FOR THOSE OF YOU WHO'VE EVER SHARED A PASSION OR A CONNECTION with a grandparent, you gotta read this story my friend Eddie Elliott sent out to me and a bunch of other people in his address book last week:
 
When I was around 10 years old, my grandfather bought me a set of golf clubs that included a putter, 3,5,7,and 9 irons and a wooden driver. The bag was a hard, orange plastic container that had pockets for my tees and golf balls and loose change. I have a lasting childhood memory of taking my clubs to an open field down by the Anacostia river in Maryland and hitting golf balls and then finding them in the tall grass.

As I began to improve, my grandfather brought me down to Virginia where he lived with his wife Cleo. He used to drop me off at the Deer Run golf course in Newport News, VA and I would practice all day and play nine holes with some other kids. It was such a joy to be there and I never got bored. My grandfather would come pick me up after he finished working at the machine shop he owned. We would talk about the golf and how great it was and then head on home for dinner. In the morning, I would be up putting into one of those automatic return golf holes or whacking plastic balls in the yard. When I was with Granddad, it was almost always about golf. As a matter of fact, I asked him once, "Granddad, what would you do if you couldn’t golf anymore?" "Throw some dirt on me," he replied.

Over the years, Granddad and I played golf in Myrtle Beach, all over Virginia and Maryland, Florida, Arizona, and North Carolina. Granddad almost always paid my green fees and I always promised him I would do the same for my grandson. I truly believe we found love through the game of golf. My grandfather had thick skin as many people in his generation do and he was tough. I don’t mean in a fighting way, but in a personality way. He never held back his opinion even if it was hurtful. Sometimes it felt mean spirited, but other times it felt like what you needed to hear to light your ass on fire. Anyway, if it were not for golf, I am not sure Granddad and I would have spent so much time together because he could be so tough. We loved the game and competing against each other. He hated to lose. It took me about 10 years to finally beat him and I will never forget the day. I look back on that day with such a sense of pride that I finally defeated the man who taught me the game. My mother reminds me that he had had surgery a month earlier! Whatever mom, I still won.

To read the rest of this story—and really, why wouldn't you?—check out Eddie's MySpace blog here. And while you're at it, you should buy one of his CDs.

Until tomorrow! 

MY 11-YEAR-OLD NEPHEW IS A POET.

That's Noah lunging after Jack-o, the 6-year-old family comedian. A month or two ago we got to see Noah recite one of his poems at the local Barnes and Noble.  The fact that all the other kids in his class recited one of their poems, too, doesn't make Noah any less of a poet in my book.  And he's no less a poet in my eyes because all the other kids in the class also put together a laminated 9-poem "book" of poetry.

I gotta believe Noah's Promethean, Commotive, Adroit, Whimsical, Poetry Book is among the best. 

Then again, maybe my objectivity was compromised by the words on the 1st page of the book.  ("Dedicated to my Uncle Bobby.  You were an inspiration to me my whole life and have earned a spot in my heart.")  Or maybe I'm biased by the last poem in the book.  (It's titled simply:  "Bob Makela")

I think the kid is insightful and wise beyond his years, if not a little misguided in his choice of role models.  I'll let you be the judge.  What do you think of these?

Come With me Into a World

Come with me into a world,

Then you will see

The Darkness of writing

And the brightest of ideas,

Where believing is seeing,

Life is only a game,

An unlucky girl whose family

is her brother and sister.

Where greatness thrusts upon

your mind and all that is

thinking,

Where fantasy becomes

reality,

Where my idol becomes my

family,

In this world you can not be

hurt,

For once you enter there is no

turning back.

See it!  Believe it!  Do it!

I Hold in My Hand

I hold in my hand

An unknown universe

Sitting delicately in my very eager fingers

The darkness of the unknown is like a never ending nap but none where

you can move

The unknown is as unpredictable as the real is predictable

This universe is as gregarious and whimsical as anything you could ever

dream of

The unknown keeps me thinking, keeps my life fun, and keeps my world

mysterious.

Unknown, hermetic

Unknown, ensconced

Unknown, my dreams

Mr. Turk's Class Is...

Mr. Turk's Class is a robust bond

and mixture of

fourth and fifth graders.

Mr. Turk's Class is like an amiable monkey,

swinging on the vines of knowledge.

Mr. Turk's Class is like an extraordinary bird,

flying higher and higher

in the aquamarine colored sky.

Mr. Turk's class is a rocket ship of learning,

soaring into the space of minds.

Mr. Turk's Class is a magnificent star,

shining with gregarious smiles.

Mr. Turk's Class is an innovative

and amazing group of stupendous children

hoping for a great academic life.

Life

Life is a game,

In which we play.

Finding superb bonuses and also great tragedies.

Eternities to master but a great game indeed.

Believing

Believing is your mind playing your imagination.

Believing is when kids get set free from school and other

organized thinking.

Believing is putting all your thoughts into one.

Believing is knowing you can do something.

Believing is a gift.

Believing is making your imagination true.

Believing is hearing Saint Nick land on your roof.

Believing is seeing.

Behind this face

Behind this face

There is greatness

The greatness that will lead my future

And greatness that will guide me to success and

happiness

My greatness will keep me and everyone who

appreciates me happy

Violet

Innovative, adroit, daring, caring

Benevolent sister of Klaus and Sunny

Lover of family, inventing, and lavender hair

ribbon

Who feels compulsion, worry and leadership

Who needs a mom and dad, a livable home, and a

foolproof escape plan

Who shares inventions, ideas and love

Who fears Count Olaf, horrific house fires, and

the rest of the writing in the Snicket file

Who would like to see her parents, her habitable

mansion, and Count Olaf in jail.

Resident of Series of Unfortunate Events.

Baudelaire

A Beautiful Night of Your Own

I wish you, I wish you

I wish you these wishes:

Swinging from star to star,

Bouncing from cloud to cloud,

Sleeping in the crescent of the moon.

I wish you a beautiful night of your own.

I wish you, I wish you

Great mysteries to discover,

Woods to venture in and a nice nap on a

cloud of dreams.

I wish you a beautiful night of your own.

I wish you, I wish you

Great treasures to savor,

Great big trees to climb in,

Jumping from planet to planet.

I wish you a beautiful night of your own.

Bob Makela

I am Bob Makela

Pushed by my adventurous mind

I have seen more than most people in one lifetime

I hear songs of life and fun

I feel countless success and failures

I smell the savory fresh air in the morning from California to

Boston

I taste all the luscious food of the country

I am an idol waiting to be recognized

Bob Makela, adventurous

Bob Makela, free spirited

Bob Makela, inspirational

.

..

...

So how 'bout that?  I'd say that about sums it up.  At least in the mind of one 11-year-old in Temecula. 

DO YOU LIKE MY PAINTING?

About a month ago Tamale and I finally busted out my box of acrylic paints and brushes and spent a Saturday evening painting a trio of canvases.  My other creation from that night was "messy love," the painting featured in yesterday's post.  You may think they're not much.  You may even think they're crap.  And there was a time when that would've bothered me.

But these days I realize that the satisfaction is in the doing.  There's simple bliss in the creating.  Whether or not other people like it, while it would be nice, should be irrelevant.  Especially if I like it.  And in the case of these two paintings, I do like them.  I've never studied art, never felt comfortable with my ability to draw, never took an art class in college (I'm a little ashamed to say). 

Yet I appreciate art.  I know several talented artists.  One of my dreams is to build a conscientious, artist-friendly empire in which I help my various creative friends and contacts—painters, poets, musicians, writers, filmmakers—get their work seen and appreciated by as many people as possible.  I want to do for my artist friends what Oprah does for every author whose book she chooses for her book club.

Since I know so many talented artists of many stripes, it'd be easy to get intimidated.  Who am I to think I can paint when I've seen the stuff my friend Joseph in Santa Fe has painted?  Or my friends Laura and Amy in Little Rock?  Or my friend Zack in Iowa? 

But rather than get discouraged and question my abilities, I'm inspired to paint.  Just like my musician friends inspire me to play music, despite the gap between our skills.  It's like that with anything, really.  There are gonna be some people who are simply phenomenal at what they do.  Then there's the rest of us, who can either scurry off and refuse to dive in because we might never be that good.  Or if you're like me, you say 'Screw it, I'm gonna enjoy doing this—no matter how much my stuff sucks.'

And then one day you realize your stuff doesn't suck.  At least some of the time.

There's always beauty in the effort.

.

..

... 

Speaking of effort, I put in a little—okay, maybe 13 minutes worth—when I wrote this poem on the first day of the year.  I figure tax day's as good a day as any to dig it out and reflect.  From the pages of my poetry journal...

abundance

this year

i will live large

think big

be fearless

and give

this year

i will not make excuses

because there will be no need

to make excuses

this year

i will meditate

and marinate

in creativity

and the kingdom of my mind

this year

i will love

selflessly

honestly

with a full heart

this year

i will write

consistently

daily

because i have

so much to say

this year

will be like no other

as my wisdom

and will to nurture

and be nurtured

flourishes

into a bright light

of hope

for all

humanity

                           1.1.08
 

IT'S BEEN OVER 15 YEARS SINCE I TOOK OUT MY PEN, CAME UP WITH SOME INANE, nonsensical title for a poem that I wrote on a cocktail napkin at the S.F. Saloon in West LA before sliding said napkin and pen over to my friend Jon, with the admonition to "write a poem to fit that title."

A decade and a half later, Barstool Poetry is the idea that won't die. 

In 1997 it inadvertantly got me a $50,000 advance from Bantam Books to go barhopping around America for 100 days.  A few years ago it led to my one and only feature story published in Maxim, after I pitched Barstool Poetry as "the greatest idea ever invented for meeting women in bars." 

And now—11 years after embarking on my Great American Pub Crawl for the Great American Memoir I've yet to finish—there's a good possibility I might be getting paid to barhop around America yet again for 3 months.  Producing and starring in an internet "reality show" called, you guessed it, Barstool Poetry.  And the same agent who sold my Barstool Poetry-inspired book idea in 1997 thinks he can sell another book for me, this one a collection of Barstool Poetry gathered during this year's 3-month late-summer road trip to the bars of America.

What's most amazing to me is that all these projects were initiated by other people telling me I should do something with the idea.  I haven't been banging down doors, hustling all over LA trying to get folks interested in Barstool Poetry and all its possibilities.  These things have either fallen in my lap or been gently forced upon me. 

Which is why it's starting to feel like Fate.

With this renewed interest in Barstool Poetry lately, I decided to bust out my flimsy box of Barstool Poetry materials, including the 300+ barstool poems I collected throughout the '90s.  It's been such an interesting experience reading over these things that I've decided to self-publish the first collection of poems.  The working title—Barstool Poetry:  The Early Years.  The selection will feature nothing but the barstool poems I wrote, inspired and/or gathered up throughout 1990s SoCal in places like Manhattan Beach, Venice, West LA, Hollywood.

Going through my piles of weathered napkins I came across more than a few that I found funny, poignant, bitter, crude, wise, absurd—but rarely boring.  Here's a brief cross section of 13 that I found interesting.  Remember, the first step in Barstool Poetry is coming up with a title to pass on to a friend or stranger.  Watch where these minds stray when presented with a challenging title.  Cheers!

girdle neck sweater

chicken neck

goose neck

turtle neck soup,

choke the geek

that can't get the scoop.

but he who wears the

               girdle neck sweater

walks on water like a stray

                           duck feather.

another delicate balance

the need to

impress

should never

digress

that certain insecurity

gives love a purity

that does not fade

however oft i'm laid.

total, unquestioning, and

blind love

is a slavery

of sorts

YET

to feel constantly judged

is an emaciating nudge

toward resentment.

but what do i know...

it is a balance

i have not struck

not that it's luck...

just an indefinable...

the heart insufficient

the heart is not

insufficient

everything you need

is there—

look for it!

a barfly's last fling

long hair, short hair

nails painted pretty

hats to cover bald spots

isn't it a pity?

halter tops and lacy bras

capped teeth, sheer red g-strings

what a drag, we'll be dead one day

the last great empty fling

why does every other girl look like heidi fleiss?

becuz this is thee 90's

and all men look like ito

or o.j.

or jordan

or madonna

or clinton

or bush

or beaver

or leave it

i quit!

everyone's famous!

even jeffrey maier.

wet spot's on my side again

ink spots

age spots

hot spots

g-spots

for a week

the spots

were angry

with me for

befriending

the lines

foul lines

poverty lines

pickup lines

straight lines

but the lines

took a turn

for

the worse

and became

a curve

and once again

my heart

belongs

to those solid circles

i've got the

wet spots

on my side

again

illustrious dirt

i've heard it

you know

in the dark corners

of the bar

potential

wasted

collar blue

opportunity lost

is it really

you?

but i wear it

the grime

as my sweat

streaks it definite

my stance resolute

i've abandoned my breeding

i'm a workinghorse brute

i knew those nose hairs were for something

o' what a tangled web

they weave

the spiders have their

tricks

but what have we,

us human freaks

to snare the

chicky-chicks?

we've got the hairs

to keep the snot

from oozing

on the lips

inferior are we

to the insect world

with our nose hairs

and smelly pits

alien comedians

what is this—

an audience

or a plan 9

zon neuron

artificial audience enhancer?

those alien comedians

weren't too funny

but, boy, those fuckers

could party

song of the 'bago

supermodels discuss their diets

while deep in bosnia

kids die in riots

they paint their nails

and read their elle

while from the rear

there comes a smell

the rotting implants

will rot in hell

for soon enough

they'll face the truth

when long legs become

long in the tooth

interaction

playing trained games

as if it

were of their own

free will,

unaware

of their role in the

perpetuation of the

societal machine,

using rehashed lines

as if they were

of their own

imagination and making

the main goal being

propogation

of the species

and all of it

original and new

in the

mind of the beholder

not to be decried,

cynicized,

or even recognized.

please!

just accepted as yet another

cycle of the spiral

downward. 

i am one chic fuckin' wannabe cigar trend-sucker

maybe if

i suck

on this

nobody will notice

what i know

2 b true

i'm as fake as

tommy lee's wife's

t*ts

but

not as cute

in a bikini

the wet spot

i was movin' quick

well on the fly

ducked in a bar

"hey 'keep—i'm dry"

it came up fast

a j.d. beer back

i had to drink hard

no time for slack

over in the corner

i saw a dim-lit stool

but the bum adjacent

was breathing in drool.

the 'keep flagged me

said "how 'bout a shot?"

but i was making my way

for another wet spot.

songs unknown

my heart

is bankrupt

to the possibilities

of us

black and buried

beyond recognition

it's not your fault

our fate's been sealed

by a parade of imperfection

is it me or them

i ask myself

on a pillow of irrelevance

humming my songs

of solitude

to an audience

of one

again

I'VE BEEN ON A BIG KITE FLYING KICK IN THE LAST FEW DAYS.

I used to love to fly kites when I was a kid.  But for some reason I hadn't flown one in many, many years.  Not sure why.  Then a few weeks ago I won a raffle at my nephew Jack-o's Little League opening day carnival fundraiser.  In one of the two summer "gift baskets" I won a couple cheap kites—which the kids at Team Dewey proceeded to break while I was up in LA with Tamale.

I've been gone for the better part of 5 weeks.  I went on a pair of trips to Scottsdale, the first on a Greyhound to interview the guys from Flight of the Conchords (who were great, by the way—but more on that later).  The second trip to Scottsdale 3 weeks later was a little more swanky, as Tamale and I got a ride in the Mooney 4-seater airplane owned by Dr. Brian, my brother-in-law, who flew us out on a Friday and came back to get us the following Monday, after he'd flown back to LA from Tahoe that morning.  What a guy!  I'm blessed with a trio of solid brothers-in-law.

The reason we were going to Scottsdale this time was to give a couple New Orleans presentations, using photos, music, videos and letters to share my story of volunteering in the 9th Ward to about 40 people at a couple house parties hosted by my good friend Eddie Elliott and his wife Stephanie.  It was the same sort of double-bill, stories and music kind of experience we had back in '04, when I was the "opening act" for Eddie's musician friend Sim Flick, who once again drove out from San Diego—this time with his new wife, Allison, who I got to meet for the first time. It was great hearing Sim's new music—the man's got serious talent—and hanging out with the Elliotts and so many of their friends.  Plus, Tamale and I got to stay with Gentleman Jim once again, this time meeting his new girlfriend Shonda.  Love is in the air!

Meeting all these interesting new people and seeing old friends softened the blow after I realized that my New Orleans story needs work.  More focused storytelling.  Better editing of the photos and videos.  More Katrina facts at my disposal.  Better understanding of what I'm trying to say to my audience.

The last 5 weeks have also seen me fly to a Texas wedding with Tamale just outside of Austin.  (I could write a solid magazine article, at least, about that trip.)  Speaking of magazine articles, I've written and turned in 4 freelance pieces since our last posting.  And I've even played Mr. Bob at a couple elementary schools since I got back to Temecula 5 days ago.  I also got an offer, albeit a low-ball offer, to produce and star in Barstool Poetry, an online reality show featuring regular 3 min. "episodes" that would take me out into the bars of America this summer. Oh, and I started Power 90...again.

Here's what my day's looking like tomorrow:  I'm writing an obituary on Roy Scheider for the Emmy website;  I'm working on my book proposal for Barstool Poetry, which SuperAgentSteve at Writer's House seems to think has the potential to be the next PostSecret; I'm researching a certain iconic rock star in preparation for a treatment I've been asked to write for a very accomplished documentary producer; and I'm doing some digging for the LA Weekly piece I'm writing on the late, great Killer Dana—the once epic-surfspot-turned-chronically-polluted-beach where I learned to surf 40 years ago.  Not to mention the regular handful of emails to return and phone calls to make.

Yes, things are still flowing nicely on our end.  

Especially when we're taking the time to fly kites.  With or without the kiddies.
 

 
IT'S 2:25 IN THE MORNING AND IT MIGHT BE ONE OF THOSE ALL-NIGHTER NIGHTS.

An hour or 2 ago I was all gung ho on the idea.  But now my eyelids are heavy and I'm feeling slightly groggy.  So if there are any erroneous misspellings, antonymnal mistakes or stupid syntax blame it on the fatigue. 

I'd happily call it a night right now and be asleep by 3, but I don't know when I'm gonna have the time to write and post anything fresh these next few days.  And I couldn't bear the thought of the thankless 13 going another Monday without a new Bountiful Bob story to ponder the rest of the week.

Besides, what's flowing through my life these days is too sweet to keep from you people.  So here's the abridged version, seriously truncated due to the fact that my cell phone alarm is set for 6:30 to make sure I catch my 9am Greyhound bus to Phoenix.  (The all-nighter idea has been ditched in lieu of 3 hours sleep.)

Things have been flowing quite nicely for me lately. 

Excellent things have been afoot for a while now, actually.  My rekindled Human Good Luck Charm mojo picked up last November when I walked into a 5-year-old's birthday party with my girlfriend in Elgin, Texas.  A bunch of the dads—most of whom went to high school with Tamale—were drinking beers and talking in the backyard, ignoring the UT game on the TV under the nearby patio.  Their beloved Longhorns were down by 21 at the end of the 3rd quarter and they were too annoyed with Colt McCoy and Mack Brown to tune in.  So they tuned out.

What they failed to realize was that The Human Good Luck Charm had just showed up to the party.

Now, I'm not taking credit for the Texas football team's 24 unanswered 4th quarter points, culminating in a last second, game ending field goal to put the Longhorns over the top on the road at Oklahoma State.  One of the most amazing football comebacks I've ever seen.  The fact that this amazing comeback pretty much began the moment we showed up and began paying attention to the TV doesn't mean we had anything whatsoever to do with the win.

I'm just sayin'..

Anyway, that little experience re-energized my Human Good Luck Charm juices.  And the flow has been blowing quite nicely ever since, thank you very much.  In fact, that's part of the reason I'm going to Arizona tomorrow.  In the last month I've gotten 8, yes EIGHT, freelance writing assignments.  One of the assignments is to interview the guys from Flight of the Conchords for Emmy Magazine.  And since they're not gonna be in LA anytime soon I've opted to get an eye contact chat rather than plumb their psyches in a phone interview. 

As the piece is a modest 300-word Q&A, an expensed flight to Arizona and a few nights at the Scottsdale Hilton wasn't in the cards.  So I unilaterally decided to endure an 8 1/2 hour bus ride to Phoenix to make it happen, which speaks to how much I love this show—and how happy I am to have an excuse to hang out with my Scottsdale friends Eddie and Gentleman Jim, who's offered to let me sleep on his new spare bed and borrow his car to get to my interview with Bret and Jemaine.  (Sadly, the Conchord's manager, Murray, wasn't invited.  To the interview.  Or Jim's place.)

.

..

... 

Okay, it's after 3 and I still haven't told you about what the UTA agent said about my reality TV treatment for "Barstool Poetry" last week.  (Loved it...gonna talk it up to their new head of reality TV from CAA...wants to meet this week.) 

I also failed to mention what happened to me yesterday, when I rolled over and tapped Tamale on the shoulder before we both nodded out for a nap.

"I think we should get up and go pick up my raffle prizes," I tell her, sleepy but resolute.  I say this knowing that I've got 11 $1.00 tickets mixed in with hundreds, possibly even thousands, of other tickets purchased by the scores of suckers, er, parents and assorted adults at my nephew Jack-o's Little League opening day extravaganza this morning.  (I did my first opening day victory lap with "my team" in about 33 years, thanks to my irregular gig as Assistant Coach Bob for the mighty Temecula Red Sox.)

An hour after I'd coaxed Tamale into nixing our nap in favor of going back out into the chilly Temecula afternoon, not 1 but 2 of my 11 $1.00 raffle tickets had won me a nice little carnival bounty, much to the dismay of dozens of little leaguers and their empty-handed parents.  My booty included a pair of relatively expensive "gift baskets" that were actually more like "gift buckets" (full of tools—drills, staple gun, screwdrivers, wrenches, tape measure, etc.) and "gift coolers"  (full of beach fun—frisbee, umbrella, kites, giant bubble makers, much-needed cooler-on-wheels, etc.).

It was strange.  Somehow I knew I'd win at least 1 of those 2 dozen gift baskets.  That's how much I'm in the flow these days.  Workin' the purple.  Tapping into The Secret.  Calling on the Law of Attraction.  Call it what you will.  I even had a hunch I'd win TWO of those unusual, yet quite useful, raffle items yesterday.  Even though most folks ended up going home with zilch as I walked back to Tamale's car with my booty.  Not to mention all the people who bought tickets in the morning and said, "Screw it, I'm not waiting around 'til they pull the winning tickets at 2.  It's too damn cold out here!"

Oh, and Kim, the team mom on Jack-o's team of 6-, 7- and 8-year-olds that I've agreed to help coach—the woman who gave me and Jack-o a ride home from practice a few days ago—she won 2 big "gift basket" raffle prizes as well.  We were the only people there who won more than a single raffle item.

The Human Good Luck Charm strikes again.
 

.

..

... 

Alright, this is ridiculous. It's almost 3:30.  Now I'll be lucky if I get 2 1/2 hours of sleep. 

And I still haven't packed yet.  Shite!

This should be interesting.

I'll tell you about those other 7 freelance assignments soon.  And about my friend Bug-Z and how this documentary that he finished last year is causing lots of crazy stuff (good crazy) to be happening in his life right now. (Maybe my finest hour yet in The Human Good Luck Charm mojo.)

Geez, I just got another glance at the clock...3:33.  I've gotta hit the rack.  I'm off to fly with the Conchords tomorrow.

Or today.

Actually, it IS tomorrow.  As in Tuesday tomorrow.

Whatever.

Sunday night is officially over.  Hello, Monday.

The flow is flowin'.

The Phoenix has risen. 

Good night now.

Until we meet in Arizona....
 

A WEEK AGO I GOT AN EMAIL FROM MY CANADIAN FRIEND, DR. RODGER, INVITING me to something called "Love is the Movement" on Facebook.

What the hell is "Love is the Movement" you ask?  And more specifically, why did I have  LOVE written on my arm when I went to teach a 4th/5th grade combo class of about 50 kids today?

That's exactly what the kids in my classroom wanted to know.  So before I had them dive into a language arts assignment in which they had to copy edit a paragraph riddled with typos and then rewrite it in cursive, I took about 13 minutes to explain just why Mr. Bob had LOVE written on the inside of his hairy forearm.  Here's what I told them:

"Last week a friend of mine sent me an email describing this cool idea someone had.  The idea started because someone realized that around Valentine's Day every year lots of people get depressed.  In fact, studies have shown that something like one in every five teenagers will at some point suffer from depression.

"Think about that.  That means out of 55 kids in this class, 11 of you are likely to suffer from depression at some point.

"And there might be all kinds of reasons why you suffer from depression:  things are tough at home...kids pick on you at school...you're feeling lonely...no one ever listens to you.  I, personally, felt very depressed at certain stages of my teenage years.

"And Valentine's Day tends to trigger depression for a lot of people.  They might feel bad because they don't have a boyfriend or a girlfriend or anyone who listens to them.  And if you're a teenager, Valentine's Day can be especially hard.

"So someone came up with the idea to have as many people as possible write the word LOVE on their arm.  As a way to let all those people who feel sad and lonely on Valentine's Day know that there are people in the world who love them and care about them and that they shouldn't feel bad.  It's a way of showing support to the people—especially teenagers—who might be feeling bad around Valentine's Day."

I went on to talk to the kids about the importance of having compassion and I taught them the concept of empathy.  And while I was in the middle of my talk, the most amazing thing happened.  Nearly every kid in the classroom reached into their desk and grabbed a sharpie.  Within minutes almost all of them had written LOVE on their arms.  Some of them on both arms, their hands, even their shoes.

It was a beautiful thing to see.  But I also felt a disclaimer was necessary.

"Listen, you guys," I told the class. "I think it's awesome that you are spreading the love.  But I don't want you to go home from school today and tell your parents—'Mr. Bob told me to write LOVE on my arm.'  I was simply sharing my story with you about why I had written LOVE on my arm.  So it's important that you're able to articulate and clearly explain why I did it."

Before long what became clear is that for the 40+ kids who'd be telling their parents why they came home from school with LOVE written on their arms, there'd be 40 different versions of why Mr. Bob had inspired them to write on their arm with a sharpie.  Like 40 different versions of the old game "Telephone."

"What are you gonna tell your parents tonight?" I asked the kids.

"We wrote LOVE because teenagers are depressed."

"Valentine's Day makes people sad and this will help them."

"Eleven kids in our class will be depressed when they get to high school."

Geez, I hope I don't get fired for this.  But I gotta believe that somewhere amid the LOVE and compassion lecture and various moments of innocuous misunderstanding, something positive was sinking in with some of those kids beyond the ink that had temporarily tattooed their arms and clothes on this glorious 13th day of February.
 

“Any society that would give up a little liberty to gain a little security will deserve neither and lose both.”
                                                                                                                       ~Benjamin Franklin

LAST NIGHT I BECAME LIVID WATCHING THE REPUBLICAN DEBATE ON MSNBC. 

As anyone who knows me will attest, I’m not one to get riled up too easily.  I’ve been described most of my life as “mellow,” “patient” and “laid back.”  About the only time I ever raise my voice and get visibly frustrated is when I’m confronted with rude, inept drivers in the heat of soul crushing, time killing traffic.

Otherwise, I’m about as chill as they come.

But last night had me wanting to chuck the remote at the TV.  And I wasn’t so much provoked by what most of the candidates were saying—although most of them seemed as crooked as ever, pandering for votes and generally trotting out the usual empty campaign rhetoric that rarely has anything to do with what they actually foist on the American people once they get in office.

Who can forget George Bush’s infamous proclamation that “I’m a uniter, not a divider” who was “not into nation building” back during the 2000 presidential campaign? 

What a steaming crock o’ shite that turned out to be.

No, it wasn’t the half-truths and empty promises spewing forth from most of the candidates last night that got my blood boiling.  It was the media’s dismissive treatment of the one seemingly competent, honest candidate that had me seething—the one guy in the Republican who is inspiring the apathetic, waking up the disillusioned and drawing enthusiastic supporters from both parties into his campaign.

How is that in a debate comprised of 5 candidates, the amount of air time and the number of questions given to each candidate is supremely unbalanced.  Mitt Romney, who the post-debate “experts” hailed as the “winner,” got over 3 times as much air time as Ron Paul?  In fact, ALL the candidates, according to all the online numbers I saw, got at least more than twice the air time and twice the number of questions Dr. Paul got.  (And this is a guy who came in 2nd in both the Nevada primary and the Louisiana caucus during the past week.)

But that was just the beginning.  The post-debate coverage was even more skewed.  I was so enraged I posted the following response on the MSNBC message board, something I’ve never been moved to do.  But last night was just despicable and I had to weigh in with my take on the latest pathetic example of modern “journalism.”


“What a joke!  Tonight's debate coverage was the most appaling display of censorship I've ever witnessed from any network outside of FOX.  I wasted over an hour watching the post-debate "analysis," waiting for some mention of Ron Paul—who, if I'm not mistaken, was one of the 5 candidates at the debate.  Every single one of the other candidates was either interviewed or talked about at length.  The first and only time Dr. Paul's name was even mentioned came at the very end of the broadcast, when he couldn't be ignored any longer by simple virtue of the fact that in MSNBC's text poll—which Chris Matthews was quick to point out was "hardly scientific"—Dr. Paul received a whopping 40% of the votes...while 3 of the other 4 candidates were in the single digits.  And when he was forced to reveal the numbers, Chris Matthews chuckled smugly, called Dr. Paul's supporters "legion", then promptly moved on to the next subject.  A disgusting, sad display of objective journalism.  I'll be sure to avoid MSNBC indefinitely when I go looking for any honest reporting.  You should be ashamed of yourselves.  And let's see how quickly they pull my comments from the message board.

Oh, and one more reason why tonight's post-debate analysis had me screaming at the TV and jonesing for some honest, objective coverage.  Did anyone notice how every time they flashed the poll results from two different newspapers—the St. Petersburg Times and another paper I've never heard of—only the numbers from FOUR candidates were shown.  Ron Paul's numbers were never once included.  How does MSNBC justify this?  Were his numbers so low, was he so far behind, that he didn't even deserve a mention?  Then I crunched the numbers and realized that the percentages for the 4 "deserving" candidates in one poll added up to 87%—which means we can assume Dr. Paul got the remaining 13%, which is exactly what Huckabee received.  The other poll was even more alarming.  The numbers for the 4 listed "front runners" added up to 78%—which presumably left the remaining 22% to Dr. Paul, which would've put him in 3rd place behind McCain's 25% and Romney's 23%.  The omission of Ron Paul from these poll numbers is yet another smoking gun in the case of the corporate media vs. the truth and the will of the people.  I'll be letting everyone I know understand just how corrupt MSNBC is when it comes to being objective.  I thought Fox had cornered the market in this stuff.  How wrong I was.”

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If you’re not watching how the mainstream media is spinning and manipulating this election you need to wake up and pay attention.  I’m so pissed that these people are telling me who does and doesn’t have a chance to win—a full 9+ months before election day.  Screw that.  There are literally MILLIONS of us in this country whose voices have yet to be heard and whose votes have yet to be counted.  How can these "journalists"—who failed us so miserably in their reporting on the Bush administration and their complicity in this unjust war—possibly know who does and doesn't have a chance to win the presidency in January?! 

In 9 months the Ron Paul revolution will give birth to a new era in politics.  The man and his ideas—for ending the war in Iraq immediately, for one—will transform this country in ways we’ve never seen before.

At least that’s my BOBtimystic spin on things. 

Do your research.  Engage in conversation.  Ask questions.  Don’t be brainwashed.  And don’t buy into the manipulation perpetuated by corporate media puppets who are NOT looking out for the best interests of most Americans.  As Steve Earle sings in one of my favorite songs in recent memory:

“The revolution starts now—in your own backyard, in your own hometown.”





 

BACK WHEN I WAS AN UP-AND-COMING WRITER IN HOLLYWOOD I HAD A BIGSHOT literary agent lay into me for wanting to pursue a career in screenwriting and sitcoms. "Pick one and focus," Elliott advised me. "You don't wanna spread yourself too thin. You wanna work hard and make a name for yourself in one area. Find your niche."

Twenty years later I'm utterly convinced I've still got at least a few solid screenplays in me. And writing for a show like Six Feet Under or Entourage would be great and not beyond my abilities. I still think that those career paths have the potential to flourish at some point during my lifetime.

But what's different today is that these things are no longer the be-all/end-all for me. Because as I get older, I'm consistently stumbling onto new things that intrigue and excite me—writing songs, telling stories, publishing books, making videos, photography, painting, graphic design. Even farming, for crying out loud!

It sometimes seems a little ridiculous how many things I'm interested in. Various people in my past have made negative comments about my rampant curiosity and hunger for creative outlets. For some, these were just pretty words for "unfocused" and "undisciplined." But my girlfriend, God bless her, she is a continuing source of radiant energy, with wise, positive spins on just about every situation. Especially the ones where I'm used to hearing resistance.

Like 2 days ago. When I told her that, as of today, I'm gonna seriously think about going around to different schools talking to language arts classes about writing and poetry, equipped with my stories, my kids' books, my guitar and my goofy songs.

"Noah's teacher said her school hired some guy to talk to her classes and they paid him $1200 bucks for the day!," I excitedly told Tamale on Friday. "She told me I should seriously look into doing it. How fun would that be?"

I wouldn't have blamed Tamale for scoffing upon hearing of yet another one of my ideas for creatively making a buck. The potential, as more than one person has reminded me, is to end up with a string of half-completed projects.

Instead, sweet, wise Tamale reminded me that all these various projects don't have to be viewed as a threat to one another.  "They're all connected," she reminded me.  "Don't look at them as being separate or like one thing is taking you from another.  They're all part of the big picture.  You're exactly where you need to be.  And you'll do what's supposed to get done when it's supposed to get done."

At least, that's what I think she said.  Or something very similar.

The bottom line is, she confirmed my suspicions about this new side business.  Could be very cool.  And it doesn't have to keep me from doing the other things I want to do.

Another possible creative option practically falling in my lap. How sweet it is!

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I knew I might be on to something Friday afternoon out on the schoolyard at lunch. I had just finished my 2nd and final "presentation" of the day to Ms. Skoom's pair of 5th grade writing classes, which I think went pretty well. Well enough for my host to suggest I think about making a living doing this sort of thing, a potentially lucrative and highly gratifying idea that suddenly had my wheels spinning.

After that little jolt of encouragement, I went outside, guitar case in hand, to say goodbye to my 11-year-old nephew. But before I had a chance to spot Noah on the soccer field, I was intercepted by a group of 5th grade girls who'd sat through my "writer guy" schtick.  After we talked for a bit, the girls were eager to share their writing class-mandated nicknames with me. 

At the start of 5th grade each kid adopts an adjective nickname for the entire year that fits their personality. So while I waited to get Noah's attention before heading home, I hung out with "Philanthropy" (the chatty teacher's daughter), "Chic" (the girl in Ugg boots) and "Whimsical" (the shy Hispanic girl). 

What a brilliant way for kids to expand their vocabularies.

Anyway, minutes later Noah—a.k.a. "Commotive"—had quit his regular lunchtime soccer game and was hounding me into pulling out my guitar.

"C'mon," he pleaded. "I really wanna play the harmonica."

I love this kid's enthusiasm.  He doesn't even play harmonica.  But he's eager to dive into a little improv jam session, while his buddy P.J. jumps in with my purple percussion egg.  (P.J. is a robust, good-natured Pechenga Indian kid with a braided ponytail halfway down his back who introduces himself as "Noah's bodyguard."  As if every 5th grade student council president needs a bodyguard.)

When Noah begs for a schoolyard jam session, a few of the kids who sat through "The Onion Song" less than an hour earlier begin clamoring for one more performance.  I had already played the song to both classes, screwing up the lyrics and missing a chord change or 2 for each class.  Still, the kids seemed to like it.  A few even asked if the song was on iTunes and said they'd buy it if it was.

So that was the mojo we were working when Noah convinced me to bust out my trusty borrowed Ibanez (thanks Eddie) and break into a rousing version of "No Onions, Please"—complete with enthusiastic harmonica work and a steady percussion egg beat from a pair of music novices from Ms. Skoom's 5th grade writing class.

When we started the song there were probably a half dozen kids around us.

But by the end of the first stanza—which we rocked pretty hard, I must say—I looked out through my sunglasses and saw kids swarming towards us from every direction, dozens of children literally running to listen to our impromptou performance.  It was truly one of the strangest sights I'd ever witnessed in my life.  (The first image that came to mind was of a fallen piece of pie at a picnic being converged upon by an army of ants.  But I didn't like that metaphor.  It was more somewhere between the Pied Piper, JC happening upon a flock of devotees and George Harrison walking through Golden Gate Park during the Summer of Love.)

Granted, my moment in the sun was of a much smaller magnitude than what those 3 fine men experienced.  Still, I couldn't help but laugh at my micro-taste of what it feels like to incite a gathering crowd.

But as it so often happens in my life—to an almost absurd degree—my flow got interrupted.  (Which I've gotten much better at accepting over the years.)  This time it was the lunch bell.  I would've powered through to the end, but I didn't want to be the inappropriate rock 'n roller and keep the kids from getting back to their classes.  Especially with the eyes of the principal staring down from the small hill just behind me.

So I cut short my performance and left the crowd wanting more.  Let 'em buy the song off iTunes.

Then I walked home, guitar in hand, dreaming of the day when Mr. Bob was pulling in $1300 bucks a day for teaching kids about writing and poetry and living with gusto.

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Friday was the 3rd day I'd ever been invited to speak to a class about writing.  The last time occured when today's photo was taken. 

Back in the fall of 2003 I spent a week at the home of my friend GC's Aunt Lisa in Virginia, who I'd never met before I showed up at her little-used side door one Monday night.  Lisa's son, Cutter, was studying screenwriting, Thoreau and non-conformity at HB-Woodlawn, his progressive high school in Arlington.  (In Newsweek's 2006 ranking of the top 1,300 high schools in America, "HB" ranked #13—down from #5 the previous year.)  After hearing my story, Cutter went to school and asked his language arts teacher if I could come and speak to the class about my personal relationship with writing and nonconformity, seeing as how I was in the midst of wandering around the country in my VW bus for a yet-to-be-determined length of time.

In one of those delicious coincidences that seem to crop up in my life with great regularity, I came home Friday—after my first invitation to address a language arts class since the Thoreau-inspired trip to HB-Woodlawn more than 4 years ago—only to find Thoreau reappearing in my world later that night.  Remember that gift I got for Christmas, Wisdom of the Ages: 60 Days to Englightenment, the excellent Wayne Dyer book that uses a passage or poem from a different author every day to illustrate a different concept that will lead the reader to blissful enlightenment?  (Or not.)

Well, after my inspiring day in Noah's class, I got to thinking about my gratifying experience at that Virginia high school—which is why I couldn't help but smile when I opened up my Wayne Dyer book and saw the theme for the day.

"Nonconformity."

Once again, it all comes full circle.  Cue the Louis Armstrong:

"What a wonderful worrrrrrrrld..."

I leave you now with a little Thoreau, a personal hero of mine.  This is the passage that introduced Friday's chapter on nonconformity:

"If a man does not keep pace with his companions, perhaps it is because he hears a different drummer.  Let him step to the music he hears, however measured and far away."

Indeed, indeed.

TODAY'S PIC IS FROM THE LIVING ROOM IN TAMALE'S NEW APARTMENT. Yesterday was her/our first night in the place. Verrrry exciting.

Last night and this morning we walked around Glendale, excited to discover a multitude of excellent neighborhood nuggets within a 3-block radius from Tamale's upstairs 1-bedroom unit. From the YMCA—with a full-scale health club and heated pool—half a block away. To the post office around the corner. There's a Whole Foods AND a Trader Joe's within walking distance. Over 13 movie theaters, various ethnic restaurants, Borders, Staples and a slew of other shopping options. Plus, Ernie and Gloria live 2 blocks away.

The Great Glendale Experiment is looking like it'll be an awesome experience.

After 2 weeks up here in LA, though, it's time for me to head back to Temecula. I've been asked to speak to a couple 5th grade writing classes on Friday at my nephew Noah's school. Then it's back to teaching, trying to drum up some freelance magazine work, writing and editing the New Orleans anthology and...

...well, another crazy show biz opportunity—let's call it a possibility—has landed in my lap. The following passage from this email I sent to a friend sums it up pretty well:

"A few days before Christmas I went into UTA, one of the big talent agencies, to screen [The Shot Heard Around the World, my friend Bug-Z's] film, since he lives in New York and can't come out for every meeting. To make a long story short, after 45 minutes of debating the merit's of Bug-Z's non-disclosure agreement, the two agents never watched the documentary. But one of the agents asked me how I knew Steve, the literary agent in La Jolla who introduced us. I told him how Steve sold my book idea years ago, how the idea was me traveling around America, barhopping, talking about love, barstool poetry, blah, blah, blah... Anyway, two minutes later the guy is walking me upstairs to meet the agent who runs the UTA reality TV department. 'You gotta hear this,' he says by way of introducing me to some young guy in $100 jeans named 'Frooz'. 'Tell me this isn't a great fucking reality TV idea!' "

On Monday I emailed the two-page treatment the agents eagerly requested that day. We're still waiting to hear back from them. We'll keep you posted on where all this leads.

And so goes the start of my new year.

How's your 2008 going so far?

SO I'VE BEEN WORKING ON THIS TUNE...

It's called "2growLOVE."  What do you think?

It's a simple little song with big ideas.  Only 3 chords.  But so were most of the Ramones best songs.  Many a reputable folk and rock tune have utilized a mere 3 chords.  Neil Young.  Rolling Stones.  Tom Waits.  John Lennon.   Masters of the 3 chord classic.

Anyway, I like my new tune.  Thanks to some inspired writing and the D, C and G chords.

Here are the lyrics:

2growLOVE

land of abundance
from sea to shining sea
still we can’t get the people
their food
your lust for the bombs
is so seriously wrong
you sell fear on a cross
a hate stew
reputation worldwide
black and blue
if we don’t clean up this mess
we’re all screwed
we gotta open our eyes
and don’t apologize
for the truth
for the truth

disaster relief
compounding the grief
sunk by heartless
government tools
in new orleans and iraq
souls are under attack
when will we start helping
our own
instead of throwing dick cheney
a bone?
don't rot from apathy
turn off your phone!
we gotta storm the gates
do whatever it takes
to grow love
2 grow love

you work and you suffer
a solitude surfer
they never quite give you
your due
they talk but don’t listen
it’s love that they’re missin’
they buy and they buy
but still blue
please tell me why
this is true
feel like no one’s listening
to you
things have gotta change
or this golden age
will be through
we’ll be through

there’s darkness descending
on your every nerve ending
but there’s state-sanctioned help
for your pain
you’re hooked on the pills
and sensory overkill
but i’m believin’ that change
is coming soon
a big dose of love
trumps doom
let kindness flow
and love blooms
i truly do believe
that we’re starting to see
the truth light
the truth light
as bad as things may seem
there are millions whose souls
still burn bright
they burn bright
as bad as things may seem
there are countless souls
who burn bright
you burn bright
i burn bright
they burn bright
you burn bright
you burn bright
we burn bright

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You like? 

It started with a rhythm guitar riff on October 4th.  By November 23rd we had a completed song.  I've decided to play it at least once every single day until I can consistently get through the whole thing without screwing up.  This one's definitely going in heavy rotation during The Great 13 Songs/13 Stories North American Tour '08.

Book your tickets now, folks.