If one were to take a superficial glance at your life, they would ignorantly call you one of the unluckiest bastards to ever live. They would say that bad luck follows you like the stink that follows Pig-Pen from the Peanuts comic strip. But I know better, Rodney King. I know better.

Up until tonight I too thought that you were living on borrowed time, and that it was only a matter of time before fate finally decided to give you a reprieve from this ill-fitting life of yours and send you to a better place — heaven or hell may qualify in this instance. But I read about what happened to you yesterday and now I know that you are not living on borrowed time. For you, sir, have all the time in the world.

I am now of the opinion that when those four cops were beating the shit out of you sixteen years ago, they were unknowingly beating immortality into you. With every baton blow, with every kick and taser, you were actually being pummeled into permanence. I equate you to the Tom Hanks character in the movie The Green Mile. You will out live us all, Rodney King. I hope you have a circus mouse to keep you company.

How did I come to such a preposterous conclusion? Well, it seems to me that over the years since the beating, you have several times called upon death to go mano y mano and each time you walked away the victor:

In 1991, two months after the beating, you were pulled over for having an excessively tinted windshield. Basically, you were like a man driving with his eyes closed. You knew then, didn’t you, Rodney King? You knew that death was your dreidel. You could play with it as you wished.

In 1992 you were arrested for driving while intoxicated. Another instance of you laughing in death’s face.

In 1993, while under the influence, you drove straight into the wall of a nightclub. What’s metal and concrete compared to immortality? Once again you scoffed, Rodney King.

You were again arrested for DUI in 1995 and for using the drug PCP in 2001. You taunt death, don’t you? Because you know. You and God have some kind of weird deal going on. You know why too, don”t you? Because no amount of money or fame can give you back the dignity four men and a videotape took away.

The run-ins with the law continue after the 2001 incident, but I think my point has been proven. You’re a ghost. Maybe I always knew it, but after what happened last night, I was convinced. You were shot, Rodney King. A shotgun went off and you were hit, and what did you do? You got on your bicycle and rode home. And not around the corner home. You were in San Bernardino and rode nearly five miles to your home in Rialto — on a friggin’ bicycle, Rodney King! Most would categorize that as the act of a dumbass. Most would have wondered why an ambulance wasn’t called at the scene or how a man who won $3.8 million dollars in a civil suit has to ride a bicycle home after being shot about the face, neck and back instead of jumping in his luxury car and driving to the nearest hospital. Most people would wonder if Dick Cheney was in any way involved. But not me. Cause I now know you are a ghost. Death is your bitch. And when I’m old and gray and the lights are growing dim, I will hear over my television how a 90 year old Rodney King set his nursing home on fire while drunk and high on angel dust, and gently wheeled himself out of the building and into the nearest bar.

Keep fighting, brother!

I got a request last week to play music by Susannah McCorkle. I have to admit that up until that point I really did not know who she was. I went out and searched for her music — luckily, Emusic.com is rife with it — and I really dug her sound. So, I will be adding her music this week.

I also went out and read up on Ms. McCorkle and discovered that she suffered from depression and took her life by jumping out of a window at the age of 55. Upon reading that, other names began to drift in and out of my head — Nick Drake, Phyllis Hyman, Elizabeth Hartman — all artists, all people who struggled with depression and lost the battle. Many believe that depression is a sort of phantom disease, a fabrication of one’s mind. “People who have it want to have it. Either that or they don’t have the balls or wherewithal to overcome it. And so they kill themselves. They take the easy way out.”

To be complete honest, I had no real idea of how devastating a disease depression can be until a few years ago. It can not only submerge the sufferer, but those who are even close to the maelstrom can be pulled in. It is not something that should be taken lightly or seen as a character flaw or a weakness or an attempt to avoid responsibility. For some, yes I do believe that they have the power to defeat it, or at least keep it at bay but choose not to. It can become a crutch just like any other debilitating disease. But for others…what man or woman in their rightest frame of mind chooses to leap from windows to ease their pain?

When I once told someone that I was going to see a therapist, their response was “I don’t understand this whole thing about going to see psychologists. In my day, when people got depressed, they just went to church and shouted a lot.” Sunday was for shouting, I guess. Monday through Saturday were the days for alcoholism, domestic abuse, extra-marital affairs — all the things that helped us along the way until we could return to church again on Sunday and shout it out. Then heart disease due to stress would creep in much too early and take us out of our misery. I’ve also read religious sites that seem to claim that depression is due to being too focused on oneself and not having enough of God in one’s life. However, if you read about the generosity and spirit of Phyllis Hyman, you know that can’t be true.

I can’t say I understand it completely. I can’t say that I know of the best way to treat it. Each one must follow their own path. I can say, however, that when people say, “It’s all in your head,” they don’t know the half of it.

I’ve been rather busy these last few months, traveling, hanging out with friends, sort of rediscovering who I am and who I used to be. So, admittedly, my times of leisure have been few and far between. As a result, my magazines, books I want to read and other periodicals have been piling up around the house. The problem is I am usually willing to toss them out except for the fact that there is one article that I just have to read. So, one month becomes two and two becomes three, and before I know it, I have a mountain of reading material to sift through, all the while wondering if I ever will.

Well, it is the holiday season and like every year I have stockpiled a few weeks of vacation with plans to take off a chunk of time and do nothing but relax, enjoy the season and catch up with all the things I’ve allowed to linger for so long. At least, that is my plan. So, in a few weeks I plan to take at least one day to put on my reading glasses, sit in a corner with a pile of magazines and a lamp complete with a 150 watt bulb and go nuts with the reading.

I realized how far behind I am tonight when I was perusing what I thought was the latest copy of Playboy and saw that it was actually the October edition. It is true, the older we get, the faster time flies right past us. I keep wanting to stop the clock for a while, just so I can take a breath, but it doesn’t work that way. Anyway, I came across the interview portion of the magazine and on this particular month the interview was with Keith Olbermann. I like Keith Olbermann for the most part. He’s intelligent, opinionated, ballsy. He can be a little too snide for my taste sometimes, but hey, whatever. He’s no Bill O’Reilly, that’s for sure — and thank God for that.

Anyway, the part of the interview that caught my eye was the fact that Olbermann, who is 48, is dating a woman 25 years his junior. When asked about it, Olbermann makes the following statement:

When you’ve been through as much tumult as I have, you learn that age is way down on the list of what’s important in a relationship. The first question is, Can you stand being with this person? And the second is, For how long” If the answers are “yes” and “indefinitely”, the rest doesn’t matter.

You know what’s funny? In my past I have fallen for women who have been older than me. One, I recall, was fifteen years older. Another was eleven years older. Back then, I didn’t see one reason why it couldn’t have worked. Now…I realize that it would have been doomed from the start. The fact was I was in a different place than those two ladies. They would have devoured me and spit out the bones if they had been so inclined. Lucky for me they were merciful. But I do have to admit that when I wasn’t blindly in love with someone, age did matter to me. Up until recently I think it’s mattered more than I realized. I guess I always told myself that I could never date a woman who didn’t remember the television show “Taxi”. Shallow, I know. But I think that was just the tip of the iceberg. I just couldn’t imagine having very much to talk about with someone who was that much younger than me. And 25 years younger?? Forget it. Well, first of all, if I dated someone 25 years younger, she’d be ten and Chris Hansen would be showing up in some kitchen while I sat butt naked on a bar stool eating an oatmeal cookie. But being 48 and dating a 23 year old. Really?

Remember the movie “Manhattan”? Woody Allen’s character is dating this woman who isn’t even a woman yet, not legally anyway. And he feels so guilty about it. He makes the remark that he is dating a woman knowing that he is old enough to beat up her father. But the thing was, the Muriel Hemingway character seemed more mature than Woody Allen’s character. And she was definitely more together than the neurotic Diane Keaton character that Allen’s character falls for. But Woody is so overwrought with the idea of dating such a younger woman that he gives her up only to regret it later. And I regretted it for him too. Because even if it wasn’t meant to go on forever — and Hemingway’s character even states that she believes relationships are meant to be different lengths but maybe not forever — they were good together. They ate Chinese in bed and laughed and introduced one another to different things. The Diane Keaton character, who was more Allen’s age, was completely unsettled, lacked self-confidence, didn’t know what she wanted. And yes, technically his character was a pedophile. But fiction did not stray that far from reality. And as sick as you may think his marrying his adopted daughter may be…they’ve been married nearly ten years.

How young is too young? *Shrug* I figure, as long as both parties are 18 or above, and there is respect and love, why not go for it? Just be cognizant of Hemingway’s theory in the movie. As wonderful as the relationship may be, perhaps it isn’t meant to be forever. Maybe it is only to last a few months, perhaps a few years…who knows? But that could be said for any relationship. I guess the question really becomes “how heavy do you want this thing to be?” Do we have children together? Do we buy a home together? Do we bind ourselves to one another for the rest of our lives, or is just a case of two ships passing briefly in the dark of night? It is what it is and we don’t try to make it more than it should be. Is that it?

Age is nothing but a number. It doesn’t really mark maturity or intelligence or one’s true potential. All it can really be used for is an excuse not to take that leap.

And the great thing about classic television nowadays is that all the great shows are available on DVD. So what if she hasn’t seen Taxi? Just pop in a DVD and voila. Instant time travel.

Excuse, excuses. I’m full of ‘em.

The last few months of my life could have been very depressing, very…well…melancholy. When big changes occur, it can throw your life into an emotional chaos. I know this because it happened before. However, I did not fall into that well of despair this time around. Instead I chose to look outside of myself and try new and different things. I did not linger on the moroseness of change. Instead I allowed myself to be embraced, challenged and enlightened by the people around me, especially those friends around me who have treated me with an incredible amount of love. I could become real sappy right now, but I won’t. I will just give my thanks to those people one by one so that if they do happen to read this blog entry, they will know how much they mean and have meant to me.

I want to thank:

Randy T. - For being brilliant, complex and one of the most difficult sonsofbitches I have ever known. He drives me crazy with his eccentricities and yet I know that beneath all that gruff, there’s a good man there. He makes me want to be a better person despite himself.

Emily T. - For being the voice of reason in a relationship that could not survive without her sanity. Like her husband, she is a caring, funny person and a really good mother. Initially, I was not too fond of the moniker placed upon me after her baby’s birth. But now I feel honored that someone would spend so little time to give me such an ambiguous name. I am Uncle WeWe. I have accepted that. Although, I prefer Uncle Oui Oui. Makes me sound like I am popular with the ladies of Paris. Oui?

Lovewell - For St. Louis and Cincinnati and Stone Door and forcing me to do all the things I would have thought twice about doing before. It is her spontaneity that both energizes and confounds me. It is her love of baseball that astounds me. Misunderstood and aloof, she is one special lady.

Jenny - Because come rain or shine, hell or high water, she is always there for me. Even when I am a terrible friend, she is always willing to forgive. We all need friends like that. Especially when times are hard. They put aside their grievances and surround you with a warm, loving embrace. For years of enduring my wavering.

Jonathon - For being there for twenty years and giving me something to look forward to every week. He has seen the best and the very, very worst of me and his friendship has never faltered. I owe him more than I could ever give.

Emily S. - For San Francisco. For showing me how beautiful and grand life really was. I had forgotten for a while, but it only took a great friend and a beautiful town to remind me. For the catchphrases and inside jokes. For the times when someone makes a comment and we smirk at each other, knowing only that the other person knows what that smirk withholds. For helping me get over my airport security anxiety. For calling me on my bullshit. For the first birthday party I’ve had in over 30 years. And for the laughter and vodka tonics.

Stacy - For being my film buddy for lo these many years. For the many beers at the bar, sharing stories, talking politics, music, film and women. For giving me a reason to look forward to Sunday afternoons.

Kristi - For her purity of spirit. For the bubble in her laughter. For still wanting the kids and the white picket fence and not feeling bad about it. For the penguins made from love and construction paper. For the many cds despite my laziness in giving them in return.

Mom and Dad - For not becoming a statistic and sticking it out no matter how tough it has been. For showing me what true, unconditional love feels like.

The Listeners of Evening Melancholy - For becoming my extended family. For loving the music as much as I do. For giving me someone to share my passion with.

Bird, Louis, Duke, Django, Billie and on and on and on - For always being there to welcome me home when I need a friend, when I need empathy in the form of unadulterated art.

For all of this and for all of these individuals, I give thanks.

that every time I go to a Coen Brothers movie, I always walk out of the theater feeling better than when I walked in? Tonight was no exception.

I had the opportunity this evening to see an advanced screening of the new Coen Brothers film, “No Country For Old Men.” If, at this moment, I were to go into a protracted, laudatory spiel about this film, you would think I was blustering. So, I will say nothing but this: This was, by far, the best film I have seen this year. Having said that, I must tell you that the person I saw the film with stated that he was “glad this movie was free.” And two young men who were walking behind me as we left the theater were talking and I overheard one of them say, “This was not one of the Coens’ best. In fact it may have been the worst. They need to go back to making movies like ‘Raising Arizona’.”

No. No, I don’t think they do. There are great movies and then there are masterworks. In my opinion, “No Country For Old Men” is the latter. Even now as I sit before this glowing screen, typing these words, I am recalling with my mind’s eye, all of the wonderful, beautiful, grotesque and shocking images that poured from the screen and into my psyche. Shattered glass and bloodied shirts of flannel. Men screaming in agony as they were mowed down by hot, scattered lead. The sound of gunshots whizzing through the back windows of old pickup trucks. Dirty men, both physically and morally. And not only was the film visually captivating, but it was infused with that great dialogue that only the Coens seem to have a flair for these days. Old men sat at tables in diners and in old, dilapidated houses doing nothing but telling stories — stories so rich and visual in just the telling that they pirouetted through my mind and lodged themselves into my memory. I won’t forget this film for quite a while. This kind of movie was meant for darkened movie houses on late Saturday afternoons. It was meant for people who have nowhere else to go afterwards. People who aren’t preoccupied with the future. But those who desire to be taken, for a brief while, out of the present.

Although I don’t put much merit into awards, I guarantee that this movie will be nominated for at least three Oscars. Mark it down. Best Picture. Best Screenplay. Best Supporting Actor for Javier Bardem. At least three if not more. The Coens are two of the greatest filmmakers out there right now. Let’s hope this is the beginning of another streak of great films by them.