Victor

Several said he had killed a man. His carriage was intimidating. Deerskin vest, knee high mocassins, long black hair. Few spoke to him. There was little or no reason to. He was still just a dishwasher and an Indian, even if the rumors were true.
"You got smoke?' Victor said. 'Yeah sure' as I handed him my Marlboros. Stupid kid I was. 'Not that kinda smoke', but he took one anyway. We shook hands and exchanged names. Prison verbage was a foreign language to me. I had heard the stories. He had killed a man . We acknowledged one another after our exchange of tobacco. Kind words, a simple greeting, perhaps sharing a table at staff meal. One party, chock full of whiskey fueled anglican courage, I spoke with Victor. I asked him if it was true; had he killed a man? He had. A fight broke out in a bar, there may have been a woman involved (I can't remember). Outside he waited for the man. He shot him with a remmington .308 deer rifle. He was 21 and a murderer. I was drunk, and callous, but more so...curious (I was a child of the simple and not so dangerous suburbs. A land of self imposed fantasies about real danger, and not so real consequences). I was a dumbass kid, he was a murderer. But, and this is the big Goddamn but, we talked. Over the course of several weeks we became freinds. He tolerated my questions about life and prison. He had read Plato. He considered himself doomed. He was lost and a 'half-breed'. The idea of anyone being lost was foreign to me. I was 19 and at best niaive. Only romances of the Indian and white world existed in my mind. 'The sacrament of the white man is the sacrament of the indian' he told me. I didn't know, really, what the word sacrament meant (I had been raised agnostic). Later I realized the import of his statement. Regardless of our tribe we are bound and freed by the same sources. We all suffer the same vices, booze, drugs, tobacco, and religion. He was sure that it was too late for him. Too much of his life had been spent in the wastelands of prison. Too much was learned there..difficult things to unlearn.

I saw him shortly after he was fired (apparently the chef was a screamer, not the ideal employer for an ex con). We shared a few smokes. We talked about the world. I wished him well, and he wished me the same. There was a silent agreement about who's well wished sentiments would be truly received.

With the thud of the dry tree branch, all went squish, fuzz, red, black, silent. With the thwack of a branch another chapter closed. No more would the carved life continue to be revealed. It was back to twisting in the wind; a tattered wind sock with no true direction. He was not the only one to fall that day. Those he had grown close to over the past months had suffered similar if not worse fates. A triage of broken lives and dreams surrounded him. The not as unlucky tended to the truly unfortunate. What once had been a small thriving Artist camp was no more. Yurts, and tents turned to rags and ash. Tortured canvas shredded and broken as if attacked by a hundred painters in a petulant fit. The blurred filth and destruction presented itself to his one good eye. Images of the past and signs of the future, but nowhere her.

Dreams again

Always loved dreams, the other world, the impossible nature of them. The ability to recall and remember them comes and goes. Now that I'm not working quite so much, I've been dreaming again. Which is nice. I used to have themes in my dreams. Some sort of beasty chasing me. Zombies, or aliens. Vampires once or twice. Cops or the army on more than one occasion. Strange stuff. Running. Sometimes not fast enough, or at least not feeling fast enough. Sometimes I'd have a gun (particularly in the alien or Zombie dreams) It never really worked quite right (Yes I understand the Freudian implications; however I assure you that I run frequent diagnostic tests and all systems seem to check out). Now I have kitchen dreams. Dreams of being in old kitchens again, running them but being completely unfamiliar with them. Or soccer dreams, were I can actually play the game, and score goals (Not sure about the Freudian conclusion there, so I defer to Aaron, either one). So i am reminded of a dream involving both zombies and the kitchen.

It started out like so many other dreams. Indiscriminent light from no general source. Illuminating things equally, no shadows. It was in what seemed to be an abandoned city. I was in a group of no one I knew in particularly. They were functionally red shirts from star trek, fodder. I knew what the tone of the dream was going to be. We needed to move, keep moving, something was out there. We ran through the streets and eventually underground. That's when we first saw them. Goddamn Zombies! Thankfully they were the slow shambling George Romero zombies, not the pissed off, rabid, adrenalized, hopped up on Mt Dew zombies of 28 days later. We could get through this all we need was a couple of bats maybe a table leg. We navigated the guts of the city and found our selves in a bay. There were others waiting to be rescued by helicopters. Wow this is going to be and easy one. Didn't really see any zombies and now I'm going to hop onto a helicopter, with any skill in lucid dreaming I could have quickly turned this into a beer commercial. Unfortunately I am not a lucid dreamer. The zombies came. Hordes of Zombies. Instead of trying to hold them off, we ran back into the city. This time they were hot on our heels, they smelled fresh meat. In one quick and foolish decision we ran into a building and started ascending stairs. (Ok, so if you are being chased by zombies, or aliens, or the cops, or any number of dream beasties, and your trying to get away, never run into a building and start climbing stairs.) So we realized that there was no where to go. Below us were hungry, brain starved zombies, and above us was, wel none of could gly, so we'll just say gravity wsa above us. We finally get to the top of the building, with the zombies in close pursuit, and it's Fuckin Alba! ANd I was late for work! Not only were zombies after my scrawny yet whiskey tenderized fleah but I was late for work! The servers where keeping the zombies at bay while the kitchen put out plates for the few remaining non-zombie diners. When it looked like all was lost and the zombies where going to over run the kitchen and sit down for a little dinner service of their own, a helicopter showed up. I said to the chef that we needed to evacuate. He was reluctant 'We can do a few more covers. Noe reason to close up yet!' I informed him that 'All of our customers are dead or zombies! We need to go!' He acquieseced and we left the building as the zombies burst into the kitchen. I slowly woke up, not really sure what the hell the dream really meant. I know that I shouldn't be late for work. Zombies are not welcome diners.

Green Rocket

Eastbound at 85 mph we passed the Tribal Authority Bronco headed westbound. Miller and I were in the back. We saw the Tribal cop flip a bitch and hit the rollers. The girls in the front weren't listening, but fuck, we had a serious head start and Babb was only five miles out. We could still make it. We had to make it. There were two bands waiting for us. It was the fourth of July. It was our duty to bring Rock and Roll to the friendly natives of Babb. We would rock them. It was our duty as guilty white suburban punk ass kids. Our progenetors had stolen their land, commited genocide through murder and sickness, and appeased them with our own vices. We would rock the fair people of Babb on this fourth of july night. So there we were strapped into that green 1973 two door catalina, strapped in like slim pickens to the A-Bomb. Except it was 1990. We were riding a squealing tired, green skinned, scudbuster, patriot missle of freedom. We were going to make it.

Mommy Kisses (Warning Graphic Material)

A many of you may know, while a cook, musician, writer, roustabout, good for nothing, knave, twit, half-wit, Genius, drunkard, trivia master, and snot nosed little brother, I am above all else an idea man. I have no time for the nuts and bolts of the 'how to'. I am the man behind the men who think up the things to make for the people that make things. My list of grand ideas is impressive. (And many are pending patent. So don't get any ideas. My lawyers are watching!)

I can't believe it's not Vegetable/Fruit: Unfortunately the passing of the atkins diet craze has left this meat based produce supplement in the dust.

Teddy Foreskin, the erotic story telling cousin of Teddy Ruxspin

Paleo-Place; an anthropological dining experience

The Tater-Dog: A corn dog wrapped in Tater Tot

'I've already slept with everyone here': A dating service for the Service industry

The list goes on, but more importantly it keeps growing. Which brings me to my new idea. The seed was planted while watching the World Cup of Futbol. It seems that several times during a match players, without apparent cause, would drop to the ground clutching shins, calves, knees, ankles etc. A trainer/medic/faith based healer would run on to the field, assess the situation and then quickly break out a spray bottle. After being thuroughly anointed with the spray the player would jump an dbe ready to play again. What miracle was in this bottle? What magic, what mystical concentration was being applied? Upon recently injuring myself at work, of which I am still suffering horrible pain from, I began to ask myself this question again. What is this special spray and where can I find it. My second thought though was what could the spray be. Of course, what is the panacea for any bruise, scraped, sprain or burn? It's Mommy Kisses you idiot! Fucking Mommy Kisses! There is no greater healing essence known to man. Mommy kisses is what I needed!*(Aaron see below) But Mommy is too far away! So here's the idea. We bottle concentrated mommy kisses! Get a sweat shop filled with deperate single moms, empty nesters, grandmas, house moms looking for a little cash on the side for that new addition to the house. Now here's where the science gets fuzzy (not my strong suit). We take these collected MK's (Mommy Kisses) distill them , or whatever science stuff needs to happen, bottle them and make a freakin' fortune! I'll be looking for backers and science people to make this plan happen. This is gonna be big! Get on board now or be left behind.

*Aaron, I know what your suggestion is gonna be; however you are not nor will you ever be a mommy, nor is what you will propose technically a kiss.

Blue

The old linoleum tiles are faded, blue, specked with white, streaked with rubber black. The cabinets deeper blue yet washed out, worn, a blue that has seen too much flourescent light. There is a clean smell, clean like the fading smell of soap and mint, like a new box of tic tacs. I have been here before. I have been here and in other places like this. I am not here for me. Outside of the curtain there is the sounds of work. Sounds of wheels, electronics, joking, urgency. Things are heard that one doesn't hear on the streets 'Yeah, close the door. She's really tweekin', she's taken a lot of Meth.' voices and lines float as if they're traces, ghost words of past traumas. 'So what seems to be goin' on tonight?' Are these words I've heard before. The lights wash out everything, expose everything. Illuminating the sick, emphasizing there weakness. Yes I've been here before. Twenty feet away in room C4. It was the same time of night, morning more appropriately. That was the first time. I was there before. In room C8. It was the afternoon. I was not there for me. I have seen to many of these places. Sometime it will be for me.

Goodnight Mr Vonnegut

It has been many years. Like hearing a long lost friend has passed I read Vonneguts obit in the New York Times tonight. Like a long lost friend I will only have memories now. There will be no grand meeting in the future, no catching up. I first read 'Slaughter House Five' at the age of fourteen. Billy Pilgrim, like so many of Vonneguts characters after, became my Holden Caufield. My world view, the bizarre daily rituals of high school, the inequities of social caste, of economics, physical developement, emotional maturation, hormonal caucophony, finally found a chronicler. A journalist of the odd life, of the absurd life. the life of a human being, Vonnegut helped me to see that I was not alone. I saw the origin of my anger, the disatisfication with the status quo, the simple frustration of being alive. Above it all he proffessed the simple mantra of being decent to one another 'Being a Humanist means trying to behave decently without expectation of rewards or punishment after you are dead.' He had seen more tragedy than most could bear. He battled depression, alcoholism, smoked like a chimney, and chronic problems with relationships. He wrote. He wrote about being a human. Jeered by some, marginalized by critics at times, banned in schools, and forgotten about from decade to decade, he continued to write and be human. For that I am grateful. He is dead. So it goes.

Valentines pt2

I had left it all behind. Whatever it was. A 9to5, benefits, supposed security. I had left unhappiness, worry, stress, commute, coporate protocal behind. I was freeing myself. so I thought.

I had only been working in the kitchen for six months. I was still green, very green. Victor reminded me of that daily. Victor honed his skills in the hotel world, he had graduated from CIA. He had been a banquet Chef for the Waldorf Astoria, an Executive Sous for the Hilton and most recently the Executive Chef for two Country Clubs. He had competed in culinary olympics and had managed an inconceivable amount of staff, product, kitchens, and banquet halls. He was a seasoned pro. A pro who had spent his youth under fire from old guard. The old guard of Chefs, largely European, who were not afraid to lay hands on you to prove a point. Victor simply used words. Words that stripped away confidence like a cat o' nine tails. He wouldn't beat me though. I had only just started, I wasn't going to be beaten.

This was the smallest kitchen he had been in in twenty years. It was his roots. It should be easy. He had plated a banquet of 800 single handedly at the Waldorf! It was crushing him. Food costs were through the roof. The owner, a no nothing gas bag devoid of restaurant experience, but long on erudite arrogance, had been coming down hard. Every night he would wait for the staff to clear out and then proceed to yell at Victor. It was true trickle down economics. I was the only cook, my mistakes were magnified by Victors own increasing failure. He hear about it nightly. He never called me names, never insulted me personally, but my work was SHIT!, and any mistake I made was a personal offense to Victors sensibilities. 'You're only as good as your last plate'! I mantra I believe in still, but it still sickens me at times. Off the line he has thoughtful and encouraging. Assuring me that I had 'music in my fingers', I had a future. On the line though. 'Goddamnit! You're not dancin'!, You've gotta learn to dance!'. I improved. I leraned to watch him, anticipate him. I was functioning as his OR nurse. I knew what he wanted or needed before he did. I was learning under fire, I was dealing with the stress. I was also learning that he had no range of emotion. It was on or off. He couldn't show slight disapproval, or even encouraging critiscism. It was only minor praise or 'That plate of pasta looks like shit! It should be centered! Have you ever seen a tit before! The pasta should be in the middle of the bowl like a tit! A womans tit!' (Someday, when I'm a chef, I'm probably never going to use that line). I dealt with it. I hated going to work, but I had too little experience, I felt I had to stick it out. I had to get that full year on the resume. And then there were other factors, she was at home. I couldn't quit we couldn't afford it. In a sick way the job was the only stability I had. It was the real concrete nature of my dream, my calling, my belief.

We carried on this way, we got along. We got by. Valentines Day was on fire. We tore through the service. We put out serious food. We did it without conflict. It was the busiest night the restaurant had seen. People were leaving happy. We had two more days of near capacity reservations. Hopefully the corner was being turned, hopefully things would lighten. As I was leaving, the owner was waiting for Victor.

The next night was hellish. Victor, who had rarely worked the line in the last fifteen years, was getting swamped. Stress, fatigue etc. was taking it's toll. I was playing my usual role of backup. Watching the tickets, catching any misses, doing what I could. He missed a shrimp app. 'What about this shrimp app?' He snarled and went back to cutting himself out of the weeds. I tried again, but failed. 'Fuck him' I thought. 'Let him sink. I dont need this shit.' The server came up asking for the app. It was twenty minutes late. He turned, looked at me. His face and bald head were red with hate. His eyes bore through me. He was murdering me with his stare. He reached down, grabbed something, and threw it as hard as he could. A pound of butter splat on the oven next to me. I don't remember if he said anything or not, if he didn't, it was implied. I stood there shocked. Wondering if I should just walk out. Walk out and never look back. I was coursing with anger and pent up frustration from putting up with his abuse. I couldn't quit. He wouldn't beat me. We finished up the remaining tickets. His temper had calmed some. I broke down the kitchen and we left. The owner was waiting for him. We had had the highest revenue week for the young restuarant and also the the highest food cost. The owner gave Victor notice. He would be terminated in thirty days. A new chef was being brought in. He had suffered the final insult, as had I. I began running the line by myself at night while Victor went on interviews. Finally he walked out. I can't blame him. He said that we were finally dancing. That I had music in my fingers. I would have a future. That was five years ago, I will no longer suffer assholes lightly, especially on Valentines day.

Valentines

"What are you doing Friday?"
"No plans"
"Would you like to go out with me?"
"Uh, yeah, sure...That'd be nice"
I wasn't expecting it. I may have been hoping for it, but I wasn't expecting it. She had most recently dated a freind, a taboo. She was beautiful, there was and hadn't been anything really between them. I couldn't say no. She had asked me out, how could I say no.

I first saw her in that house in the country. It wasn't hers, yet she flowed through it familiarly. She came and went like a phantom roommate. The house was not mine. It was in the country. Shaded by oaks and maples. A rolling acre dotted with trees. There were a handful of people living in that house. She had a handful of rings, brilliant red hair pulled back, layers of clothes guarding against the winter and pale green eyes.

We left for the coast. It was a Friday. It was Valentines day. We concluded that it was mere coincidence. I made dinner in the house by the sea. A giant open main room with windows staring out, it was my solitude. I had brought her into it. Over the course of the night we talked. We slept. The next morning it was unspoken, yet concluded, that we would be inseperable. I was young, we were young. The excitement, the belief in passion and undeniability ruled us. The fourteenth would become milestone for us, that day we came together and formed our cocoon. It was the sort of relationship that demanded all hours of all the days. The kind of relationship that friends would normally question the health of. Yet no one did. It seemed so right. I graduated. I moved. Things slipped away. The sun on a winter day burns brightly but the days are so short.

We met again, eight years later. We were fueled by the memories of the beginning, not the end. She showed up at the restaurant on the night of Valentines day. So we began the trek again. Like a snowball in the freezer it had staled. You can't recreate a snowday, you can't recreate youth. We tried to continue on, as we had long before. It was precious, it was desperate. We let it slip away. I no longer walked with Young Werther in my head, I was too tired. The world had showed me too much. I was just becoming myself...again. I could not be someone elses world and sacrifice mine. The breadth between too many expectations and too few cannot be spanned.

Capsule

My memories of my formative years, High School years, have become like capsules. Capsules floating in my mind that, when prodded, dissolve and release their contents. These memories are no longer part of my subconsious they are buried much deeper, they are dinosuars turning to oil.
His name was Jim. I believe his name was Jim. He was unassuming. Unassuming in his desire to be invisible. His hair was greasy, his manner timid, his eyes were that of a frightened dog. He was fragile. He wore cheap clothes. The kind of clothes that mark you in the kind of high school he was stuck at. It was a rich, white High School. The kind of High School where the scars of the have nots are deep and red. You either try to fit in and hide your caste or you try to disappear, hoping that you don't become grist for the mill of the haves. Jim, I'll call him Jim since I can't remeber his name for sure, was one whose only hope was to fade away, go unnoticed, avert eyes from the predatoty teens. He played trombone in the marching band. He had changed schools frequently. He was slow to make friends. Many of us simply assumed that he was slow. He was polite. He was respectful. He was quiet. He didn't want any trouble.

It was my senior year. I was the drum major. A position of leadership, or as much so as an 18 year old smart ass could handle. I had wanted it. It was the pinnacle of our little isolated world. Despite the dynamics and politics of the rest of the High School, we had our own culture, our own structure our own levels of acceptance. Gabba Gabba we accept you.
We worked together. We performed together. We shared intensity. It was our island from the pihrana pool outside the band room, off the marching field. Most importantly we were good. We travelled. We competed.

For three months we would travel several times to competitions around the northwest. At least one trip would take us far from home. We would sleep on gym floors, spend hours on end on the bus. It was our opportunity to be free. The smell of diesel still stirs emotions, a bit of adrenaline, nostalgia. Even in our protected world Jim was isolated, distant, afraid. He was reluctant to go. He was unable to afford the per diem. We covered his costs. We wouldn't leave anyone behind, how much of this was based out of camraderie simply the need for the fifth trombone I don't remember. I'd like to believe that simple charity was the overriding value. But morality is always to the benefit of the historian. He went on the trip. Jim did not bathe. He smelled. We were staying in the gym of a High School near the competition. People were complaining about Jim. Even within our own little world there were limits to acceptance. It was decided that I would approach him. We still believed that bad news from a peer was better than bad news from an adult. I don't remember the dialogue, or the language. I'm sure my best attempt at tact was employed. It was discussed discreetly. He would be escorted into the men's locker room, were we had already showered. The door would be guarded so that noone would enter. Jim would shower. All would be happy. The conversation did not go so well. I told Jim, as tactfully as I could, he smelled, he had to shower. I, even without wanting to or trying to, had done the unthinkable. I had exposed him. Regardless of my encouraging words, my reassurances, I had facilitated his nightmare. His peers had noticed him and disapproved. He may have cried, he acquiesced. He bathed. He came out of the locker room clean. And in the way that only teenagers can hurt each other people noticed him, each encouraging word, each congratulation on bathing, bit deeper and exposed him more. Each reassurance was a condemnation. He smiled and played along, but the damage was done.

He and his family moved away after the end of the school year. I graduated, and my thoughts moved to that of College. I would think of Jim now and again. I would think of him when I was chewing over the strange difficulties of High School, of the awkwardness, the unfairness. I looked through my Annual today. There is no hint of Jim. No class photos, no appearances in the marching band group photo. He exists now as he did in High School, undocumented, unnoticed.

Ivan the butcher

I've been going to the same barber for over ten years know. It's a hole in the wall, anchoring a row of decaying storefronts. A cake decorating supply store. An asian market. A video store. A 'lingerie' shop. Ivan has been there for at least three decades. Cutting, trimming, buzzing, dying, perming, frosting, and shaping hair. The shop is a collection of the jetsam of the past three decades. An old Hammond Organ, where he whiles away slow summer days, Flea market toys, combs, posters, magazines, and hair products, pictures, and until recently the pony tail he removed from me on my first visit there. He is Bulgarian. He has told me stories of the old country, working on a steam driven chaff machine. Joining the military. Mostly though the time is spent simply. I sit in the chair, he cuts my hair. Sometimes he suggests I take vitamins or condition, supplements vital to healthy hair. But mostly I sit quietly and he cuts. He is a craftsman who knows his way around a head of hair, tasks he could perform in his sleep. When I moved to the West Hills I started going to a small shop in Cedar Hills. They used warm shaving cream and straight razors. Barbers who had, much like Ivan, learned their craft from the military or from Fathers or Uncles. A couple years ago I went to a trendy local shop on a handful of occasions to receive a 'rock and roll' haircut. I returned to Ivan. He was suspicious. He knew I had gone to someone else. I couldn't lie to him, he could see right through me. "Who cut you hair?" his accent is still thick with the old world. "How much you spend?" "Ahhh, too much! They don't know what they doing. You keep coming here." He was right.
I've jokingly called him a butcher. He will cut your hair short if you ask for it and sometimes if you don't, he will swipe away sideburns without a second thought, he'll part my hair on the wrong side always. Despite those little idiosyncracies he is still a pro. More importantly though he is a dinosaur. A simple shop owner who has raised children and supported a neighborhood. He only takes cash which he keeps in a small drawer by his chair. He works five days a week, eight hours a day, plying a trade that he has practiced for longer than I have grown hair. Someday he will cut no more, and I dread that day. Cut shops, and strip mall chains are a dime a dozen, but there is only one Ivan.

When one observes a great line cook there are certain traits they manifest; timing, efficiency of motion, an uncanny awareness of surroundings, and a certain calm. The most vital though is the sense of urgency; not a frantic desperation, but a purposeful intent. It lends power to the efficiency and speed, the accuracy and calm. There is resolution in the movements of food to pan, pan to plate. The success of the shift lies in every plate, the room for error is non existent. 'You're only as good as your last plate' my first chef instilled in me years ago. Never compromise, never try to trick the customer, never pray that they won't notice a botched job. If you execute your job as precisely as you can every single time then you have no regrets, only calm and satisfaction. Some day I will become that cook and someday I will live my life with the joyful urgency it deserves.

I don't recollect my first introduction to death. I was told my grandmother Rose had died of cancer soon after my birth. I wanted to miss her, and in a way did, but having no recollection made it difficult. I only new my grandfather, Earl, with cancer. Hospital trips, discussing chemo and plans if it somehow went into remission. I was the fly on the wall in this world, no one wanted to rush me into the reality of life and death. I loved my grandfather: Missing finger, tinted glasses, cigarettes, a night watchmans uniform, the cough and cribbage. The summer before sixth grade he died. My Grandfathers white blood cells grew too few and the cancer grew too strong. I missed my grandfather and yet was incapable of really understanding the loss my father felt. I had only been around for eleven years, this man had been in my fathers life for much longer. I first saw death here. Later my Mothers father, John, died. He was 84, a putterer, a tinker, a man with a firm hand shake and a faint Missourah accent. Eleven years later his wife, my mothers mother, my grandmother Ruth, would die. A petite powerhouse, a rock, an excellent cook, joyful laugh and a love of teasing and innocently risqu'e humor. I miss them all. The idea of deaths inevitability was cemented into my psyche. Live, grow old, hope to pass in your sleep with your children by your side.

Over the past three years, five friends have died all before the last statement could be achieved. Realizing that death is not simply waiting at the end of the road, but an ever looming possiblity, has been uniquely sobering. After the initial need to console and insure the well being of the immediate family comes time for personal reflection. The most startling are the unique moments of clarity; those times when suddenly while driving, talking with friends, listening to music, or cooking, when you realize that you simply are. You grasp for a single instance that you are alive and not simply watching some ongoing, often times very boring, movie. In that clarity the sky is indeed blue, a summer afternoon truly is the finest time to read a book and drink a beer, running with no direction or purpose is as close to flying as we'll get, and loss really is permanent. The slap in the face that this is only what it is and at anytime it may slip away stings brilliantly.

Governor: the Sequel

My God what a gorgeous man! The only thing that could make this more fallic is a banana in one hand and a barber pole next to the Washington monument in the background. Sweet zombie Jesus I haven't seen a depiction of purebred teutonic virility since the Leni Riefenstahl film "Goebbels: An Aryan Cock for Victory." It's actually possible to be impregnated by looking at this picture too long. That's your governor California. I knew there was reason I had disdain for SoCal. Don't get me wrong. I loved the Terminator, Commando. eh Twins, not so much. But everyone knows that sequels suck. Governor2:Full Term should be a brilliant spectacle full of all the high budget effects, big name stars and plenty of trailers. Unfortunately, much like Arnies movie career, it may be a little thin on the writing. But Hey, that never mattered much. He looks so good on that horse how can he not be the big dick swinging take charge governor that California needs. I think his campaign platform should focus on his promise not to make movies while in office. Somthing like-Schwarzenegger in '06 in theatres in '10. It could be more of a threat. "If I lose, I'll start making movies again"! That's a double edged sword. All the neglected California republican action film buffs have been hard up since Arnie went into politics. Their starving for a 'Schwarzenegger v. the entire Middle East' flick. Bullets and grenades flying, dead brown people all around, evil God and America hating terrorists in pieces, and Arnie dropping the on liners in between turning Muslims into blood sprinklers. There hasn't been a good Goddamn movie to come out of hollywood in a decade, what with Chuck doin' Walker on the TV and Stallone turnin' into a girl. It would also work against those of refined sensibilities who 'view cinema' instead of watching movies. Would four more years of the Governator be worth it if only to prolong the release of Junior2, or the sequel to True Lies, True Truth? California can't be any more messed up can it? At least there will be plenty of time to stew on it. Just like any big blockbuster, the trailers start now but it won't be in theatres for a year

'By the way, if anyone here is in advertising or marketing, kill yourself. Thank you, thank you. Just a little thought. I'm just trying to plant seeds. Maybe one day they'll take root. I don't know. You try. You do what you can. Kill yourselves. Seriously though, if you are, do. No really, there's no rationalization for what you do, and you are Satan's little helpers, OK? Kill yourselves, seriously. You're the ruiner of all things good. Seriously, no, this is not a joke. "There's gonna be a joke coming..." There's no fucking joke coming, you are Satan's spawn, filling the world with bile and garbage, you are fucked and you are fucking us, kill yourselves, it's the only way to save your fucking soul. Kill yourself, kill yourself, kill yourself now. Now, back to the show.

"You know what Bill's doing now, he's going for the righteous indignation dollar, that's a big dollar, a lot of people are feeling that indignation, we've done research, huge market. He's doing a good thing." Godammit, I'm not doing that, you scumbags, quit putting a godamn dollar sign on every fucking thing on this planet!'
-Bill Hicks

It may be a harsh sentiment, but I think Bill was on the right track. I'm not some ignorant idealist believing in a billboard free utopia; however, It seems there is some great disconnect between what 'advertising' means and what has become its' intent, and how we perceive it. We connect commercial success with quality and visibility with determination. Eventually we make a subconscious connection between visibility and quality, and brand loyalty is born. Of course it all equals money. In order to be a commercial success one must make money. If you got more money you got more success. If you start with more money than the next guy after you advertise everyone believes you are better than the next guy.

Advertise v. To make public announcement of, especially to proclaim the qualities or advantages of (a product or business) so as to increase sales.

Advertising is therefore intended to inform the market. Yet we now accept and perceive advertising as a means of persuasion. Open ended phrases, NEW, IMPROVED, ULTRA, ORGASM GAURANTEED, are initially recognized by most consumers as just that, phrases with no direct qualification. Yet they've become so ubiquitous that we accept them and eventually start to believe them. Marketing has gone past the point of information to that of mass cajolery and often time dull thudding brainwashing. The jumper cables have been biting into our nuts for so long now that we don’t even resist anymore. ‘Goddamn that third blade was even better than two! Hand me another tissue, I think I cut an artery” "What!? MORE FROSTING!!!!! More, more, more, give daddy his morning fix!" We believe the banners and billboards and accept only those that have the power to advertise. Of course this is the typical tirade of the paranoid. Oh, and I’m poor as well, so maybe its bitterness. Probably bitterness. Dammit though, isn’t there room for integrity? Isn’t there room for clarity and critical choice? Is the sum of our being simply kneeling before the altar of commerce and slitting our own wrists enjoying the euphoric sensation as our green slips onto the reliquary? Is it some burnt offering to appease the plastic boxed gods we see every night on the TV? 'They promised. I saw the titties! they promised! I'm drinking the beer . Where's the titties!?"

So here's the link (SF Examiner) to something I found particularly repulsive. Especially since it involves my chosen industry.

If you really think advertising is generally harmless, or even beneficial, then I suggest looking at this page concerning soft drink companies and advertising (these companies are in no danger of not turning a profit mind you) and shoving your head further into you own asshole.

Here's another link (Tom Waits). I was in an argument. My proponent advocated blind consumption. If you like the music buy the music, no matter how ridiculous, obscene, arrogant, offensive etc. the musician/group is. Hard to disagree with. I also find that most of what I consume, musically at least , reflects a certain level of integrity. (a brief disclaimer. Dammit. I'm not not goint to listen to Miles, Mingus, Parker, Coltrane, McClean, etc. just cuz they pimped and/or slammed smack. They were fucking geniuses. They created entirely new sub genres of music and are therefore exempt. I guess what I'm saying is this; the level of your genius is directly proportional to the bad shit you may do that I'll forgive you for. Jacko excluded, crazy is just crazy.)

I by no means am saying commercial success=selling out. I am saying that advertising budget does not necessarilly equal quality, integrity, viability or (most importantly) truth.

Tachistoscope

"You can tell the ideals of a nation by its advertisements." Norman Douglas

Damn you George Lucas

The Stars Wars cycle is complete. Save for the boundless re-iterations of DVD packages we can safely sit back and reflect on Lucas's career, and most importantly his legacy Star Wars (seeing as outside of that he's done approximately jack shit). Surely this master shill is sitting atop his pile o' merchandising cash chuckling smugly as he surveys the majesty of skywalker ranch. One can safely review and assess the bearded ones career because he is most assuredly retired. When the last film went in the can all Lucas had to do was watch the machine roll along like some shadow combine harvesting ripe geek cash. I imagine he'll spend the rest of his years much like he did the eighties, wallowing in glory and money, 'executive producing', occasionally writing some chunk of derivitive tripe, and mostly not caring because he is one rich son of a bitch. Meanwhile my peers gracefully worship at a huge brazen George atop the great hipster geek altar, empty Mt Dew bottles, candy wrappers and memorabilia strewn before it. We (everyone cognizant and impressionable when the original trilogy was released) all are indebted to the liberating and generation defining film, yet damn if somethin' don't feel quite right. While I too hold Star Wars in deeply intimate regard (I still have the sheets I got for christmas in 1977) what has become of the property belies Georges true talents.

I wasn't expecting a grand return to my childhood when I heard the prequels were in the making. I was looking for an escape, a romp populated by familiar character and places. What I got was tiresome cliche, thin and annoying characters, questionable casting, stilted and unnatural dialogue, and one giant fucking newt that should have been squashed shortly after the credits rolled in the first movie. It lead me to reassess George Lucas. Without getting into specifics (I'll leave that to film geek sites) George is a film student with a Hollywood budget. Tarrentino with a degree and no sense of style, or ability to direct for that matter. His is a study in his influences, predominantly Kurosawa. He's credited with revolutionary special effects yet 2001: A Space Odyssey, a film that came out 9 years before the orginal Star Wars, looks better. Ultimately a film school graduate and nothing more. Yet Star Wars was, to say the least, uh...huge.

The following movies established Lucas as a very lucky and rich man. Their life on the screen pales in comparison to Fast food cups, action figures, breakfast cereals, toothpaste, books, video games etc. He inspired an entire genre whose sole intention is to spawn labeled crap for us to consume, throw on shelves, and eventually resell on e-bay for several times its shelf price (only of you've kept it mint!). In order for a science fiction, or fantasy for that matter, film to be made it must prove it's marketability, it's ability to generate revenue well after it's out of the theatre. Science fiction as a genre has subsequently suffered. Instead of awareness expanding films utilizing fantastic settings to comment on our own perception we are left with 90 minute commercials. Thanks George and fuck you.

Of course he didn't foresee that tremendous impact. He was just trying to make an enjoyable and fun movie. That's why I don't blame him for Star Wars, or even Empire. Every movie following though is another nail holding the thesis on the door. The dollar signs occluded his already myopic vision as a filmmaker. He went for the LCD. Not that the previous films were unaccessable high brow cinema, they did contain a level of simple minded integrity. Unfortunately as soon as those leather clad little gerbils strolled out in Jedi we could see the real George working. What was going through his mind? "I want to see a stuffed ewok in everyone car rear window. I want to see ewoks on every back pack of every little girl going to school, I want to see ewoks every year in their very own christmas special." He found his niche, his true calling. I bet he's real pissed he didn't come up with Hello Kitty, Pokemon, or My Little Pony. He ceased to care about the monster he created, and never truly controlled. As long as it generated income sign on the bottom line. Here's were we get to the crux of the biscuit. You, Mr. Lucas, are limited in talent and ability. Instead of being the one hit wonder that so many other marginally talented directors are, you struck the mediocrity jackpot; one property that could insure you wealth and influence for the rest of your life. Like some mediocre golfer winning the Masters, you now have a green jacket and are mentioned with real filmmakers. You milked it dry without any regard to artistic direction or your own personal vision. A true craftsman always controls his medium. He has a vision for the entire project and if not walks away from it. If only you could have walked away from it.

Let's go for a ride baby. I'll be your Captain America. Let's ride...in the smoothed out slapped down space between town to town.'

' We can fly
Ain't nothin' between here. Nothin' - I never been anywhere but here, and I've been here too long. I know here is were i'm gonna die.'
Can't stay, can't stay here just to die.
'If you and me headout real summer like we can live forever. We can fly and fall in love. Just you and I.'
We can ride and watch life strip away; bark off birch. Only if we leave.
Leave only truth and glistening sappy love. Paint that wild wicked little trip from fleshy hate to belief in tar and dust. A twisted tiny world of our limbs and length. Flying in clouds of dust. Sweet, sweet, dust.'

Some would say that those who chose to blog have way too much extra time. I beg to differ.
http://www.malevole.com/mv/misc/tribute/

Where did it go?

Now entering my mid thirties, an uncontemplated region, I wonder about the validity of where I've been. It seems as if everything is becoming a shallow reflection of my early and mid-twenties. Where have all the good times gone? There's still good times, better times than the turgid, wandering and searching of those years for sure, but certain things aren't the same. Primarily the music, or the feel of the music. What has happened to my music? What has happened to the Xray cafe, La luna, Satyricon, etc. I know i've always been a bit of a crumudgeon, holding on to what has been, but this seems unique. The stage has changed and the music is now product. In the early nineties in Portland the Xray was the place for the disenfranchised, the misfits, geeks, wanderers and experimenters. Friday night shows, Big Daddy Meat Straw, Tao Jones, Hitting Birth, hell even Elvis. Anything went and there were no angles or molds. There were no rules. Granted it was the early 90's, lot's of flannel, dr. Martins, dude with long hair and shaved sides, flight jackets, all the insinuation of the punk repackaging that was to come, but it was still a Portland hodgepodge, it was still ours. The Seattle scene had erupted, Nirvana, Soundgarden, Mudhoney and Pearl Jam left everyone scrambling to find the next big band. We knew it was only a matter of time before the record companies moved south to P-town to sign some of our own brand of NW homecooking. Standing in the bar at LaLuna we'd debate wether it was going to be Completely Grocery or Drunk at Abi's, Hitting Birth or Tao Jones that made it, my money was always on Drunk at Abis. It ended up being Pond and Hazel, not bad picks, but there was so much more. Slowly the clubs faded away, slipping and sinking or quickly closing the doors. As the clubs slipped away so did the bands. The shows came fewer and farther between, rumors of break ups ran rampant, day jobs won out. You'd see familiar faces occasionally but only reminders of what was. Almost overnight though, nationally the underground rose up to meet mainstreet. Goatees, Sideburns, piercings and tatoos became de rigueur. More national bands came through, great shows, but not ours. I slipped out of the scene without realizing it. Finishing school and beginning my life of work. Everclear had become the national poster child of the 'NW' sound, by default mind you. Kurt was dead. Pearl Jam was turning into some sort of post punk greatful dead. Layne Staley couldn't stay off smack, and as Layne went so did AIC. Soundgarden, actually Chris Cornell, went from just looking California to being California. Mudhoney was never able to reproduce their absolute Stooges idol worship brilliance of Superfuzz, and all the others went their own seperate ways. Still those nights a few years earlier on the sidewalk smoking cigarettes, just a little high, were what we were really ever after. Rudi and Angie, Brent and Emily, Shawna, Shelly, Kenny and of course Heather.
Now its over a decade later. I don't listen to those bands anymore. There aren't many recordings out there. In that time radio stations have devoted themselves to their 'new' music, alternative music. As this wave of vanilla shadows those who cut ground before them we're left in the same boat as we were in '90. Teen Idols, reprocessed rock and fakers playing the role of the rock star. It seems that those posing now as alternative have influences only too obvious, posing in a manner that is too familiar. There is now a directive, a mold, a process in which to be alternative. Experimenting with form has been left to the avant and those driven by more singular purposes. Only the dinosaurs of eighties post punk remain, kicking and screaming, still making it their way, diy. Where are the dangerous rock stars? Where are the relentless, untiring, self destructive egomaniacs? Where are my rockstars?

Happy Holloween Douche Bag

I think the death knell has wrung for this bullshit made up holiday. If you dig it your are either under the age of 14 and participating in the profolactic activity that passes for trick or treating or you're looking for an excuse to dress up and get loaded. There's no middle ground anymore. Oh and yes I am a joyless, bitter crumudgeon that resents anyone else who desires to 'have fun'. That aside, have fun, dress up in your fleeting ironic costume, get wasted; wake up tomorrow clean the vomit off and go to work and forget about the holiday until October 1st next year. At least there's cheap shitty candy on sale at Walgreens. Enjoy pretending and living a fantasy little life for a night because your too damn scared to really live an interesting life. Fuck you! Whew, I really need a drink.

It's a column, but the reality is irrefutable. Cheney is a fucker

http://www.boston.com/news/globe/editorial_opinion/oped/articles/2005/11/07/deconstructing_cheney/

I spent my twenties in pursuit of quick distractions and shiny new pasttimes. It seemed so easy to just get by believing in the truth of my own youth. I assumed that my ability to adapt and get along would lead me to opportunity and an American dream. A dream that seemed so ready for everyone else. Meanwhile I was obssessed with anger and resentment instead of how to live. It was my true hobby, the creation of my crumudgeon veneer. I had grasped and gleaned ideas and concepts and regurgitated them as my own; if you lacquer an opinion in enough vitriol most won't question it's validity. An assholes verbal shillelagh. I ran from dreams and opportunities for fear of failure. More accurately i ran for fear of trying and failing. Most think the coward fears. In reality what the coward fears is the failure of his own abilities. When a circumstance can end in judgement true fear is created. When one can see an opportunity and there is only the image of failing, cynicism is created. Of course it also refined my eye. I honed my ability to dissect the weekness of others and focus on the potential pitfalls of any given situation. I became a ninja of doubt, the ultimate assassin of success. My mind sang songs of defeat, rhymes of neurosis grown of that time. My body is weakened and undermined by the alcohol and nicotine that bolstered the minds lies. It is not the body i knew. It lied when it said i saw truth. I used to play music. Now I listen. My feet used to move swiftly, now i stumble in my dreams. Yet when i cook there are no lies. The doubt culls. There is fire, there are my hands, my eyes, my tongue and the truth.

There's a good chance i hate you

Having an extensive list of annoyances and peeves, there is a very strong possibility that I hate you. Not that if we had a few beers I wouldn't see your merits, and come around to genuinely liking you, but of course that will never happen. I'm not writing about my friends, that's why they're my friends. Generally they don't piss me off or possess attributes I find annoying. However the rest of the unkown, or general public get's in my way and exists solely as impedence in getting from point A to point B (I mean this both literally and metaphysically). It's not a lingering personal hate. I don't wish any true harm, although if you drive I-84 in the afternoons below the speed limit in the left lane I may truly wish you mild personal injury (even though my words would imply great personal insury). I'm not hating because of some perception of superiority, though I'm pretty sure I've got somethings working that you don't. Nor am I implying that I am above reproach. On the contrary, I am quite loathesome, particularly if you don't know me. Generally this is how we function in our society. Anyone outside of our immediate relations are suspect. And if they present an annoyance, percieved disregard or hinderance they are then hated, if only briefly and anonymously. It's nothing personal, but i hate you. That's the crux of the biscuit though. It's an impersonal hate that we've acquired by being surrounded by so many people that we know nothing about and never will know. It's not a village anymore. At least in the village you could all agree that Jed was an asshole but you all now Jed. And through knowing you gain understaning and compassion, regardless of Jed's lack of redeeming qualities. Of course I realize this sounds terribly unhealthy. However I would impart a few words from Bill Hicks "I suggest you look around at the world we in which we live and shuttin' your fuckin' mouth." We are pushed to compete. We are given ridiculous and superficial goals to 'attain'. We measure value more by income and material acquisition than works of good and personal happiness. Our religious and national ideological structure has been formed into an Us Vs. Them mentality. Saved vs. unsaved. Patriots vs. leftists. Our existence has ultimately been polarized. Their is nothing more than right and wrong, love and hate. From a distance it's all black or white, but when you get real close you see the grey inbetween. That is how we view people. Our close relationships are shades of grey depending on whatever interpersonal politics are going on, because we are close to these people for prolonged periods of time. We learn to sympathize with them as they sympathize with us. The stangers inhabiting day to day life, the filler life, are loved or hated based solely on their actions for the brief moment we pass by them. It's never the personal hate from direct wrong doing, it's a defensive hate caused by little actions that are contrary, not necessarily harmful to our current objective. 'That fucker cut me off!" "Bitch took the last Cherry Garcia!" "Fuckin' hooker laughed at my dick!" It's not intentional. It's not harmful. It's a product of the society in which I was raised. It's a safe defensive hate. It's anonomously attached to an unwitting and oblivious stranger that I will never know, speak to, see or cross paths with again. For that brief period they are my scapegoat, my sweet psychic release from the stressors of life. I hate you, I love you. It's nothing personal.

A little conspiracy never hurt anyone.

http://www.infowars.com/
Sure conspiracy theories are generally relegated to the novelty genres of journalism, but damn if there isn't something to them every now and again. There may be no grand illuminati, or homoereotic ivy league boys club running things but what there is is a distinct segregation of have and have not. The majority of our law makers and world leaders are members of an elite class that has allowed them distinct advantages in accessing power and wealth (virtual synonyms). Given that the myth of secret world government and new world order are just that, myth. What there is, is a great rift in perception and morality. Actions that we, as a nation, have been so opposed to publically are now our dirty little secrets. There is a consistent disgregard for the welfare of all instead of the privilaged few. As if by benefitting corporate and elite America we all are to gain.

'Men rise from one ambition to another: first, they seek to secure themselves against attack, and then they attack others.'-Niccolo Machiavelli

Somethin' just ain't right. We are led to believe that it's always been right, our nation and way of thinking has always been sacred. We embrace our successes and disregard the work that needs to be done. Or we simply undo the work and call it flawed. We are more like a high school student watching a homecoming football game then actually participating members of a democracy. We are entering an age that allows us an almost infinite access to information in which to form our own opinions yet we allow two or three major media conglomerates to , process, analyze disseminate information for us. There may be no specific meetings among a group of masons, papists, oil tycoons and swiss pig fuckers, but there is a consistent thread amongst the elite that make our decisions and that is, at the minimum, maintaining a status quo regardless of who it harms.

nail..head...hit

http://www.slate.com/id/2131184/

My little fuckin' media corner

Come. Join me in a self indulgent conversation about what I've been reading, listening to and watching. For the two of you that actually read this, while the inevitable comments implying that I watch a multitude of porn are appreciated they are not wholly accurate or even necessary. When I post under the heading, 'My little fuckin' jerk shack', then feel free to issue statements implying the nature, orientation or expanse of my pornography. Until then just shut the fuck up and let's talk MOVIES! So I haven't been to a theatre in a while. I believe the last time I went I bore witness to the abortion called Fantastic Four. Hence my reluctence to return to a fucking theatre, lest I scratch my eyes out rather than watch a more painfully steaming hot chunk of shit indelibably burn it's images into the cornea of my minds eye. I'd rather focus on movies that are good. I won't get into TV series, just cuz I don't really watch TV. Not that I'm opposed to TV, I just don't have cable and my hours are contrary to any programming other than syndicated sit-coms (Will and Grace can really drown in a crashing avalanche of effluence that is their prime time slot) and satans little babble sessions called infomercials (Nod and smile, that's satan prince of lies). So here is the list of films that have made a real impression recently. Order does not dictate importance so fuck off if you think one should be listed before another.

1)Layer Cake: Watched it this morning. Enjoyable addition to the British gangster genre. Almost overly twisted plot. Nice character play though. Something that most of the other films in the genre miss. "Suprise" ending a little too derivitive of gangster films.

2) Ikiru: Holy fucking shit dude. I could go on forever like some prissy little film school bitch, but this is one of the finest films I have seen. It is personal, charming, evocative, and a slap to the old consciousness. Beatifully filmed, one of the most chillingly sweet scenes in any film. It's no Jerry "Pull your fucking strings my little marionette" Maguire. It actually evokes emotion not because some schlub is utilizing cinematic tools and cliches, but because Kurosawa stays true to the story and tells it honestly and so terribly humanly. Oh and we all gotta die sometime.

3) Seventh Seal: Just to stay on the doom and fucking gloom kick Bergmans study of one mans literal and internal confrontation with death is simply beautiful. Of course we're supposed to like it because everyone has said it's good. But sometimes it's true. THE MOVIE IS REALLY FUCKING GOOD! He pulls these characters out and gives them flesh bone and soul in little time, meanwhile issuing a very real question concerning existence, death and the afterlife. Yeah, yeah, yeah I'm just a snobby pseudo intellectual fuck. At least I think. Besides it's not that hard to follow, if you have half a functioning brain.

4)Kung Fu Hustle: Kick ass fun. I'm always amazed when I see a film that does slapstick and sight gags well. It's a lost fucking art in Hollywood.

5)Requiem for a Heavyweight: Fuck right heavyweight. Jackie Gleason at his sleasiest, Anthony Quinn at his palookaist and Mickey Rooney at his lackiest. Great story and a real nice film from the creater of the Twilight Zone. No way in hell this movie gets made now. But then again I'm just a crumudgeon that likes a fucking story and some acting to go along with my eye candy.

6)Last Life in the Universe: A Thai film that has a disturbing pace and effect. An odd and sweet? story about a suicidal, OCD, Japanese librarian working in Thailand because his brother (Yakuza) got in a little trouble back in Osaka. Anyway he gets hooked up with a Thai girl who's sister has just died, in part because of the main character. It's a sweet melancholy story of misfits healing one another. The film Garden State wishes it was.

7)To Have and Have Not: Humphrey fucking Bogart and Lauren Bacall. I know, Bogey didn't really act, he just played himself, and Bacall played the same role over and over. But they both do it so well. Once again not to get all gooey about the golden age of Hollywood, but there is rarely that sort of on screen chemistry. The closest I've seen in recent film is Eyes Wide Shut. Were perhaps the real issues were influencing Tom and Nicole.

8) Underground: A long movie. A quick watch. It's over the top. It's absurd. It's a damn good movie. It follows a small group of Yugoslavians from WWII to the most recent conflict to hit the area. Two best friends are new members in the communist party. They steal from the rich to further the populist movement. After Germany invades Yugoslavia, one friend hides the other in a secret small arms factory in his basement. For fifty years the friend and a group of loyalists stay in the basement manufacturing small arms under the belief that the Nazis are still occupying Yugoslavia. It's a bucket of laughs, no really it's pretty damn funny. And an interesting view of what happened to the once nation of Yugoslavia.

Ahh the internet

http://www.thatvideosite.com/view/1321.html

Oh Sweet years

So you make a product, offer a service, sell some sort of goods, etc. There are certain aspects of your business that pretty much are the way they always have been. Conventions that are tried and true, established practices that others found were the best way to do things. Most people follow these patterns in business. The way you seperate yourself from others is to execute, communicate, deliver etc. at a higher level than your competitors. To make yourself known you advertise. Making something sound new and exciting is the key to advertising. 'Ooh that's shinier.' ' Oh my that's new!' Just like mating birds in the wild you throw your tail feathers up and try to court yourself some buyers. It's really interesting when you attempt to seperate yourself from others by telling people you're doing things completely differently when your not.
I remember all those years in college (there were many of them trust me). Sitting around drinking beers smoking a little weed. There was always the ubiquitious self anointed idealist telling us how it was all going to be different with them. "I'm going to guatamala and get these sweet bracelets and I'm gonna bring 'em back and sell 'em" "then I'm going to asia, I don't know man, I just wanna travel. I'm not going to be like my folks". Ten years later, their driving a lexus suv with a sierra club bumper sticker, still going to wide spread panic shows, expressing how different they really are by the Bob Marley poster hanging in their cubicle. As they grow a little older their politics start to become more centric (there is a scientific ratio that corralates the amount of money you make to your political voting trends). Eventually their sitting around the club sipping scotch regailing everyone with the stories of their wild youth. Bitter because they weren't more free, bitter that they were never as free as they thought they were. Attached to a lifestyle.

It all ended in one simple, awkward kiss. The little game of innocence was a game of capitulation with no victor. The spark flickered and faded; smothered by circumstance and fear. Broken, he had already been broken. The one before, with deceit, had crushed his ego. There are instances in any life that trouble one for far too long. She was too soon after. She was perfect. She was too soon. A good girl. A beautiful girl of temperance and adjustment, tolerance and promise. Sweet with the wit of reality and comfortable in the clothes of her life. A life of true faith. There is family and there is faith when both agree little else stands a chance. They were comfortable together, two akin in sight and sense. Three simple months seem like a lifetime of joy twenty years later.

My little fuckin' record corner

Been buying quite a bit of vinyl recently. My approach is buying music that was intended for mass production on vinyl. Albums that were recorded with the intention of being listened to on vinyl. So needless to say I haven't been listening to anything after the eighties (with the excpetion of nomeansno, but that's another post at another time.) Exploring vinyl is a great way to find gems that haven't or won't make it to CD. It's also a great way to experience certain quintessential albums the way the were intended to be heard. Of course there's also the nostalgic aspect. Records have a warmer and more intimate feel, while the covers themselves are gratifying, and personal, unlike the plastic cases of cassettes and cds, or the gifs and jpgs of online purchases.
Here's a few I've been listening to recently.
The Beatles, "The White Album": Love 'em or hate 'em this is still one of the most important albums of all time. The beatles have single handedly shaped pop music for the past 40 years. Few artists have not been influenced in some way by the band or this album.

Buddy Miles, "Them Changes": Best known for his work with Jimi Hendrixs' the Experience, Miles had a couple great albums of his own. Them Changes features the title track with horns and a tight seventies groove. His vocals on Neil Youngs 'Down by the River' are nails, and his version of Greg Allmans dreams smokes. He has a great voice, the band is sharp, the arrangements are solid. At times you can hear what modern rock/soul/jam bands want to be.


Willie Nelson' "Stardust": Great songs sung by a great song stylist. His is one of the unique voices of American popular music with a distinct ear towards melodic interpretation. He gives life to the lines he sings. He wears the melody more like a comfortable shirt than the heavy yoke most singers carry. Some of the produciton value dates the album a bit but the fact that it's Willie singing great tunes overshadows that.


JJ Johnson "Dial": A great lead man who was usually in the shadow of others. I first started listening to him with Charlie Parker. A talented improvisor with exceptional skill with a bitch of a horn. He shows his hand in this album with bandleading and arranging. This album, while not earth shattering, is as good as any mainstream jazz album of the era.
feat. Bobby Jaspar, Tommy Flanagan, Wilbur Little, and Elvin Jones.








James Brown "Slaughters Big Rip-Off": This is a great example of a great band on top of it's game. While not the best work on James Browns part, the band is as tight as ever. Some interesting bits with Lyn Collins backed up by the JB's. Fred Wesley arranges some fine horn parts, not Browns best work but a gem for the sake of the JB's