I've been back in NYC for almost a week, a surreal time. The old hustle is still a draw, but the humidty droops me down, and I feel purpose leaking from my pores. What the city has done more than anything else, to be perfectly honest, is make me miss Sasha anew; not really a positive development. The colors of fall are coming on, and I feel like skipping town.

And the squarafication has continued apace. Out last night in once trendy Billzburg the streets were bustling, but the crowd everywhere I looked was shot through with pure Long Island. College kids with tans and khaki's out for a lark, just like the East Village was back in my day. Artist colonization led to real bohemia led to an invasion of hipsters -- the difference between a boho and a hipster is that bohos do a lot with a little, and hipsters do little with a lot -- led to a stream of adventurous students (and a lot of single guys) led to a pretty good whack of regular old NYU kids. I never liked that school's mainstream student body all that much. Don't even get me started on the Lower East Side.

I don't mean to sound bitter. Mostly it's that I'm tired, and I feel life calling me to be somewhere else. I feel like a man without a tribe at the moment, and my feet itch to leave. Am I running from things? Sure, a breakup I obviously havn't yet shaken and a sneaking sense that the soul has been drained from things. But I'm running to a lot of things as well. I'm going to California; out west where I belong; golden state; land of opportunity. I'm going out to turn people on.

The Long Knives certainly are coming out against my man Dean. In today's NYT, conservative columnist David Brooks pens an artfully crafted attack at Deans base of support entitled "Bred For Power," an attempt to link Dean and Dubya on a number of points vis-a-vis their upper class backgrounds. It's quite a hack job, if I do say so myself.

First of all, like any good smear, this column contains some kernel of truth, giving the overall impression that the author is being, well, fair and balanced. Brooks is correct that Dean's family background is similar to the Bush's in WASPy stature. From this base premise, he ventures off into the attack zone.

Most egregiously, he compare's Bush's and Dean's "Prince Hal Phase's:"

Bush drank too much at country clubs. Dean got a medical deferment from Vietnam and spent his time skiing in Aspen. Both decided one night that it was time to get serious about life and give up drinking. Dean was 32; Bush was 40.

This almost offhand comparison makes it sound like Dean and Dubya have comparable young-adult biographies. Thankfully, this is easily refuted by the facts.

Howard Dean reported to a military doctor for a physical examination as required by draft law at the time of his graduation ('71) and was rejected from service, plain and simple. As a recent college grad in a disillusioned time, he went off to Aspen to ski for about a year before returning to New York to work on Wall St.

By contrast, George W Bush used family connections to get into the Texas Air Guard as a way around serving in Vietnam. He then went AWOL from his position for nearly a year after being transferred to Alabama, and has never attempted to explain that decision or account for how he spent the missing time.

Dubya was by all accounts a serious alcoholic, drunk at noon and picking fights. It's also tacitly understood that he abused cocaine for a spell. Talk to anyone on the inside during the 70s or 80s and you're bound to here some good stories. I have.

Dean by his own admission "partied pretty hard" in college, but you'd be hard-pressed to say he was at any point a drunk. Dubya dried out in a 12-step program, part of a total born-again conversion. Dean simply stopped. He says he, "didn't like who I was when I drank."

The rest of Brooks' piece is a hazy endorsement/indictment of the WASP establishment into which both Dubya and Dean were born. He links their leadership styles and boldness as being products of a privileged yet competitive upbringing, but makes few other definitive assessments. Personally, I get the sense that some part of Brooks actually admires the good doctor, or at least wishes they were on the same team.

However, there's a lot to be gleaned from the two hard biographical data points Brooks references. Dean did what was required of him with regards to service in Vietnam. Bush used family connections to get a do-nothing assignment, then ditched that responsibility too. Bush was only able to beat his drinking habit by being born again. Dean, by then a medical doctor, made a decision based on the facts.

These basic paradigmatic distinctions -- along with the fact that Dean possesses an engaging and curious intellect -- make all the difference in the world when it comes to comparing and contrasting these two men in their capacity to perform the duties of President.

One man has a long track record of taking responsibility seriously; the other has a record of dropped balls, some admitted but mostly not. One man has a fact-based outlook on life; the other takes a faith-based approach to policy. One man struck out to make his own life and his own career in a place where his family name meant little; the other partied until he was 40 then drifted into the family business, starting a pattern of cronyism that would follow him into public office.

Brooks's basic premise that both men come from privilege and were put through an educational system meant to groom them for leadership is essentially correct, but the meaningful similarities between Dean and Dubya stop there.

The man came around for the Man in Black. We all knew it was in the mail. Still, it highlights for me the poverty of meaningful popular culture. You look at a figure like Cash and all things current become grey, dry and insubstantial. My generation, like the one before it, seems to thrive on the trivial, a disposable culture, the cult of the new. Would we know a young Johnny Cash if he came up and played in front of our faces? Do we recognize our own authority, responsability and complicitness in the great parade of shadows that carries on for our entertainment? The culture isn't going to change itself, you know.

It's a different feeling this time around, the annaversary of the national tragedy. Last time I was pretty distressed. This year, I feel like we're coming around. Which is not to say there still aren't plenty of sad notes, but the tone now is passion and progress, not mute pain and mourning.

Some people are still figuring out what a royal screwjob the post-trauma handling was. For instance, 24 months after the fact, we now know the air at ground zero was poisonous, which explains why my man Archie -- vetran NYC EMT -- at the corner bar mentioned that his lungs are fucked up the other night. Folks are starting to get a glimmer of an incling that the current national leadership might not be the best for guiding us forth from the mire we've wandered into, and I'm finding acres of purpose and a new career in helping that consciousness emerge.

So it's my hope we can figure out how to organize under a big banner of hope and community, avoid the flags of fear or anger or ego. It's going to be a challange over the next year, but I can think of no better reason for getting up early and staying up late. If we want a better tomorrow, it's going to come because we worked for it, not because someone offered it to us.

Here's a photo of me doing a reading at Burning Man's Center Camp. Yes, those are my underwears.

More on this and Everything when I stop acting like headless poultry.

For those who aren't in the know, I'm back in NYC, if perhaps not for a long time. Life opportunities have come forth and it seems I might be headed back out west sooner rather than later. I'll keep you all abrest, rest assured, and I know this level of secrecy is unusual here at outlandishjosh.com, but it's all for good things and I don't want to jinx anything before it's solid.

Re-entry into the Brooklyn state of being is surreal. Not a lot has changed. I've managed to catch up with a few good friends, but the whole scene is largely the same as when I left. I find this kind of comforting. For now, I'm headed back to bed for more sleep. Wonderful things are happening on the horizon.

I got an anonymous request from my contact page asking for my thoughts on Dennis Kucinich. I do really read those messages, you know. Since many folk I know are fans of Congressperson Kucinich, I've devoted quite a bit of thought to this. I did a Dean vs. Kucinich head-to-head a while ago, but there's always room for more explication. So here's my take.

Dennis Kucinich seems to be a good man. He's got a record to be proud of as a representative from Ohio. He certainly has a vision for the world which is positive. I'm glad he's making a go of it to push that vision to the fore.

That being said I cannot support him as a candidate for president, for a number of reasons. First and formost because he cannot win. This is political reality. I am a Nader voter, and Nader -- though he could not win -- had an achievable goal: to reach 5% and guarantee future matching funds for the Green party. Moreover, while Kucinich's has a vision for an America of the future, the presidency does not come with a magic wand. Even if he were to do the impossible and reach the white house, much of what Kucinich proposes would be futile givin the checks and balances on the office.

Engaging as a participant in the political process means giving time and energy to support one candidate, and by definition to not give the same amount to time, energy and funds to another. As such, for me as an individual, Kucinich's campaign represents a black hole for political energy. That which goes into it will not emerge again, is wasted.

Finally, to be honest, there are a lot of things I don't like about Dennis Kucinich. I don't like his history of using racial fear to win elections in Cleveland. I don't like his bitterness. People have been pushing the "Mean Dean" meme for a while, but looking at the debates, Dennis is the one who comes of as the most sour and angry. Not at the president either, but at the other candidates, at America in general. His candidacy reminds me of all the negatives of Nader's campaign, and few of the positives.

Furthermore, the "movement" that his campaign engenders is to my eyes frankly un-progressive. It is backed by the activist establishment, what Heidegger called "left-wing fascism," a collection of mostly well-intentioned people who take a seriest of mostly dissident positions. Kucinich also has the most obvious retro 60s throwback appeal, something that lands close to home for me but which ultimately I must reject. There is no going back. Manufacturing jobs are not coming back to America. Globalization cannot be undone. If we are to have a positive and prosperous future for ourselves and the world, it is going to be something new, something that embraces the chancing economic and politcal realities we now live in.

In the end, my basic pro-Dean impulse -- that he's a fact-based candidate -- is what drives me away from Kucinich. His positions seem to be dreams and only dreams; and while we need ideals and big thinking and bold visions for the future, pure dreaming is not the stuff of progressive policy. If politics is where the rubber meets the road, where real things happen in real people's real lives, Kucinich is attempting to drive a car with no tires.

I'm rambling again. Meetings and biz. Possibly big news. You'll hear it here first.

Going through the Burn was a politically affirming experience for me. It refreshed my feeling that better things are possible, and reminded me how many Good People there are who just need a little nudge, a little taste of starry connection in order to catch fire themselves. There's an amazing amount of good work being done now by an amazing amount of people. I might be joining the fray full time soon (crossing fingers double-time), and won't that be something if it happens.

In the mean time, the web continues to provide a place for decent people to express quality things. Here's a brilliantly written, very well researched, often hillarious dissection of the right-wing's attempt to smear Cruz Bustamante for his college-days involvement with a Latino student group. Bustamante is the top Democratic candidate running in the California recall. Hopefully the recall itself, which is a sham and a hack, will fail. Even if it does, this man is going to be the next governor; and it's about time.

Words are still failing; I have a book (journal) which I wrote a lot of little things in. I have some audio tape I recorded as well. I haven't reviewed anything as of yet, but i will sometime soon. Expect more complete reportage in the future. Here are my notes on the re-entry, the "decompression" as the parlance of the event would have it.

You feel a little bit like a subversive, coming back from Black Rock City; covered in dust and sun and sweat, rambling suburban California with a head full of dreams, like a free radical, a catalyst, something strong and sexy. You have a tan and are comfortable with your body. Your smile is infectious. You walk tall, high in spirit on a deep speedball of fatigue and human possibility. You are an emmisary from the future and the feeling is good.

I'm almost tempted not to tell stories; it would sound like a freak show... which it is, but that's not the point, that's not why I'll be going back. Burning Man is like anything else in life. It's what you make of it. The value is in what you take away, what sticks with you, what lands. Some people make it a lifestyle, neo-tribal hippy gypsy fasionistas in wild painted buses with stripper poles and disco balls and flaming tailpipes. People get married. All this and more I saw.

I saw. A certain level of spectatorship -- a dirty word on the playa -- is inevitable your first time. It's hard to understand how to be there, hard to believe that there's nothing stopping you from being completely honest. So you look around. You look for your people. You look for a place to fit in, somewhere where the forms are set for you.

I read some of my text at the center camp cafe; pretty well-received, but too general to really feel like a scene. The place where I was camped wasn't really my home groove. It was a journey for me to understand my own responsibility in finding my way; a lot of solo ranging and self-discovery.

Eventually it all came though and I became something of an instant veteran, looking down my nose at the clueless ugly americans, rolling my eyes at frat boys and candy ravers. Not that I intend any kind of exclusion, but by Sunday evening I think people should Get It already. Judgmental, sure, but honest.

Now that I'm decompressing, I'm much more magnanimous. On the way home, stopping off outside Reno and answering questions from locals I was positive and encouraging; so what if you need new teeth? That don't mean you spirit can't soar.

So it's a process, finding your niche in Black Rock City. I'm in progress for sure, but it's a positive thing. I'm glad I was there and I'm glad I'm back in the square world straddling the gap, fulfilling my role as a middlegrounder, taking the mojo out and sewing the seeds of new and better things.