In case anyone was wondering what happened to the Asian dude who was always up in the Wicker P last summer, jammin' on the one with his earbuds in and gold hot pants on, he's now contributing wacky spectacle to Berkeley, CA judging by this pic in the New York Times. MYSTERY SOLVED!
30 second exposure c. 2 am.
One night, in the hall outside my grandma's room, my dad told me about missing his old days as a photojournalist. Every assignment would start the same: he'd hitch a ride on a military transport to someplace like Panama/Salvador/Mogadishu with a change of clothes, a couple cans of food, water, tons of film, cameras, 10 grand in cash and a satellite transmitter to get the photos back to the bureau. "You'd land and the military would tell you it was too dangerous for you to even leave the airport, but the airport people or local authorities would demand you leave, and so you'd go outside and try to hire a driver to take you around so you could get the story." He smiled huge and grew animated. And then he said "But it's just not like that anymore." Celebrity news, the death of the newspaper, everything going to digital and video; those are the divides for both my dad and my mom, who spent their entire lives doing jobs they loved that no longer exist. In 1990, my dad spent several weeks in a hotel room across the street from the Vatican embassy in Panama staring through a viewfinder in eight hour shifts in order to get the first pictures of Manuel Noriega surrendering.
Now he edits pictures of forest fires and Britney and the like in LA.
Drove to the Lou for a day. Flooded the whole way.
Waves lapping the edge of the corn field.
Then back to Indiana, into a nuclear sunset.
She's still alive, my grandma. Miraculously lived through.
3 am, new room in the oncology ward. There are open rooms there my aunt says, that is why there was a whole wing of life or death grandmas there. Some people never seemed to have any visitors. It was depressing as fuck. I think I just turned my heart off and tried not think about the people I love who's death I may one day have to show up for. The new rule is no one I love or like or know a little bit is allowed to die anymore.
On our way to the library the next day, me and Dad stopped at the old timey playground and abandoned park with the best slide ever.
Double-slide, extra long, with bumps in the middle. My dad, for scale, is about 5 foot 8.
The slide was slow cos no one has been sliding on it lately. My dad took this one. I got stuck at the bumps. It's not kid-greased. My dad suggested we get some wax paper and come back. He said thats how they used to do when they were young. There is a scar on his forehead from busting his head here when he was 11, at his dad's company picnic.
For the last few years, I have been thinking I need to buy this slide before it gets torn down. But that would also mean I'd need to get some land to put it on then too. The steps say "FUN-FUL".
Maybe I could also get this as part of the deal. It goes dangerously fast.
Returned home, where Wyatt was posing with his legs crossed.
It was almost warm, Lil' No-No was out on her steed.
Weezall went to the Boredoms. I think the last time I saw them was in 1992, opening for Nirvana? I have no idea why I have skipped out for the last 15 years. I feel like I would remember if I had. We stood directlty under the center of the dome in the middle of the room, and the sound was totally different, with a thunderous stereo mix, a loud, singular hi-hat that seemed to be coming from the far right corner and pristine glossy notes everytime Eye hit the purple gtr plex.
For JR's birthday, he said all he wanted was to go Margies for a sundae. Look at the eagerness in his face.
I know, man, 34. I can't believe it either.
Yr sundae arrives in a big plastic shell and then you pour fudge-choco goop on it.
Meanwhile, back at Casa Boracho, Chicago's most dangerous rock critic was finishing the crossword.
The coffee table is a rosetta stone of any bachelor pad.
Then we walked downstairs and saw Monotonix, from Tel Aviv. The singer looked like a Doug Henning/Gallagher baby and kept dropping trou for a sac n' crack revue.
And then he put the trash can on the drummers head. Fun and funny.
Also, does anyone reading this have any interest in helping digitize back issues of Hit it or Quit it? Do you know about that kind of stuff? Do you have a scanner and spare times? Holler if you do.
Jim Croce isn;t the only one wishing for time in a bottle! Word about town is that, perhaps spurned on by Vampire Weekend-spired otherizing fetish trend (it's not really a trend, I guess since white people doing such is like, several centuries old, say) is that Pfork is looking to get Tinariwen and some other authentic world ax in the mix. Whatever their reasoning, whatever my ample judging of such, I'M PRO THAT. I saw Tinariwen at the Cultural Center four or five years back, and it makes that deep trance Boredoms show night before last feel like an Inspiral Carpets reunion. Jus' sayins all.
Secondly, I know that one lady is in a Praise band now, but why aren;t any of their Professor Peabodys getting the Raincoats back together with their wayback machines? They have to sandwich some all girl bango in there somehow, just to keep up with marginally modern PC booking standards. You have to have a credible metal band and an all-girl band. Thats the rule. PLUZ! The rhuemy-eyed gleem of Burmas eyes is well familiar--they have to play Vs. anyways cos who among us can name one of the songs off those newish Matador rec'ds, right? If they got the 30 g's for the Pulp duder, how come they don't lay that cash on CRASS? My other suggestion is a B-Pitch Control + DJ/rupture til dawn rave tent, no tired nouveu Discobelle mix of the week shit allowed. That is the business I am interested in.
In case yr in Los Angeles today, really, I suspect there is nothing better for you to be doing unless yr feeding the homeless out in Santa Monica or something. My dear friend Cali is having his dreams come true today, at this gallery of his tonight. Let hope be your guide.
I returned to the library this months Cooks Illustrated that I accidentally stole (I would subscribe if I actually ate shit like beef brisket), headed to the seventh floor of Good Samaritan, hugged my dad goodbye and drove home, as my grandma, once removed from her zillion IVs and tranc meds, is getting better and will be returned to her room at the Manor, where she lives regularly. I am home already, back into tasking and mine own bed. Thanks ever so for well wishes and prayers.
The Knox County Public Library only has one outlet and to plug into it you pretty much have to sit inside the potted ficus tree. The Knox County Public Library has not been renovated since my last visit in 1988. The Knox County Public Library probably has not been renovated since 20 years before my last visit and has modernist chandeliers that they could ebay for a grand. Despite it's old timey ways and well thumbed large print editions of George Burns All My Best Friends the Knox County Public Library is the only place in town with wi-fi and the New York Times.
My grandma is still alive. Every day my aunts and dad configure a plan, shifts in six and eight hour stays, and what if. If she dies today, if she dies this week, who will go where, and the latest on what she said, what the doctor said, what her vitals were, what they are now, and how much medicine when? Being here feels like being on tour. Sleeping in impossible positions on chairs and couches, with jeans and shoes on, breaking a nights sleep up from 2 to 6 am and 8 to noon, and then waiting, waiting, waiting broken up by bouts of consensus-taking and fast food salads. It feels impossible to work on the book, to read--to do anything but wait is to assert that something else matters in the face of this slow, informal consideration of love and family and mortality; this is the real work.
Those reading who're inclined to make like a prayer tree, please do. My grandma's name is Helen Hopper. Prayers for her comfort and rest, preferably, I guess.
I was headed home, but as she is no longer expected to recover, am going back to Vincennes now. Thanks.
Driving from the hospital to my aunts home, it was no longer dawn on the clock, but it was dawn out, as Indiana won’t spring forward/fall back, and so as a result is on something shy of Greenwich Mean time. It was half past seven but it looked like a roiling cobalt 6:15, the whole city briefly alive and truckbound towards farm or site. The Pat Boone song on the weak signal ended, and as I crossed the freeway bridge that separates the city part from the woods part, I wondered what it is like to be a the rise n’ shine DJ on some micro watt’d lite-hits of the 60’s,70’s and 80’s station, back announcing “Wipe Out” (with vim) to a still darkened South Indiana. What is it to be that guy? To be working your way up at a station so small and community that after the weather, you detail the various hot lunch menus of the county schools. Who is waiting for those menus to be announced? Moms who pack lunches because their kid hates pizza-burger day? Kids who want something to be psyched about until 11:25? Retired lunch ladies up early with their Dorals and Folgers keeping up on the game?
The verdict is that she will pull through and I will head home and then, blessedly, the old country home, Los Angeles, hang with the homos and the idle rich, bake a pie of love for some lovebirds, give a cake and feel the immortal tingle that only driving swiftly abreast a coastline brings.
Vincennes is the oldest city in Indiana; there now stands a very skateable marble monument on the site of the towns original settlement, Fort Sackville. I took an audio tour of it when I was eight, it lasted only a few minutes. My great-great grandfather settled here in 1847 (post-Sackville, pre-Gimbels Dept Store) from Innsabruck, Germany. His son was a pop bottler of his two own popular brands, Recker's Blood Orange and a brown cola that was like RC meets Dr. Pepper. He had an informal band with his wife, who died around 1923, when her youngest daughter, my grandma, was about five. The nuns and her siblings raised her, as her dad liked to date and party a bit. For fun, the kids used to tie a wallet to fishing line and leave it on the sidewalk and wait in the bushes for someone to stop and pick it up, and then they'd yank the line. She also used to swing on willow branches over the pit in the backyard. Inside the pit--all the broken bottles from her dad's factory. In the tree: treehouse where she learned to smoke. At age four. Rolled her own.
Last night I half slept for half the night in a hospital chair watching my dad hold her hand down so she wouldn't rip her oxygen mask off in her narcotized sleep. We had a talk about the varying degrees of her do not resesitate order. Is the oxygen mask a form of prolonging, or is it helping? It's hard to know, but we will know soon.
Dbl Thanks to whatever Brighton gal made this poss.
Fanclub only Huggybear cassette dl.
i didn't know about yr florida bf. sooooooooo creeeeeeeepppppy
i'm doing a million thingss hold on
i gotta go back to work
i'm watching, but hold on.
oh fuck, it's so good
I love this boy and his stuffed scooby already. Glad he loves me back.
when his voice cracks when he says zipper--blower of minds
"you sneekin' popcorn on me?"
i do love this, in or out of florida
he looks like a young, meth'd out version of ham from the walkmen
he's got colored rubber bands on braces
"what's that look like folks?" I HOPE IT'S NOT A RIFLE IN A GIG BAG
this video scares me
he's so tender, pronouncing teenage love til the death, across florida and beyond
i think this is the guy that called savage love and asked if it was cool to beat up prostitutes, you know, consentually
ALSO NOTICE HE'S NOT PLAYING GUITAR. HE'S PRETENDING AND YOU CAN HEAR HIM HIT A STRING BY ACCIDENT
his guitar is so crazy outta tune
whispering through his braces lisp
he's at the screaming part
"athsk may / wha didja let me down" (mournful look)
holy fuck. those last 3 seconds are brilliant. my mind is blown.
Positive animal omen I forgot to mention earlier:
I was walking home at 2 p.m. from examining buckwheat at the Ukraine mkt. and I saw this funny and crude shelf propped up behind the dumpster and I went to check it out. I heard this broad sort of flap flap above, and I looked up thinking someone was maybe shaking a blanket out their window on the fire escape, and no one was there. I was sniffing the shelf and I heard it again and I looked up and I saw what was flapping. A hawk. A huge fucking hawk eating a pigeon. I was next to a playground and I said to the moms "look a hawk" and everyone came to look at it, and as everyone looked up, a second giant hawk zoomed over, chasing some other birds! Hawks are gentrifying the neighborhood! The hawks were pale blue grey and their under side was white and had blue grey stiped wingspans. I don't know that they are hawks for sure, but it was about 5 times the size of pigeon and not an eagle nor an owl.
Has anyone else seen this movie White Dog? where a constantly bra-less Kristy McNichol tries to save a racist German Shepherd played by a couple dogs that aren't German Shepherds, Paul Winfield tries to help her as it's his secret lifes work to fight racism by healing dogs by wrestling them and feeding them hamburgers and showing them his belly, both of them dedicated to saving the dog despite that the dog has chewed a couple black people to death, and meanwhile, his business partner, a R2D2-hating Burl Ives is subject to Samuel Fuller's crotch shots and a bizarre aside on his love for sour cream?
Who do you think is going to wind up as the big reunion at Pitchfork this year Return to Forever or Polvo? I like how Chick Corea says that he thinks RTF's comeback will be the biggest thing to happen to music in the next twenty years--can Ash Bowie say that for his band?
And after the dinner, theres the arm wrestling party. In other parts of the country, I think people our age usually go out to the 40/40, the tranny bar or their dealers house, but nunt-uh for us.
David Wilcox, natural referee.
I mentioned it as a sort of ''what now?" desert's over joke, but there were some enthusiastic takers--namely, AnnieLaurie, who is of a hearty swede stock and reportedly, has never been beaten by another girl in arm wrestling. Kells gave her a real run for her muscle.
I thought I was up to the challenge.
Which is to say Kells handily (PUNS!) beat me.
Morgo vs. Kells, battle to end all battles; true girl grit in this feat of strength.
Pictures still loading. Meanwhile, something of a bite:
You should read the last week or so of posts on Margasak's blog--Curtis Mayfield doc details, Jazz Fest, free jazzer events, the Malachi Richter doc, overview of Kenyan music trends. It's all there.
Secondly: Bachelorette at Schubas tomorrow, Shining at the Bottle, free Joan of Arc "secret" show at the Hein-bo. JoA Black Flagged it (as Matt said) and after Make Blv finished thier basement punker set, th'dudes hightailed to to the Bottle last night to fill in for some Canadians and did a warm up show right after. The new line up is Tim Kinsella, Nate Kinsella and Bobby Burg on triangle. I have been seeing Joan of Arc in every line up since like, 98? and this one is the most spare. The last time I saw them play the 'bo, on that long EP that was like a comeback record, it was like half nerds half Stinsons line up. The stunned & bespectacled versus the all-night burners made for a real caustic intensity.
Sam McPheeters has a blog. Who knew?
Secondly, Make Blv plays tonight at 8 at peoples projects basement zone.
Good morning! Spring is coming! It's light until 5 pm now! It's so much easier to feel productive and be possessed by a sense of the possible. Last night, while Morgan and I were dog paddling laps of the pool, she told me she is going to Jordan to visit her friend who moved there to start Jordan's first book mobile. Which is the sort of thing that makes me wonder what the eff I am doing with my life, where is my good works. But then again there is no reason that I can't start Jordan's second book mobile, right? PMA. Tough lovin' my own mind with some PMA.
Trying to teach Wyatt to skateboard in between chapter drafts is not exactly making the world a better place, I must admit.
Was it Algren who said that the reason you stay in Chicago is because it's a city with a sense of infinite possibility? I think he may have been quoting someone else. It was in that book that is just 200+ pages of interview with him by a dude. It is not so good. He's a rambler. I tried, but found I am much more partial to his writing than his blabbing. Anyhow. Possibilities on the horizon, for you? May I suggest, if you live in LA tonight or on the 8th, go see Annabel Alpers aka Bachelorette play her shows. She's from New Zealand, you cannot get her records here, but her three date US tour is two shows in LA and one in Chicago at Schubas on the 11th. Her newest record is called Isolation Loops and it is my first real obsession album of this Oh-eight. Bonafiable pleasure, perfect tense. Someone in America should really put it out.
You know how after you watch a season of The Wire in a span of a couple of days, you have Wire dreams? I think someone should make a fanzine compiling them. The one I had last night was a recasting of all my favorite law n' order tv shows through the ages into a cluster fuck team of Lt. Daniels, Herc, the cast of Night Court and Hill Street Blues, and inexplicably, Todd Trainer of Shellac. It also involved me being carried to the Boredoms show like a baby. I can't explain it so much, but I could probably draw a picture of it.
Why not shoot your video at the zoo?
Or rip this off in it's entirety?
I forgot to mention this, but it's happening. From a joke in my car, to the blog, soonly available in your size at Nordstroms and Urban Outfitters c. 4/15. A new record for inside jokes going way outside the bubble. And nevermind the description in the online store, texting one a baby is a purely a sexual conveyance, borrowed, emboldened and technologified.