allows himsel a false sense of fullness, and he carries this into his next poems, continuing with the voice in which he has found approval.

If Jimmy is lucky, he will stop one day in his early 60's, turn around, and find himself no longer interested in the voice that he has so long cherished. Maybe, it is the death of his life partner or wife. Maybe, it was simply a death inside him. But, for some reason, Jimmy does not care to write like Jack Spicer anymore. In fact, he has no interest to write like anyone.

He writes several volumes of poetry. These are all published rather quickly. He finds himself a bit of a celebrity. He is being celebrated as good. He, by not caring or upholding his idol, found the veritable truth. He was writing for himself and no one else, and thus gave rise to a new idea, that he did not know what good or bad was all those years before.

Now, maybe, he reads his new volumes, or even pens his latest poem, and finds himself crying uncontrollably. At first, this seems strange to him, until he realizes, that the old ideas in him have fallen away. He is new and fresh and original and himself. He is outside the realm of good or bad.

Now if Jimmy had let go of his idol sooner, or had been given more encouragement for the work that was his (the lines that were simple and elegant, and became his trademark) he would have lived a happier or more productive life. Maybe. Who knows? He could have also, at the end of this story, not have ever discovered his truth, and died still holding Jack Spicer's Collected Works to his chest.

The point is that holding onto good or bad is a choice. It might serve its purpose for you to continue to uphold one or another artist, or a collective of artists, or a school of thought above any other. This is your choice.

It may also anger you that I say, Let go of these ideas. Let go and hold onto your truth.

Although it may seem kind to some for me to help Jimmy perceive new possibilities, there are those who do not not see it as kind. They do not want to see with their own eyes, because they have been in the habit of looking with someone else's.

I hope those of you who are beginning to see good and bad fall away, allow yourselves the full experience that you may offer your eyes to the person seated next to you, but not before you see your reflection in the night sky.

May we all die quickly to the Infinite,

Pirooz Mahmood Kalayeh