Monday, May 11, 2009
haagen
I like "Tonayense." Not only because the trucks that proudly display this word supply tasty burritos but also because the word happens to host a particularly satisfying set of letters to verbalize.
Monday, March 23, 2009
Oy...
So i went to see Watchmen on Saturday. Woops! That was a waste of time. I wish I was really riled up and enraged about the whole thing but it was too boring to get too excited about. More than that. I'm tired of being underwhelmed by holywood's complete lack of imagination and simultaneously overwhelmed by how stupid the world assumes us to be.
In short - All the visuals of the comic were there- the organization, the set up, the flashbacks, etc and virtually none (or at least a very insignificant amount) of the CONTENT of the book was there. Which on the one hand is too bad, because it's a great story with some really interesting themes. On the other hand, who the fuck cares? All that happens these days is the repackaging of original work. Why on earth would anyone expect that the remaking of a decently thought-provoking, political, challenging work be anything but sexy fluff that elicits almost no reaction from its audience apart from some "oohs and aahhs" about a cool fight scene. I say "who the fuck cares" because at my root I'm not totally interested in supporting these recycling trends. COME UP WITH YOUR OWN F-ING STORY! GO OUT AND READ A BOOK BEFORE IT GETS TURNED INTO A MOVIE! And yes, I will keep dreaming, thank you.
It's not just that it didn't match up to the comic. Like I said, why would I have expected that in the first place? No. More than that it was a bad movie. Flashy but with no substance. Sexy and completely without emotion (wowee were those female roles poorly portrayed. Nay, veritably BORING AND SUCKY). Because there was nothing beneath the surface the format of the movie was just boring and tedious. Perhaps if they had paid more attention to the actual story, they would have noticed that, despite a few eruptions of fighting and Rorschach's violent tendencies, Watchmen isn't actually an action film. So acting, unfortunately for hollywood's comic reincarnations (the recent batman excluded...apart from that stupid batman voice), matters. A lot.
I guess that's all I have to say. Boring and stupidly flashy. Ignorant and without teeth. A good reason to stay home and read a book.
Many apologies Alan Moore, I will never doubt again.
In short - All the visuals of the comic were there- the organization, the set up, the flashbacks, etc and virtually none (or at least a very insignificant amount) of the CONTENT of the book was there. Which on the one hand is too bad, because it's a great story with some really interesting themes. On the other hand, who the fuck cares? All that happens these days is the repackaging of original work. Why on earth would anyone expect that the remaking of a decently thought-provoking, political, challenging work be anything but sexy fluff that elicits almost no reaction from its audience apart from some "oohs and aahhs" about a cool fight scene. I say "who the fuck cares" because at my root I'm not totally interested in supporting these recycling trends. COME UP WITH YOUR OWN F-ING STORY! GO OUT AND READ A BOOK BEFORE IT GETS TURNED INTO A MOVIE! And yes, I will keep dreaming, thank you.
It's not just that it didn't match up to the comic. Like I said, why would I have expected that in the first place? No. More than that it was a bad movie. Flashy but with no substance. Sexy and completely without emotion (wowee were those female roles poorly portrayed. Nay, veritably BORING AND SUCKY). Because there was nothing beneath the surface the format of the movie was just boring and tedious. Perhaps if they had paid more attention to the actual story, they would have noticed that, despite a few eruptions of fighting and Rorschach's violent tendencies, Watchmen isn't actually an action film. So acting, unfortunately for hollywood's comic reincarnations (the recent batman excluded...apart from that stupid batman voice), matters. A lot.
I guess that's all I have to say. Boring and stupidly flashy. Ignorant and without teeth. A good reason to stay home and read a book.
Many apologies Alan Moore, I will never doubt again.
Sunday, March 08, 2009
Monday, March 02, 2009
Then I Fell
The last time I fell off of my bike was really anticlimactic. I was riding my bike home from work/school and was just turning from Liberty onto Murray Ave. I think it was fall time- I remember seeing red leaves. My tire passed over some imperceptible stone or crevice and I slid out VERY VERY slowly. I think I half-hopped and half-fell in the street, tearing up my handlebar tape but nothing else apart from that. My very nice neighbor ran to my side and asked if she could help but I was embarrassed and I think kind of rude to her about it. It was especially embarrassing because it happened just past the house of not-really-cute guys who were drinking beer on their porch and who, for some reason, I always wanted to impress despite the fact they were neither cute nor interesting. Anyway- the point being that the last time I fell off of my bike was in Ann Arbor, Fall 2006.
So I was kind of disappointed to fall yesterday...but am kind of proud at the same time. My first fall in San Francisco! This must mean I live here now. Not only did I fall, I fell in the rain because of those darned streetcar tracks! How SF is that? It was a source of pride that I had never gotten my tire caught in one before but now I can join the ranks of bicyclists who warn other bicyclists "Dude, you gotta watch those tracks man, they'll grab ya. The trick is, see, to hit 'em perpendicular, at a right angle, you know? Then you can't get yer tire trapped." I wish I could add some gnarly detail about how after my tire got trapped I flew 20 feet, skidded on my face and ended up with 3 major cuts that I sutured up myself (using my own hair), but I'm afraid this fall was just as uneventful as the last. A few scrapes here and there but utterly boring apart from that.
So I was kind of disappointed to fall yesterday...but am kind of proud at the same time. My first fall in San Francisco! This must mean I live here now. Not only did I fall, I fell in the rain because of those darned streetcar tracks! How SF is that? It was a source of pride that I had never gotten my tire caught in one before but now I can join the ranks of bicyclists who warn other bicyclists "Dude, you gotta watch those tracks man, they'll grab ya. The trick is, see, to hit 'em perpendicular, at a right angle, you know? Then you can't get yer tire trapped." I wish I could add some gnarly detail about how after my tire got trapped I flew 20 feet, skidded on my face and ended up with 3 major cuts that I sutured up myself (using my own hair), but I'm afraid this fall was just as uneventful as the last. A few scrapes here and there but utterly boring apart from that.
Thursday, February 19, 2009
What kind of Demon would YOU like to be?
In all their glory.
If I ever had any hope of being reincarnated as a human again they have officially been DEVASTATED by existing in a communal kitchen. I have become a regular mass-murderer. And I can't say I feel all that bad about it (except when I pretend that I'm a Buddhist and then imagine what kind of low-life I'll be in the next life). I mean, do ants really count anyway? Even if we're talking plastic bags full of paper towels crawling in little black creatures slowly suffocating....mmm...the thought is somewhat satisfying. For these little guys everyday will always be The Great Ant Massacre so long as I have anything to do with it. I just can't abide the endless streams of them attacking dishes, compost, leftovers, etc. They must go. I must say, however, that I wouldn't mind sharing the load sometime. I mean, what's the fun in being condemned to another rotation on the wheel of life as a lesser life form incapable of reaching nirvana if you can't share the experience with your friends?
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
Don't Send a Vegetarian...
...to cook chicken. It just won't work. First she'll worry about the smell. "Is this chicken OK? I mean, is it bad? That's a pretty weird smell." Then she'll cringe every time she picks up a leg of raw meat (with her bare hands) and while the chicken is smoking like crazy in the over-heated pans she'll be scrubbing at her hands convinced that they're covered in salmonella. So the smoke alarms will be going off and three other people will be in the kitchen opening windows and doors (while she's still washing/scalding her hands). Finally she'll hand the job off to someone else and turn to washing lettuce.
All this after she had a hamburger on Valentine's Day and leftover chicken last night. And she thought she was doing so well...
All this after she had a hamburger on Valentine's Day and leftover chicken last night. And she thought she was doing so well...
Thursday, February 12, 2009
Saturday, December 06, 2008
Post Script Thoughts
I am chewing gum with great ferocity.
I am listening to music louder than necessary.
The lights are buzzing.
I hope to use nauseous hunger to create a new universe.
I am listening to music louder than necessary.
The lights are buzzing.
I hope to use nauseous hunger to create a new universe.
My Friendship is Like Oral Sex
It all started when I stole someone's cat. Only I hadn't stolen anyone's cat. This misunderstanding, however, would be the reason behind much frantic adventuring and detectiving. The phone call was urgent, accusatory, and bad-mannered in a way that could only be achieved by someone who was very good-mannered. Her name was Beatrice and I knew at once from the sound of her voice that she wore watercolor sweater sets. I had stolen her cat, she explained, and I would get it back for them or she was going to the police. I tried to calmly explain that I had done no such thing but her response was a forceful suggestion that I prove it unless I wanted a lawsuit. Beatrice hung up and I began my road trip across a mirror image of the United States of America.
Amanda was my driver and sidekick (in reality it was sometimes Amanda, sometimes Kate, occasionally a woman that I used to work with at Fire (in Cleveland) but to keep things simple we'll say it was Amanda all the way). Without any good idea of where we were going or what we were looking for (how exactly does one find a missing cat the existence of whom one had, until recently, no inkling?) we headed south and then to the other side of the country. The roads were braids of silver and the sky often went into yellow and soft orange hues. More frequently than not Amanda and I completely forgot what it was we were looking for, preferring to enjoy the classic American open road and sing loudly to Bruce Springsteen.
We arrived in Virginia without any more idea of what, where, or why this cat was than when the trip began. Amanda and I found Beatrice's house (address 420) amid rows of identical lawns with significant difficulty seeing as the numbers were displayed more hypothetically than actually. The entire process consisted of a lot of swearing on my part and a lot of talking me down by Amanda. We finally got to the disgustingly soft pink door and knocked.
The interior was just as I had pictured it when Beatrice first placed that hurtful and accusatory phone call. Lilac carpeting seemed to crawl up the wall where it then disguised itself among disturbingly pleasant landscaped paintings wrapped in gaudy gold frames. The couches and love seats placed with meticulous care around the living room promised drowsy comfort to anyone brave enough to take a seat and I was sure that Beatrice kept a pitcher filled with sunshine for any neighbors who happened to stray from their own plot of suburban perfection. I was expecting cold cruelty from this puppies-and-bluebirds woman but encountered quite the opposite. Her small son opened the door for us and when he told his mother we had arrived, the woman practically dissolved into tears amid a collection of my and Amanda's arms. Her Mr. Rogers husband hovered behind her with cups of hot chocolate for when the hug had finally been achieved.
Beatrice explained that she was so sorry that she had ever accused someone so clearly responsible and innocent. Her husband had told her all along that it had been Alex but she refused to accept it. He was always a trouble maker but, being her only brother, she always tried to see the good in him. Now, her husband added, there is simply no question as to who took that cat and we're simply beside ourselves with worry. Their son nodded with sad, boyish eyes.
Somehow in the fifteen minutes it took to be told this news, Amanda and I went from being completely annoyed and creeped out to being simply overwhelmed with sympathy for the white-washed family. We backed out of the doorway with a thermos of hot chocolate and blueberry muffins promising that we would do what it took to find the cat. Now, at least we had some information to go on. Alex Smith was a disturbed 20-something-year-old who had a habit of dying his hair black. He called himself an artist, a title which the rest of the world had latched onto as well: he was moving to New York to do commissioned work for some rich person or another. He was leaving that very day. We had to stop him.
Like a movie pair of outlaw detectives, Amanda and I peeled out of Nowheresville, VA to head to the gallery in Washington D.C., where Alex worked and from where he was leaving. I was motivated with the driving need to clear my name and Amanda was motivated by the delicious hot chocolate we had been given. We were unstoppable. Except that when we got there, Alex Smith had already left. The old man who worked behind the desk suggested that we take a look at his work that was apart of the current Employee Art Show. Amanda and I wandered from piece to piece with a deflated sense of purpose but trying, desperately to put something together from the paintings of this kitty-stealing madman. Already I could sense that the plot was thicker than Beatrice suggested. Smith's dark, curvy lines implied a trapped loneliness, an egoistical inability to communicate with those around, a self-fulfilling desire to be misunderstood but simultaneously a hidden hope of being discovered.
Two of the paintings had been removed and I knew, the way one knows, that these were the two paintings that could solve the puzzle. Just as I was about to tell Amanda that we were heading to New York, I saw it. A hallway lined with wiry lines and cold whites. At the entrance stood a larger-than-life full-body portrait. The man had dark tousled hair and a shadowed expression. His thin scarf blew in some imagined wind and though he stood apart from the rest of the piece, his body dared you to enter. On the right was a mountain scape; mathematical and precise. On the left, cartooney clouds blew hither and thither in an impossible blue gradation. The end of the hallway, the focal point of the entire painting, was an empty blue and just before it, on the right, a collaged-in canvas stood out, in line with the mountaintop on top of which it sat, but warm in a puddle of sun the source of which could not be seen. The title of the piece was "Alex's First Self-Loathing."
A felt the warm satisfaction of a conclusion begin to waft over me and just as I felt I understood what was going on, my phone sliced through the dream and woke me up.
Amanda was my driver and sidekick (in reality it was sometimes Amanda, sometimes Kate, occasionally a woman that I used to work with at Fire (in Cleveland) but to keep things simple we'll say it was Amanda all the way). Without any good idea of where we were going or what we were looking for (how exactly does one find a missing cat the existence of whom one had, until recently, no inkling?) we headed south and then to the other side of the country. The roads were braids of silver and the sky often went into yellow and soft orange hues. More frequently than not Amanda and I completely forgot what it was we were looking for, preferring to enjoy the classic American open road and sing loudly to Bruce Springsteen.
We arrived in Virginia without any more idea of what, where, or why this cat was than when the trip began. Amanda and I found Beatrice's house (address 420) amid rows of identical lawns with significant difficulty seeing as the numbers were displayed more hypothetically than actually. The entire process consisted of a lot of swearing on my part and a lot of talking me down by Amanda. We finally got to the disgustingly soft pink door and knocked.
The interior was just as I had pictured it when Beatrice first placed that hurtful and accusatory phone call. Lilac carpeting seemed to crawl up the wall where it then disguised itself among disturbingly pleasant landscaped paintings wrapped in gaudy gold frames. The couches and love seats placed with meticulous care around the living room promised drowsy comfort to anyone brave enough to take a seat and I was sure that Beatrice kept a pitcher filled with sunshine for any neighbors who happened to stray from their own plot of suburban perfection. I was expecting cold cruelty from this puppies-and-bluebirds woman but encountered quite the opposite. Her small son opened the door for us and when he told his mother we had arrived, the woman practically dissolved into tears amid a collection of my and Amanda's arms. Her Mr. Rogers husband hovered behind her with cups of hot chocolate for when the hug had finally been achieved.
Beatrice explained that she was so sorry that she had ever accused someone so clearly responsible and innocent. Her husband had told her all along that it had been Alex but she refused to accept it. He was always a trouble maker but, being her only brother, she always tried to see the good in him. Now, her husband added, there is simply no question as to who took that cat and we're simply beside ourselves with worry. Their son nodded with sad, boyish eyes.
Somehow in the fifteen minutes it took to be told this news, Amanda and I went from being completely annoyed and creeped out to being simply overwhelmed with sympathy for the white-washed family. We backed out of the doorway with a thermos of hot chocolate and blueberry muffins promising that we would do what it took to find the cat. Now, at least we had some information to go on. Alex Smith was a disturbed 20-something-year-old who had a habit of dying his hair black. He called himself an artist, a title which the rest of the world had latched onto as well: he was moving to New York to do commissioned work for some rich person or another. He was leaving that very day. We had to stop him.
Like a movie pair of outlaw detectives, Amanda and I peeled out of Nowheresville, VA to head to the gallery in Washington D.C., where Alex worked and from where he was leaving. I was motivated with the driving need to clear my name and Amanda was motivated by the delicious hot chocolate we had been given. We were unstoppable. Except that when we got there, Alex Smith had already left. The old man who worked behind the desk suggested that we take a look at his work that was apart of the current Employee Art Show. Amanda and I wandered from piece to piece with a deflated sense of purpose but trying, desperately to put something together from the paintings of this kitty-stealing madman. Already I could sense that the plot was thicker than Beatrice suggested. Smith's dark, curvy lines implied a trapped loneliness, an egoistical inability to communicate with those around, a self-fulfilling desire to be misunderstood but simultaneously a hidden hope of being discovered.
Two of the paintings had been removed and I knew, the way one knows, that these were the two paintings that could solve the puzzle. Just as I was about to tell Amanda that we were heading to New York, I saw it. A hallway lined with wiry lines and cold whites. At the entrance stood a larger-than-life full-body portrait. The man had dark tousled hair and a shadowed expression. His thin scarf blew in some imagined wind and though he stood apart from the rest of the piece, his body dared you to enter. On the right was a mountain scape; mathematical and precise. On the left, cartooney clouds blew hither and thither in an impossible blue gradation. The end of the hallway, the focal point of the entire painting, was an empty blue and just before it, on the right, a collaged-in canvas stood out, in line with the mountaintop on top of which it sat, but warm in a puddle of sun the source of which could not be seen. The title of the piece was "Alex's First Self-Loathing."
A felt the warm satisfaction of a conclusion begin to waft over me and just as I felt I understood what was going on, my phone sliced through the dream and woke me up.
Thursday, October 16, 2008
By Shane Jones and Liza: A GChat Story
Please be aware: all "haha's" and "ok's" and "hmmm's" have been removed from this conversation for your convenience.
Shane:
so there's Little Mustache
everyone hates Little Mustache
he has little legs and little arms
and a little penis
Liza: (don't you always want it to be spelled moustache?)
Shane: yeah
Little Moustache walks around by himself all day
he punches trees to feel strong
Liza: (and he wears a big coat)
Shane: yeah, his coat is too big
so one day Little Moustache
i'm watching television now
this is hard
one day Little Moustache meets Big Beard
Liza: oh shit
Shane: yeah, Big Beard is terrible
he kicks Little Moustache right in the center of his moustache
Liza: bully
Shane: okay, now i need your help
Little Moustache could start lifting weights
Liza: I think the kick makes Little Moustache's moustache get really big
Shane: yeah, it just starts growing
into this massive beard
it's gigantic
Liza: huge!
Shane: "Fuck you Big Beard!"
Liza: "My Little Moustache is Bigger than your Big Beard!"
Shane: i'm going to send this story to Paris Review
Liza: as you should
so Big Beard gets so embarrassed that he's clearly lost the pissing contest
Shane: he starts jerking off
Liza: wow- that's one way to deal with humiliation
Shane: let's just throw a bunch of flith at
the end
Little Moustache shits on everyone he's ever known, fucks every woman
Liza: and this one guy he always had a thing for
He pisses on trees
and the dogs pissing on trees
wait
Shane: then there's a giant fuckfest...the end?
Liza: I'm confused
Shane: this is out of control
Liza: does Big Beard start the filth?
or does Little Moustache?
which one starts jerking off?
Shane: ummm
maybe they both can
Liza: great
Shane: they have a jerk-off contest
that makes sense
Liza: maybe B.B. starts out of humiliation and L.M. thinks it's a terrific idea
Shane: hairballs are flying through the air
Liza: hairballs?
wow
from the fuckfest?
Shane: yeah, that's awesome
Liza: the end
Shane:
so there's Little Mustache
everyone hates Little Mustache
he has little legs and little arms
and a little penis
Liza: (don't you always want it to be spelled moustache?)
Shane: yeah
Little Moustache walks around by himself all day
he punches trees to feel strong
Liza: (and he wears a big coat)
Shane: yeah, his coat is too big
so one day Little Moustache
i'm watching television now
this is hard
one day Little Moustache meets Big Beard
Liza: oh shit
Shane: yeah, Big Beard is terrible
he kicks Little Moustache right in the center of his moustache
Liza: bully
Shane: okay, now i need your help
Little Moustache could start lifting weights
Liza: I think the kick makes Little Moustache's moustache get really big
Shane: yeah, it just starts growing
into this massive beard
it's gigantic
Liza: huge!
Shane: "Fuck you Big Beard!"
Liza: "My Little Moustache is Bigger than your Big Beard!"
Shane: i'm going to send this story to Paris Review
Liza: as you should
so Big Beard gets so embarrassed that he's clearly lost the pissing contest
Shane: he starts jerking off
Liza: wow- that's one way to deal with humiliation
Shane: let's just throw a bunch of flith at
the end
Little Moustache shits on everyone he's ever known, fucks every woman
Liza: and this one guy he always had a thing for
He pisses on trees
and the dogs pissing on trees
wait
Shane: then there's a giant fuckfest...the end?
Liza: I'm confused
Shane: this is out of control
Liza: does Big Beard start the filth?
or does Little Moustache?
which one starts jerking off?
Shane: ummm
maybe they both can
Liza: great
Shane: they have a jerk-off contest
that makes sense
Liza: maybe B.B. starts out of humiliation and L.M. thinks it's a terrific idea
Shane: hairballs are flying through the air
Liza: hairballs?
wow
from the fuckfest?
Shane: yeah, that's awesome
Liza: the end
here's one my granny used to tell me.
By A Crippie
"it wis a caaaaaaulllld, daaaaaark nicht in the scottish highlands when a bonnie wee american arrived wi' nothing but a smile and a suitcase full o' arborio rice. it wis sae caaaaaauuulld and daaaaaaark. the bonnie wee american didnae ken wheresae ever to heid so she asked a kindly lookin' auld lassie, sitting drinkin' whisky oot o' a boot and mumblin' tae hersel' aboot knickers or kippers or crippies. "buggery!!" she gret, the bevvie reekin' on her rancid breath screechin' through the caaaaaullld daaaaaaark air. the bonnie wee american recoiled in horror, turned aboot hersel' and, seein' only vomit and wilderness, she shrugged acceptin'-like and wi' nothin' but the auld adage "when in glasgow, dae as the weegies dae" ringin' in her ears she sat doon wi' the witch on the caaaaaauulld daaaaaaark nicht and took a lang glug of whisky. well, nothin' but that and a suitcase full of staple foods."
"it wis a caaaaaaulllld, daaaaaark nicht in the scottish highlands when a bonnie wee american arrived wi' nothing but a smile and a suitcase full o' arborio rice. it wis sae caaaaaauuulld and daaaaaaark. the bonnie wee american didnae ken wheresae ever to heid so she asked a kindly lookin' auld lassie, sitting drinkin' whisky oot o' a boot and mumblin' tae hersel' aboot knickers or kippers or crippies. "buggery!!" she gret, the bevvie reekin' on her rancid breath screechin' through the caaaaaullld daaaaaaark air. the bonnie wee american recoiled in horror, turned aboot hersel' and, seein' only vomit and wilderness, she shrugged acceptin'-like and wi' nothin' but the auld adage "when in glasgow, dae as the weegies dae" ringin' in her ears she sat doon wi' the witch on the caaaaaauulld daaaaaaark nicht and took a lang glug of whisky. well, nothin' but that and a suitcase full of staple foods."
Friday, October 03, 2008
Lend Me Yours
Hey! I've been thinking a lot about collaboration and I want some of it. So. Why don't you write me a story (in the "comment" section of this entry). I'll read it and post it on my blog under whatever name you want it to be under...and we can creatively exist in the ether of the internet. Stories can be whatever you want them to be: visual, fiction, history, whatever. Just make it cool. And do it. I'll look stupid with a lot of blank entries.
Thursday, October 02, 2008
perhaps the solution
I'm in a bit of a pickle (that I've complained about to most of my friends) with regards to underwear. This is just one of the reasons why I'm almost terrified to purchase new lingerie. It's relatively easy to find sweat-free/organic clothes. At the very least you can buy second hand and not feel like you're contributing TOO much to the decline of our world. Underwear, however, is not quite as easy. Panties are a little easier to track down but bras are almost impossible. Especially underwire bras. If it's not made my children in Cambodia, it's made by prisoners. If they're made fairly, then they're made by a company that has it's own questionable morals (that article, by the way, is over three years old). In an attempt to branch out and buy something I felt comfortable putting my money behind, I went here. I do really like what I got, but was dismayed when I realized that it had been made in China. I've come to the conclusion that you simply cannot buy "intimates" and keep a clean conscious. Instead I'm trying some other options:
undies
bras
If you get any other good ideas, please let me know.
undies
bras
If you get any other good ideas, please let me know.
Friday, September 26, 2008
mozzarella
When I was ten or something we lived in a house across the lane from the house that we had just moved out of and around the corner from the house in front of the cemetery where we moved when my parents split up. That house had mice. This new house (and it's direct predecessor) sat on the corner of Hampshire Rd and Hampshire Ln. Across from Musicians Towers which I always thought was an old folks home for Russian women but someone recently told me is actually a housing project. Who knows.
The different between HampshireHampshire I and HampshireHampshire II was that HH I was the bottom apartment of a three story house. HH II was the right side of a two-way split house. One was short and wide, the other tall and skinny and not particularly conducive to the four-woman, four cat (not including kittens), two dog household that my mother ran. We had hay stacked up against the back of our kitchen window. "For insulation," my mom always told me. I never got why we didn't have hay stacked around other parts of our house if that was the case.
We had only just moved there at the time of this relatively unimportant story. As I already mentioned, I was about 10, but already knowledgeable about the joys and wonders of a mozzarella, basil, tomato, balsamic vinegar salad. And at the time of this unimportant story I was just being served a plateful of the deliciousness. Ready to enjoy it on the porch of our new skinny home with my mother and her friend. I piled my fork full of fresh cheesiness and crisp greenness and full redness and watched as the oily vinegar dripped onto the colorful plate below. I put the mess into my mouth and closed my eyes ready to be bombarded by the wonderful taste sensation that would inevitably follow. Much to my dismay, however, instead of being greeted by the friendly saltiness and pillowey sweetness I anticipated, i encountered a cruel sour taste that made my eyes squint and my mouth turn into something that should be in a comic book.
Naturally I screamed and made some sort of show about the whole thing, causing my mom to come careening in from the kitchen to see what was wrong with a swiftness that only a mother can conjure. Of course she was wearing her Basic Threads cotton socks and mid-careen slipped on the hardwood floors and plummeted towards a broken leg. Just in time for our annual road trip across the country to the Southwest where she would have to enjoy Arches National Park on crutches.
The End.
The different between HampshireHampshire I and HampshireHampshire II was that HH I was the bottom apartment of a three story house. HH II was the right side of a two-way split house. One was short and wide, the other tall and skinny and not particularly conducive to the four-woman, four cat (not including kittens), two dog household that my mother ran. We had hay stacked up against the back of our kitchen window. "For insulation," my mom always told me. I never got why we didn't have hay stacked around other parts of our house if that was the case.
We had only just moved there at the time of this relatively unimportant story. As I already mentioned, I was about 10, but already knowledgeable about the joys and wonders of a mozzarella, basil, tomato, balsamic vinegar salad. And at the time of this unimportant story I was just being served a plateful of the deliciousness. Ready to enjoy it on the porch of our new skinny home with my mother and her friend. I piled my fork full of fresh cheesiness and crisp greenness and full redness and watched as the oily vinegar dripped onto the colorful plate below. I put the mess into my mouth and closed my eyes ready to be bombarded by the wonderful taste sensation that would inevitably follow. Much to my dismay, however, instead of being greeted by the friendly saltiness and pillowey sweetness I anticipated, i encountered a cruel sour taste that made my eyes squint and my mouth turn into something that should be in a comic book.
Naturally I screamed and made some sort of show about the whole thing, causing my mom to come careening in from the kitchen to see what was wrong with a swiftness that only a mother can conjure. Of course she was wearing her Basic Threads cotton socks and mid-careen slipped on the hardwood floors and plummeted towards a broken leg. Just in time for our annual road trip across the country to the Southwest where she would have to enjoy Arches National Park on crutches.
The End.
Thursday, September 11, 2008
thinkin'
Mission Violence
As of September 6th, there have been 11 killings in the Mission District this year. In the past month, two of them have been on Treat Ave- the nice little residential street where I spend most of my time working, procrastinating, and socializing.
For lack of a better way to describe my frustration, anger, pain, sadness, fear, etc: this fucking sucks.
I've never really understood violence. It's just not something that was put into my vocabulary. And I've certainly been around it enough. All of us have. Growing up in Cleveland Heights (suburban though it is), you knew that there were certain streets you didn't walk down because a friend at school got jumped there the day before. Girls brought brass knuckles and razors to Roxboro Middle School. Fights broke out all of the time. At Heights High we had at least one riot a year (usually in the Wendy's across the street). There were plenty of hallway fights. Not to mention Cleveland itself that likes to hang out (statistically) with other cities that suffer from crime, poverty, and racism.
So it's not like it's foreign. It just still really surprises me that it still happens. I mean, haven't we all seen where this is going? Don't we all recognize that it's a horrible thing to have a family member or friend killed? Is there anyone for whom this doesn't suck?
And the Mission in particular. With it's vibrant murals, amazing food, smiling neighbors, great art. Of course there's poverty and all of that but there are also paintings of Cesar Chavez and Zapata everywhere reminding us that we're all in this together. And instead we're (I mean this in the broader human sense. I'm not naming myself as a Mission native) killing each other. Imagine how incredible it would be if this community realized "we're stuck in the same system. Let's start working together, overthrow the system that's keeping us murdering each other. We all have the same goals!" You know, revolution and stuff.
Yesterday I was walking down Treat wearing a red sweatshirt and a group of young guys commented on how they liked it. For the first time since high school I was suddenly aware of colors. Like, how maybe I shouldn't wear red. If red is even a gang color out here, I don't even know. But I guess that's the point, I don't know shit about what's going on. It's so great to go out in the Mission and work here and enjoy it, but I don't know shit about what the Mission really is. And sure, my goal is to work with a community, not just from it, but is that what I'm doing? Is that what I want to do when people are being killed around me?
It's absurd to limit it to the Mission, or to the Fillmore, or Oakland, or Detroit, or Cleveland when it's so clearly the trend of the day all over the world. These are little microcosms responding to a global epidemic that has been going on since...well...since forever I guess. How can we expect communities to support each other and get along, when our governments are allowing and committing atrocities every day? Violence is still violence and I have no words to express how I feel towards the people that perpetuate it, but it is interesting to see how a society seems to respond to the aggression of it's government.
How frustrating. To be here among all of this and know that it's not going to stop. There's certainly nothing that I can do about it. We can be outraged and horrified and scream and yell and cry and be really inspired and empathetic and it will all keep going.
As of September 6th, there have been 11 killings in the Mission District this year. In the past month, two of them have been on Treat Ave- the nice little residential street where I spend most of my time working, procrastinating, and socializing.
For lack of a better way to describe my frustration, anger, pain, sadness, fear, etc: this fucking sucks.
I've never really understood violence. It's just not something that was put into my vocabulary. And I've certainly been around it enough. All of us have. Growing up in Cleveland Heights (suburban though it is), you knew that there were certain streets you didn't walk down because a friend at school got jumped there the day before. Girls brought brass knuckles and razors to Roxboro Middle School. Fights broke out all of the time. At Heights High we had at least one riot a year (usually in the Wendy's across the street). There were plenty of hallway fights. Not to mention Cleveland itself that likes to hang out (statistically) with other cities that suffer from crime, poverty, and racism.
So it's not like it's foreign. It just still really surprises me that it still happens. I mean, haven't we all seen where this is going? Don't we all recognize that it's a horrible thing to have a family member or friend killed? Is there anyone for whom this doesn't suck?
And the Mission in particular. With it's vibrant murals, amazing food, smiling neighbors, great art. Of course there's poverty and all of that but there are also paintings of Cesar Chavez and Zapata everywhere reminding us that we're all in this together. And instead we're (I mean this in the broader human sense. I'm not naming myself as a Mission native) killing each other. Imagine how incredible it would be if this community realized "we're stuck in the same system. Let's start working together, overthrow the system that's keeping us murdering each other. We all have the same goals!" You know, revolution and stuff.
Yesterday I was walking down Treat wearing a red sweatshirt and a group of young guys commented on how they liked it. For the first time since high school I was suddenly aware of colors. Like, how maybe I shouldn't wear red. If red is even a gang color out here, I don't even know. But I guess that's the point, I don't know shit about what's going on. It's so great to go out in the Mission and work here and enjoy it, but I don't know shit about what the Mission really is. And sure, my goal is to work with a community, not just from it, but is that what I'm doing? Is that what I want to do when people are being killed around me?
It's absurd to limit it to the Mission, or to the Fillmore, or Oakland, or Detroit, or Cleveland when it's so clearly the trend of the day all over the world. These are little microcosms responding to a global epidemic that has been going on since...well...since forever I guess. How can we expect communities to support each other and get along, when our governments are allowing and committing atrocities every day? Violence is still violence and I have no words to express how I feel towards the people that perpetuate it, but it is interesting to see how a society seems to respond to the aggression of it's government.
How frustrating. To be here among all of this and know that it's not going to stop. There's certainly nothing that I can do about it. We can be outraged and horrified and scream and yell and cry and be really inspired and empathetic and it will all keep going.
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
Art Sucks
Yesterday on the phone my dad asked (as he usually asks) "Well, what do you see happening in your life now?" I answered with my usual "oh...I don't know...I like it here...I could see myself being here...I could see myself leaving" non-committal bullshit that I usually disseminate. It's actually not entirely bullshit. The fact of the matter is that I am in a good place with things and while, yes, I see that change is on the horizon, I also see that the horizon could be anywhere from one to ten (to twenty?) years off.
We live in a lie of a society that tells us one of the stages in life is "settling down." Thing is, not one person I know is "settled." We are always changing all of the time. The second you stop changing, life starts getting real boring. So part of me doesn't really see the point in rushing into making a decision about the "next stage of my life" when this one is suiting me just fine.
OK OK...there's more to it then that. It's that Art Sucks. I feel like it's this illusion that taunts me something terrible. A sexy dress revealing a fleshy thigh on some western road asking for a ride but when you pull over there's no person there. Just some heat rising from the asphalt. Every time I try to pin=point it, figure out what it is, where I fit into it, I feel like it dissolves in my fingers.
I get uncomfortable around words like "art," "artist," etc. Who the fuck am I to claim something I can't define? And the prospect of pursuing such an invisible rainbow does not sit well with my hard-lined capricornian ideas of how things are supposed to exist.
Then again. There is nothing that makes me happier than that terrifying flirtation with a blank piece of paper. Is there anything sexier than running your fingers down the spine of some invisible thought that shivers out of the ether to spread itself out before you? I can't fathom an existence without that feeling. But I'm scared to commit to something so inconclusive.
And that's not even getting into the bullshit that comes along with being in the art world. The SCENE, the PEOPLE, the lack of community and that depressing realization that it's every man for himself and that each one thinks more highly of themselves than you could ever imagine. That conviction you MUST have in the face of adversity. What a tricky temptress this thing is.
We live in a lie of a society that tells us one of the stages in life is "settling down." Thing is, not one person I know is "settled." We are always changing all of the time. The second you stop changing, life starts getting real boring. So part of me doesn't really see the point in rushing into making a decision about the "next stage of my life" when this one is suiting me just fine.
OK OK...there's more to it then that. It's that Art Sucks. I feel like it's this illusion that taunts me something terrible. A sexy dress revealing a fleshy thigh on some western road asking for a ride but when you pull over there's no person there. Just some heat rising from the asphalt. Every time I try to pin=point it, figure out what it is, where I fit into it, I feel like it dissolves in my fingers.
I get uncomfortable around words like "art," "artist," etc. Who the fuck am I to claim something I can't define? And the prospect of pursuing such an invisible rainbow does not sit well with my hard-lined capricornian ideas of how things are supposed to exist.
Then again. There is nothing that makes me happier than that terrifying flirtation with a blank piece of paper. Is there anything sexier than running your fingers down the spine of some invisible thought that shivers out of the ether to spread itself out before you? I can't fathom an existence without that feeling. But I'm scared to commit to something so inconclusive.
And that's not even getting into the bullshit that comes along with being in the art world. The SCENE, the PEOPLE, the lack of community and that depressing realization that it's every man for himself and that each one thinks more highly of themselves than you could ever imagine. That conviction you MUST have in the face of adversity. What a tricky temptress this thing is.
Wednesday, August 20, 2008
Friday, August 15, 2008
Wednesday, August 13, 2008
Monday, August 11, 2008
indeed
Strange that it is the stillness of this moment that makes me want to play something loud, say something loud, smash something loud, make the moment heard- remove the pillow, lift my head above the water, open my mouth wide and...what am I supposed to say? An empty need for noise that gets buried under logic. I know we all yearn to scream.
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