Knotty Nautilus

Woody says...

2012-01-05T00:24:00.000-08:00

I will try to be more like him this year.

An incomplete Thought

2011-12-13T18:11:00.000-08:00

My late father, in the late 1970's, in a checkered NYC cab, with his nose broken. It's bleeding on his designer suit and he's angry at the driver.

Another another 9/11 post

2011-09-11T15:13:00.000-07:00

In July I was in NY for an old friend's wedding. The ceremony was to take place upstate. Like Voltron, all the boys from the old clique gathered together in NYC, and got in a van to drive there.
Those hours in the van were naturally filled with hilarious time-filling chatter. One idea, I pitched to the group, was to write a book entitled "What About Me? The Silver Lining of 9/11". Unlike my previous post, it would not contain ruminations about life or the military industrial complex, or how the human spirit shone through the WTC dust. It would be more of the selfish, Larry David variety: how a terrible thing can work in your favor. I had experienced that very thing on 9/11. Before the book idea popped in my head in the van, I told them a story of how on the night 9/11 I was supposed to play drums with a band called Million.
We were going to headline that night at the now defunct Brownies venue in the East Village.

I had joined Million simply out of the need to do something creative. I had the repugnant, golden handcuff job, but no creative outlet. I had not yet decided (or felt brave enough?) to fully reboot my art studio practice. I was still lost in the cloudy haze of post-undergrad adolescence. Since I had played a lot of drums in high school and college, it seemed to be the logical choice, given that I 'auditioned' for the group and 'passed' with flying colors.

After a number of practices, however, it dawned on me that I was not a very good drummer. I think I had the technical framework and experience to become one with determination, but by the time our show was set on 9/11, this determination had yet to fruit. I could not, for the life of me, remember how many bars I had to play in the long, Stereolab-eque grooves, or when the changes came. I also tended to 'drag' the beat. This key skill makes the work of "unflashy" drummers like the Rolling Stones' Charlie Watts deceptively simple. In order to avoid dragging, a drummer has to have an unerring, in-built metronome. Despite my years of experience, I was never committed enough to find it. Without this skill, I was essentially a sitting duck in a live performance. I was simply too fearful to remember anything. There were practices I would nail it effortlessly, but many others in which I felt like my instincts had been wiped clean. Thus, it naturally follows that when my band mate Jameson called to tell me on the night of 9/11 that our 'big', 'headlining' gig had been cancelled, and that all of the band's followers, and local music scenesters would be denied the opportunity to see us alight the stage, I was SO FUCKING HAPPY!

I felt like an inevitable, public embarrassment had been thwarted by the Axis of evil and that in some fucked up way, God or whatever entity saved me by causing the worst act of terrorism in U.S. history. On 9/11 I was holding two extreme poles in my mind simultaneously: "THANK GOD!" and "HOW COULD YOU DO THIS GOD"?

9/11, of course, was terrible. It was my generations's Pearl Harbor. It led to countless deaths of innocent peoples in the ensuing years and drained our economy. It led to the airport being more annoying, and to unnecessary, racist 'background checks'. It caused infinite heartbreak for countless families who lost someone that day, including my own mother, who had a friend on the first plane that hit the WTC, who I had known since I was a child, and whose death had orphaned her own children. But 9/11 also saved me. It saved me from a public embarrassment. So I pervertedly thank 9/11.

Million and I played a final show about a month later at another venue. As predicted, I could not remember anything, let alone hear my band mates' instruments due to bad PA systems. It was a terrible show. The band broke up a day later. I never played music again.

Setbacks make us stronger in life. I probably would have gotten over that public embarrassment eventually, if 9/11 never happened. But when you somehow are saved from an inevitable disaster, it's hard to not thank something out there for making it happen, even when knowing your own self-interest is a microbe compared to how it affects the rest of the world.

Another 9/11 post

2011-09-11T12:16:00.000-07:00

I can't believe I'm posting about 9/11. Unlike most other days in my life, though, I can remember it well, which is sort of an executive excuse to write about it.

It had been just over a year since I had moved to NYC from Los Angeles. I had been working at HarperCollins Publishers for a little less than that. I was 25 years old and was already a jaded New Yorker—and then some. I hated my job, felt little connection with my co-workers, and had just excised myself from a collective of college friends, having lived with them in a dank warehouse in Carroll Gardens, Brooklyn. I opted instead to live in a proper apartment with an affable pothead acquaintance, at least 10 years my senior, in Astoria Queens.

My office was an negatively exotic place. It was very corporate and beige and entailed endless meetings that felt like public floggings. And almost everyone was older by at least 10 years. I was hired as a design assistant for children's books and as the office's 'on call' computer tech. I knew next to nothing about computers. It had been a humiliating and rough first year, surviving a co-worker's plot to get me fired, among other indignities. Thankfully my boss was indifferent to my ineptitude and took my bumbling efforts to be charming, if frustrating, to the rest.

The vindictive co-worker had just quit not long before the planes hit, but on that morning I had arrived to work with the exhausted, beaten spirit of a skinny pup, as the improvements of my life had yet to take hold.

The first plane must have hit on my walk from the train to the 6th floor. When I got through the glass doors, a few people were gathered around the conference room TV, watching the footage of a gaping hole in the WTC tower. Without question, I assumed an idiot had crashed a small propeller plane into it. In the grand narrative of NY, it seemed like a "Whoops" kind of moment and I proceeded to my office to work on my breakfast. More people gathered around the TV. Having finished my breakfast, and having nothing else to do, I joined in. About two minutes later, the other plane hit on live television. Hushed gasps enveloped the room. It was at that moment we all knew.
Then, the news cut to the Pentagon. Then, the crash site in Pennsylvania. I felt like I had entered the Twilight Zone.

Until the first building collapsed, the possibility of that happening seemed impossible. Modern man, (Americans!) could not build something like that and let it fall. It sounds creepily jingoistic to say that, but it must have been my core belief, because when the building did go down, I immediately intuited that our world was never to be the same again. It was as if a heroin-soaked gauze was ripped from my eyeballs. My life seemed stable only occasionally, but until that day, at least those buildings would always be.

Security announced that we should all leave, but would have to go by foot, since all the subways had closed. I walked 7 miles home, over the Queens Bridge with a co-worker I did not know that well yet. I don't remember talking much on our long walk back to Queens, but I remember her awkwardly breaking the silence here and there by remarking on the obvious: "This is surreal". And boy, it was. Thousands of NYC'ers, some covered head to toe in soot and dust, were trudging home together, smoke billowing from lower Manhattan. I occasionally stopped to take pictures.

Out of some kind of determination for things to be 'normal'. I went to work the next day, even though most did not. On the way to work, the train made a very sudden jerky stop. Everyone in the car gasped and clutched their chests. It had been the everyday jerky stop and the train quickly moved on. Everyone in the train laughed uncomfortably and breathed again.
Never before had I felt so embedded in a collective emotion. It felt good, even if I knew the world would not be the same, or that the gravitas of this moment might not repeat itself, for better or worse.

8MM (1999) and The Conversation (1974)

2011-06-19T23:26:00.000-07:00

Two films have been on my mind a lot lately: 8mm (1999), directed by Joel Schumacher, and The Conversation (1974), directed by Francis Ford Coppola. Both deal with a male who gets too cozy with his work and loses his marbles as a result. 8mm is more conventional as a film, but its story is more perverse and twisted. Nick Cage is best when he portrays mind-losers, and he really drives this one home for the victory lap: he plays a nervous, workaholic private eye hired by a very wealthy family who discover, after their daddy dies, there's an 8mm snuff film their safe. Dead daddy's confused, aging widow charges Cage's character with finding how the film got in the safe and to seek the identity of the girl killed in it by a leather-masked gimp. Already smoking cigarettes behind his wife's back (played by Catherine Keener) and on a long absence from her and the baby, Cage's private eye goes deeper into the mystery, milling about in L.A.'s EXXXtreme porno underworld. There, he gets help in finding the director of the snuff film from a young smut pusher cum-musician named Max California (played by Joaquin Phoenix). Upon the private eye's full immersion in the pervert void his determination to bring justice for an otherwise forgotten young girl has calcified into lunacy. He tricks the evil pornographer into outing himself to catastrophic effect for both, and by Cage's character identifying too much with the dead girl's fate, he ends up dredging up as much dirt within himself as he does for the family that hired him. 8mm's power is primarily driven by the spiraling narrative and its curated menagerie of sleazy characters, but there's an added benefit, which was no doubt added by the 10 years since its release: with everything going digital nowadays, obsolete analog technology—in this case the grainy physicality of the 8mm 'snuff film' —has rarely made violence more primal and creepy.
Another post on the more brilliant of the two, The Conversation, next time.....

More Play (Pics for my friendz on the East Coast)

2011-05-27T15:00:00.000-07:00

MEIN VVORK ON TRY HARDER BLOG

Me

2011-05-25T14:07:00.000-07:00

LA WEEKLY BLOG WRITE UP

Amargosa Hotel, Death Valley (Overlook Hotel)

2011-04-29T00:43:00.000-07:00

Nancy and I went to Death Valley and lived.

Thanks, Nikki Darling...

2011-04-22T15:59:00.000-07:00

...for posting this article on Paltrow on Facebook.
I've always been REALLY irked by G. Paltrow for a fuzzy reason made sharp and clear in this article. It's the privilege without understanding it.

READ IT HERE

Michael Bell-Smith

2011-04-09T22:56:00.000-07:00

Art Tape: Live With / Think About from Michael Bell-Smith on Vimeo.

Brian Belott + Matthew Thurber

2011-04-09T22:50:00.001-07:00

haha Belott a video by Ro.E.H on Flickr.

footage by Butt Johnson

Bullies

2011-03-14T13:47:00.000-07:00

Original Video - More videos at TinyPic

While I do not advocate violence of any kind, except in self-defense perhaps, I cannot help but feel at one with this husky kid who took his tormentor directly in his hands—and threw him on the pavement. It reminds me of when I was in elementary school and kids much smaller than me would try to bully moi. Instead of fighting or talking back, I let them have their way because I was very shy and passive. No one ever tried to knock my block off, thankfully, but even if thehy tried, I doubt I would have done what this husky boy did. All in all, I think this kid did might have done the right thing, provided he didn't let his 'victory' go to his head too much and rely on the same technique every time.

Sometimes pretending to be retarded or blind, or both, is equally as effective to disorienting the enemy. I have used this technique and it works quite well.

Mark your Colonder

2011-03-11T22:47:00.000-08:00

MAY 7- JUNE 8, 2011
MAX MASLANSKY
BEHIND THE INTERNET
at
EMMA GRAY HQ / EGHQ

Falling Apart

2011-03-02T23:34:00.000-08:00

WWWINNING! from KICK TO KILL on Vimeo.

I feel bad for indulging in the media spectacle of this, but it's too crazy to ignore.

Gap-Toothed Women (1987)

2011-02-25T17:39:00.000-08:00

Dancehall yah in the dirt with flashlightya

2011-02-20T01:50:00.000-08:00

2011-02-14T12:33:00.001-08:00

Michael Caine - Blinking

2011-01-08T00:22:00.000-08:00

Eastbound & Down, motherfuckers!

2010-12-30T17:18:00.000-08:00

Eastbound and Down is the best fucking show on fucking television. It centers on Kenny Powers, a mullet-haired and washed-up mid-thirty something relief pitcher, partly based on real-life former major leaguer John Rocker (famous for saying, as a Yankee, the subways were dirty in "Jew York"). With his glory days behind him, the show details his various dunder-headed ploys to return to the major leagues, stumbling through a panoply of self-delusions, episode by episode. Stubbornly believing that his 'God given talent' is enough to make it back to Shangri-la, overlooking his deep predilection for cocaine, steroids, prostitutes, and beer 'on the reg', always just when getting there seems impossible, he keeps on trucking.

Kenny's only true friend is Stevie, a former high school classmate who he doesn't even remember. Stevie preternaturally idolizes Kenny (how far this love goes into homo-territory is left tantalizingly ambiguous) and will do anything for him. It is here a lasting camaraderie is born, even though Kenny does not like Stevie, uses him, and calls him a 'little bitch'. Stevie, ever the loyal poodle, follows Kenny anyway throughout his adventures.

This show is the redreck answer to Sancho Panza and Don Quixote, the stuff from which classics are born. There is no time duration between episodes; it runs like an epic film, picking up exactly where it leaves off. Like Don Quixote, Kenny is the hero-buffoon. His 'quest' is based on fumes, but you cannot help rooting for Kenny, knowing full well he's an asshole. There's a strong whiff of the everyman in Kenny that makes you want him to succeed.

The show's humor is slapstick, crass, and politically incorrect (because of Kenny's devil-may-care mouth). This strangely intermixes with a narrative tenderness and humane attitude to Kenny's aspirations, which is partly what makes the show so compelling. The bonus is the smart use of music and casting (Don Johnson, Will Farrell, and Matthew Macaugheny(sp?) make amazing cameos). More kudos is owed to the show's very slight to no coverage of baseball mechanics or drama in the game itself. The show rarely goes into any of that crap. Kenny's prowess on the mound is only represented by how fast he can throw the ball and where and that's it. The rest of the focus is on the journey and the characters along the way. A classic is in the making, folks.

jeffkoons.3gp

2010-12-07T15:13:00.000-08:00

Oops!

TEBAATUSASULA.flv

2010-12-06T14:42:00.000-08:00

MAURY: YOU ARE NOT THE FATHER!

2010-11-17T19:38:00.000-08:00

bruce springsteenzig

2010-11-15T09:12:00.000-08:00

Q

2010-11-10T00:36:00.001-08:00

For everything you have missed, you have gained something else, and for everything you gain, you lose something else.

Possessed (1931)

2010-11-05T01:12:00.000-07:00

Life is like this. It cut off what the man says: "You're looking inside, but it's better to be inside and looking out".

White Dog (1982)

2010-11-04T01:10:00.000-07:00

Sam Fuller's last film before his self-imposed exile to France for the bulk of his later years. It was denied release in the U.S. due to the studio's fear of boycotts and political backlash due to the film's subject matter, which entailed a white German Shepherd, trained to kill black people, historically referred to as a 'white dog'. It was too bad the knee jerk reaction to the film's 'star' character, blotted out the the film's anti-racist message, which begged the question of whether a 'racist' animal could be retrained, by a black man, to be a peaceful and non-discriminatory pooch.

Heavy-handed, awkward, and heavily redolent of after-school special fare, horror, and melodrama, the film strangely succeeds by dint of the powerful subject matter, Paul Winfield's performance as the black animal trainer, Ennio Morricone's amazing and touching score, and its intense, if depressing conclusion.

It's streaming on netflix now. Please see it! Criterion only released it a year or two ago.

Twins

2010-10-20T20:39:00.000-07:00

nina simone-montreux 1976 - how it feels to be free

2010-09-23T02:50:00.000-07:00

wow. emotional chanelling at its highest density.

wow. In the spirit of Michael Haneke

2010-09-09T23:05:00.000-07:00

http://www.wimp.com/excitingday/

Dancing Merengue Dog

2010-08-31T22:16:00.000-07:00

This dog really knows how to dance.

Double Rainbow / Donald Judd Mash-up

2010-08-31T22:02:00.000-07:00

Untitled from VJ Peter Rand on Vimeo.

Coincidence

2010-08-26T00:40:00.000-07:00

Connie loves it when I trip

2010-08-23T22:49:00.000-07:00

Connie was my favorite student at my last p/t job. She also happened to be the most socially active member of the class. She could be very affectionate, sometimes embracing a teacher or fellow student spontaneously, kissing them on the head. This was especially unique because direct communication between students rarely happened. Each of them seemed to be in their own world, and it was difficult to feel like I had access to it.

At the start of my stint, the staff would give her coffee in the morning. She drank it with relish. The downside to this was that she became obsessed with coffee and was constantly asking for more. She was also somewhat of a pre-Madonna, being very demanding for attention during class time. This was especially hard when I was dealing with 10 students per class, many of whom demanding attention in their own particular way.

My favorite thing about Connie was that she had a slightly silly and even devious sense of humor. She loved it when I would pretend to sneeze ("ACHOOOOO!!!!") or snort like a pig. She always busted a gut when I did that and say "One more!"; then I'd do it again and she'd keep laughing without fail. It wasn't until I was walking to the kitchen, having tripped on the carpet, that I knew what made her laugh the hardest: she was laughing at my unintentional pratfall! So then it became an ongoing joke when I would pretend to trip and she'd slap her knee in glee and say "One more!".

She's a saucy lady who would slap my butt like a tough Italian grandma. I will miss her the most.

The video isn't a very good rep. of Connie, as she seemed a bit tired when I shot this, but it's what I have to show.

Steven's favorite food

2010-08-23T02:01:00.001-07:00

A quick interview with one of my former 'students' on his favorite culinary delight. He never liked doing anything, like activities and exercises, and was constantly grousing about something like an old grumpy man, but then you realized you could pick out very few words as being proper English——or in any language. It was his own native tongue.
He did like to smile and sing to himself after lunch, though. Find out why.
More on the job that allowed me to spend some time with him later.

Evolutionary replicators

2010-08-22T23:42:00.000-07:00

Special Poetry Slam Intro

2010-08-22T05:22:00.000-07:00

God Respects Us When We Work, But Loves Us When We Dance (1968)

2010-08-20T15:41:00.000-07:00

I saw this last night in the theater. A series of excerpts from the Les Blank film.

More Arthur Truisms

2010-08-16T22:22:00.000-07:00

‎

"Truly exceptional people prefer to be on their own because ordinary people are annoying."
——Schopenhauer

Truismish

2010-08-16T16:15:00.000-07:00

‎

"Behaving with kindness towards others causes them to be arrogant: therefore other people must be treated with some disregard."
— Arthur Schopenhauer

I don't totally agree, but I think in some cases this just might be true.

Ruski Religious Zealots

2010-08-14T02:14:00.000-07:00

I never heard of this one. Herzog is forever like bottomless trove goodness.

Yosemitebear Mountain Giant Double Rainbow 1-8-10

2010-08-08T20:00:00.000-07:00

This probably one of my fave Youtubes of all time.

Props

2010-08-06T22:56:00.000-07:00

Beautiful/Decay said some nice stuff about my work on their website. I only found this out accidentally by checking Google Analytics. I was their July 22 2010 post.

Oil & Fashion are now like oil and water.

2010-08-06T21:47:00.000-07:00

With the sheer amount of oil-based products needed to allow fashion commerce to exist, you would think they'd just send a gaggle of sleazy fashion photographers and models down there and they'd soak up all the oil anyway. But no, they send Steven Meisel and ONE model. At this rate, nothing will get cleaned-up.

Whenever fashion photographers try to get political it rarely works. They lack the conceptual rigor of fine artists, which is why they should have either sent the gaggles as I mentioned, or Thomas Hirschorn, some duct tape and a model. He would have made better use of the limitations.

La Lupe

2010-08-02T19:10:00.000-07:00

La Lupe's act was an exorcism. Her fans gave her the nickname, La Yiyiyi, for her ecstatic cries and wails. On stage, she picked at her face compulsively, pulled her hair and bit herself, clutched her breasts, and tore her clothing. She flung herself back and forth as she sang until her shoes, clothes, and wig were strewn about and her make-up smeared with drool.

Guadelupe Yoli grew up in 1930s Santiago, Cuba under a strict father and a stepmother who hated her dark skin. She skipped school one day to enter a radio contest, winning first prize and booking clubs immediately. She caused a stir throughout Havana with her epilectic sex appeal. Considered a poor role model and much too vulgar for the general public, she was also revered by other artists like Tennessee Williams, Hemminway, Sartre, and Picasso. Deemed too risque by Fidel Castro himself, La Lupe was exiled first to Mexico, then to New York City, shortly after the Cuban Revolution.

VIA MURKY RECESS

Glowstick In A Toilet (The Rave Toilet)

2010-08-02T00:13:00.000-07:00

A video image of the birth or death of a galaxy produced by pouring Glo-stick juice in a toilet.

"This is the best idea ever!"

The Boxes of Stanley Kubrick

2010-07-31T00:45:00.000-07:00

Stanley Kubrick was a perfectionist. If you didn't know that already you might be dumb.
However, to what extent is this true? Come find out in this very interesting British documentary about his 1000+ box archive, his quest for the perfect cardboard box, his torrid affair with stationary, and the exacting safety protocols for his cats.

Thankfully, this is not an annoying documentary about his general 'eccentricities', but rather a study of the paper trail left by one, which actually make him more human than myth.

A++

LINK

My Dinner With Andre (1981)

2010-07-30T01:22:00.000-07:00

I've always known about this film, having first seen it as a child on the first cable station, "Z Channel" in the early 80s. Of course, back then, I immediately flipped to the next channel.

Only now, being almost the same age as the characters in this film, or at least not far from their general mind states, I felt like it hit me in the right spot.

I so loved seeing this for the 'first time' (even though I felt like I already had 'been there, done that' and had already seen it!)

I'm finally happy to see this film as it is. A great minimalist film of just two dudes talking about sleeping and waking.

baby sermon

2010-07-21T01:25:00.000-07:00

Werner Herzog's Bad Lieutenant (2009)

2010-07-15T04:54:00.000-07:00

I love this movie. This is likely because Cage's character does things I wish I could do when I'm in a bad mood in real life. Cage sometimes mails in his performances, but he really shines in this one. He's always been good at playing characters at 'the edge'.

Growing Up

2010-07-15T04:26:00.000-07:00

This is exactly what it was like growing up in Hollywood.

Jan Steen, The Merry Family, 1668, Netherlands.

SMOKE

2010-07-13T22:36:00.000-07:00

It's getting to be that time.

Kool it Now

2010-07-13T00:28:00.000-07:00

This goes out to everyone suffering through a heat wave. Los Angeles will be getting one this week apparently and I plan on using this too.

New Edition==Cool it Now (chopped and screwed version)

Summer 08-10 Flip Books

2010-07-07T16:36:00.001-07:00

My Summer 08-10 Flip Books are available online at LACE in Hollywood!
It's been a part of a show organized by Emma Gray. Other cool art schwag on there too.

You can order from the comfort of your casa HERE

Yo Majesty 'Club Action'

2010-06-29T17:55:00.000-07:00

Minimal Beats + Hyper-Speed Raps = Yum.

Retail Rage - Eaton Centre closed during G20 protests, guy has meltdown

2010-06-29T17:23:00.000-07:00

Why?

Jim Carey Screaming "The Mask" movie

2010-06-21T04:49:00.000-07:00

What I look like when I orgasm.

Real Quotes

2010-06-21T02:14:00.001-07:00

"All I'm asking for is what I want."

Sweet Gingerbread Man The Muppet Show

2010-06-16T21:52:00.000-07:00

Only The Muppet Show could pull off something this sweet AND creepy.

Bye Polke

2010-06-14T01:46:00.001-07:00

Sigmar Polke was a great artist and one of art's greatest smart-asses. This picture seems to encapsulate what he was all about. I will miss him.

James Dean Driving Safety

2010-06-08T17:16:00.000-07:00

The only thing they forgot to mention here too is don't become an alcoholic and kill your wife, then yourself, as Gig Young, seen here with Jimmy Dean, did.

Factoid: Gig Young played one of the gay henchmen in Peckinpah's "Bring Me The Head of Alfredo Garcia"

truthiness

2010-06-01T18:08:00.000-07:00

"In battling evil, excess is good; for he who is moderate in announcing the truth is presenting half-truth. He conceals the other half out of fear of the people's wrath."

--Kahlil Gibran, 'Narcotics and Dissecting Knives,' Thoughts and Meditations, 1960
Lebanese artist & poet in US (1883 - 1931)

Maybe the best thing Jim Carrey ever said (or did?)

2010-05-31T22:34:00.000-07:00

“I just got to the point where I realized the only way to look at life is to believe that everything that ever happens to you, is the best thing that’s ever happened to you.”
—James Eugene "Jim" Carrey

via comedienne, Jessi Klein's defunkt blog

Fugaziness

2010-05-28T23:26:00.000-07:00

Watch this 'till the very end. 'Tis worth it.

I burn a fire
to stay cool
I burn myself
I am the fuel

Another Jonathan. It's Jonathan Week.

2010-05-27T19:48:00.000-07:00

I've known about artist Jonathan Meese for many years now, but never have understood what he's about.
Thanks to this short video on him, now I do. And even if you don't like his work, his point of view is good for anyone's creativity. Super inspiring.

Jonathan!

2010-05-19T01:50:00.000-07:00

Last minute, a friend dragged me out to see Jonathan Richman at The Smell. I arrived in a very bad mood. I was expecting nothing short of a miracle that he would not disappoint me in the form of a wash-up performing at half-mast. Well into his third song of the set, I was turned into a monkey's uncle. Richman, easily past age 50, was like the doe-eyed, soulful puppy I knew from his 80s album covers, his brow perpetually furrowed in amorous bliss. He worked the small crowd like a shaman. Kittens and balloons poured out of his guitar. He's a shining beacon of men-children, forever loving the smell of piss in an alleyway as much as the scent of a pretty girl. You can't have one without the other he seemed to say. He was a master showman, stopping to interject jokes and add-ons, only to quickly tip his guitar diagonally, away and up from his body, plucking a solo like he was some kind of Don Juan flamenco player (he plays his guitar strapless). He would occasionally twirl his guitar in his hand and dance what resembled the 'whatootsi' as his drummer batted away. We ate caramel kisses out of his hand and begged for more. He ended his set with a song about Keith Richards, a love letter to a hero, and he left the stage as one too. My mood was improved by 58%. Thanks, Jonathan.

Well now, see the desert
I sit all alone in the desert
And no girl understands me
But I can see through this bleakness and grey and sadness
And well I won't die now
Someday I'll be dignified and old
I say, you, don't die now
Someday we'll be dignified and old together

True dat

2010-05-18T13:05:00.000-07:00

A considerable percentage of the people we meet on the street are people who are empty inside, that is, they are actually already dead. It is fortunate for us that we do not see and do not know it. If we knew what a number of people are actually dead and what a number of these dead people govern our lives, we should go mad with horror.

George Gurdjieff (c. 1877-1949)

More Samson De Brier

2010-05-17T05:13:00.000-07:00

Again, the central figure in a childhood 'trauma' still fascinates me. To my own surprise, there was a lengthy blog post about him here. It goes into some biographical detail about his early life in film, his role in Anger's "Pleasure Dome", snd as a 'tuft-hunter' (star-fucker) in the queer Hollywood circles.
Clearly his reputation preceded him in many ways.

Kenneth Anger

2010-05-15T00:29:00.000-07:00

I found this more recent Kenneth Anger video piece via the video from my previous post. I don't like this as much as his earlier works, but it's still got that creepy goodness.

Incidentally, my mother told me those toys that Samson De Brier brought over for my brother and I were always broken.

Samson De Brier

2010-05-13T05:12:00.000-07:00

This interview is with Samson De Brier, who was an old friend of my father. He was a long time resident of Los Angeles and a local hipster. He died sometime in the late 90s. As I was thumbing through Kenneth Anger's "Hollywood Babylon", I noticed a picture of him with Mr. Anger standing over the grave of a dead starlet. It was a shock to instantly recognize him, the same man who visited our house sporadically when I was kid. He always brought some weird antique toy for Alex and I, which at the time, being only 5 years old, usually held little interest for me. In retrospect, I wish I could remember what those toys were! If you look at his intriguing place in the video, when the camera is permitted to wander, you can get a sense of all the amazing stuff this guy collected over the years. He might have been the first 20th century goth hipster.

Within my scattered memories of Samson's visits, and even of my father, the most salient one occurred one evening by the swimming pool. As I was swimming, my father and Samson were chatting only feet away. It was twilight and it had become chilly outside. Perhaps out of laziness or finding the outside chill too daunting, I didn't want to fetch a bath towel on my own. I remember asking my father to get a towel for me and every plead went unanswered. They just kept talking, ignoring me. Just as I had probably transitioned into a whiny overture, Samson yelled "SHUTUP!". In the following seconds I felt confident my father would castigate Samson for yelling at me, and with great urgency fetch a towel for his shivering son, but they simply resumed their conversation. Oh the humiliation! I ended up taking my shivering ass to a towel on my own. Thanks Samson. Cool house, though.

The Best "In State" funeral EVER

2010-04-28T18:57:00.001-07:00

A 22 year old Puerto Rican was killed in a shoot-out. His family had his body propped up on his steel steed for his funeral. The revolution of funerial style will be televised. Live, from Puerto Rico.

Friskies Cat Food Commercial during Winter Olympics

2010-04-25T19:28:00.000-07:00

cry

2010-04-22T02:39:00.001-07:00

Kurt

2010-04-12T18:24:00.000-07:00

I met Kurt Vonnegut one summer in the late 80s, when I was about 11 years old. He happened to be old friends with my uncle Bob, a doctor. I'm not sure how they met, but they maintained a bro-mance-like bond until KV's death.
I don't remember too much from that visit, but here's what I do remember:

KV smoked, copiously, unfiltered Pall Malls. I've no clue how the Hell he lived as long as he did. He almost died once from smoking, but not from internal charring or cancers. He fell asleep while smoking, setting his house on fire and nearly burning himself to death.

His wife seemed uptight and crazy.

He had a very young daughter, probably at the time about 7 years old, which was odd because KV already seemed very old to me. But I was 11. Anyone over 30 seemed old.

He talked about Woody Allen, saying that he met him once (this was around the time the whole Soon-Yi thing happened) and thought him to be 'weird'.

He was wearing a sweater vest of some sort. So writery.

Uncle Bob often lined the walls of his apartment with KV's prints and drawings. They were almost always goofy self-portraits in profile with a cigarette protruding, dashed off in wiggly lines.

The one thing I remember the most in Bob's stories about KV was that he was convinced that the rattlesnake couldn't have been a product of evolution. It seemed to be the only lifeform with an instrument attached to its body. He theorized that aliens came one day and slapped some kind of marraca on its tail and let it loose to breed.

Spring's coming

2010-04-07T14:16:00.000-07:00

Therefore, it's a good time for some Tiny Tim.

Welcome to My Dream

Tiptoe Through the Tulips With Me

Frankie Knuckles

2010-03-25T22:26:00.001-07:00

I guess I'm a sucker for that synthetic flute hook throughout this track. It sounds so fucked up. It's trying soooo hard to sound kind of gentle, but it's really almost scary.

A GOOD DOG

2010-03-14T04:01:00.000-07:00

This is touching. Even though Mr. Stewart was a republican.

R.I.P. Corey Haim

2010-03-10T13:51:00.000-08:00

R.I.P Corey Haim, from whose publicity machine brought us "Me, Myself, and I" in the late 80s. A MASTERPIECE of teenage-targeted propoganda. Hilarious and sad. A MUST SEE. We used to screen it at Bard (Thanks Mr. Krakow!) and yell back it drunk and rowdy. It was OUR Rocky Horror Picture Show.

Oh yeah this place looks like a really gr8 place to work!

2010-03-05T20:46:00.000-08:00

And for $12/hr! Wow! $100 says this is Ace gallery.

http://losangeles.craigslist.org/wst/med/1628412539.html

THE JOB: Contemporary art gallery with an active exhibition program seeks a second assistant to the director for a multitude of tasks including: inventory data entry; scanning or photographing objects for web or database; packing items for shipment; and much more as required. This job is available immediately to a super-motivated, hardworking, positive person.

NECESSARY SKILLS:
PRIOR GALLERY EXPERIENCE IS NECESSARY AS IS KNOWING THE CONTEMPORARY ART SCENE. THIS IS AN ABSOLUTE NECESSITY. DO NOT APPLY IF YOU HAVE NOT WORKED/INTERNED AT ANOTHER RELEVANT CONTEMPORARY ART GALLERY. IF YOU ARE IN DOUBT AS TO WHETHER YOUR PAST GALLERY EXPERIENCE IS RELEVANT, PLEASE APPLY THE SIX MONTH REVIEW RULE. IF THE GALLERY YOU WORKED AT HAS NOT HAD AN EXHIBITION REVIEWED IN ART FORUM, FRIEZE, ART IN AMERICA, THE LOS ANGELES TIMES OR THE LIKE WITHIN THE LAST SIX MONTHS, THEN YOU HAVE NOT HAD RELEVANT GALLERY EXPERIENCE. IF YOU DO NOT KNOW WHETHER THE GALLERY YOU WORKED AT QUALIFIES YOU FOR THIS JOB, THEN YOU VERY LIKELY WOULD NOT BE THE RIGHT CANDIDATE.
Applicant must be neat and organized.
Must be an efficient worker and a fast learner.
Excellent descriptive writing.
Excellent letter writing.
Highly proficient using Mac.
Highly proficient in Photoshop.
Highly proficient in Filemaker Pro.
Highly proficient in use of Internet generally.
Excellent researching skills.
Able to multi-task, manage time, prioritize and work fast.
Neat, organized and able to wrap packages for shipment.
Somewhat experienced at hanging two-dimensional artwork and installing artwork in other media.
Positive attitude with willingness to learn.
Prompt and reliable.
Knowledge of/interest in art history and contemporary art.
Must know Los Angeles art scene.
Able to travel and to work at art fairs two to four times annually.
Knowledge of media art and installation thereof a plus.
Language skills a plus (Spanish / French / German)
The ideal candidate will be someone who wants to grow with the gallery, someone who is looking for a job to stick with for years to come.
EXPERIENCE:
Prior RELEVANT art gallery experience is necessary (see above). Having worked at a non-profit space or at a tourist gallery that sells bad art does not qualify one for this job. References required.

HOURS:
Three days minimum, full time also a possibility. Work days are Tuesday thru Saturday, 10 - 6.

COMPENSATION:
Hourly pay of $12.00 per hour for first three months. Based on performance, there will be advancement possibilities, periodic pay increases and built-in incentives. Qualified applicants should not focus entirely on the posted starting pay rate. When Craigslist allowed internship postings, this posting could also be used to seek a highly motivated intern that does not have the necessary experience, but does have a great attitude and possesses some of the other required skills. However, to comply with their rules, we are seeking someone for the paid position who has real work experience at one of the 75 or so relevant contemporary art galleries in Los Angeles.

SNAKES ARE PARTIAL OBJECTS

2010-02-19T12:09:00.001-08:00

I realize I'm saying nothing new, but I want to voice my inner-certainty that the reason the snake is widely seen as one of the world's most creepy animals, if not the most creepy, is because it appears to be a partial object. Its singular elemental shape is key here, the most basic unit of all vertebrae, which are an interlinked mass of tubes and bones with nerve ganglia. The snake is a singular tube with the eyes on one end, that moves on its own, without legs, filia, or wings. It's almost as if it broke free from something larger than itself and became autonomous. This is truly why snakes are depicted as shape-shifters as far back as the bible.

This led me to think of John Carpenter's The Thing (1980), whose monster's scariness owed precisely to the partial object. I was surprised it was not brought up to illustrate the idea of the partial object in Cinema for Perverts, narrated by Slavoj Zizek.
It's streaming on Netflix if you haven't seen it. People should make films more like that one. I could watch hours and hours of it.

ENRICO BAJ

2010-02-18T18:12:00.000-08:00

Enrico Baj

He's a painter from from the early 60s. This one is going to auction at Christies. Pretty awesome.

The Box (2009)

2010-02-17T03:44:00.000-08:00

Richard Kelly takes himself very seriously. I mean this in a good way. If you saw his last film, Southland Tales (2005) and walked away thinking it was a train wreck, but a very interesting one, you will probably think The Box is too. Like Southland Tales, it has a panoply of hairpin turns in the plot. But in Southland the twists got out of control, resulting in so many meta-layers I had nothing to pivot on. I enjoyed this to an extent but didn't trust how it all added up. The Box follows a similar logic, but Kelly juggles the twists with confidence, like a seasoned tugboat captain. Still, yet, the utter seriousness of the film's tone, which is commendable, seemed out of step with the ridiculousness of the story. I can't tell yet whether this is just me not being used to it, or if it really doesn't quite work. Most films that build on preposterousness seem to do so with a wink, or treat it like a bunch of fancy bells and whistles to flaunt as if to say "Isn't this AMAZING!". The day-glow frisson of greatness still isn't 'there' yet for Kelly, but he's still one of the most interesting directors out there.

The Box is basically a morality tale in the cloak of horror and sci-fi. A young couple with a son, strapped for cash, are visited by a man with half his face missing. He presents them with a box with a button on top. If they press the button, they get one million dollars (it takes place in the 70s), but someone they don't know will die as a result. If they choose not to press the button, they don't receive the money and the box will be presented to someone else.
Simple enough, but throw in stuff about the first Mars Viking landing, free-will, morality, possible Martians, lightning, physical deformity, and CIA government conspiracy, things get out of hand very quickly.

It was an intriguing film and I hope you watch it.

In Regards to "Weird Science" (1986)

2010-02-16T22:43:00.000-08:00

I revisited this film and was reminded how much I loved it when I grew up. My peers and I would watch and quote it over and over again tirelessly. They don't make 'em like they used to.

I was amused at the overt symbolism in the latter half of the film. When the two boys try to impress their bullies by making them a girl with their computer, they instead accidentally summon a Persian missile to pierce their house from the ground up.

Their created "woman", played by Kelly LeBrock, who had a gentle-but-firm sort of sexiness unlike no other since, castigated them for the two boys' hubris in trying to make people like them for what they can do, not for who they are.

A huge, war-like phallus was their comeuppance. It's Ham-fisted genius on the part of John Hughes.

A Bass Solo that shook Earth to its molten core.

2010-02-11T13:39:00.001-08:00

Have you ever loved rock music so much that you grabbed the nearest object that could be mentally fashioned into a guitar——or bass——and air-guitar-ed in the mirror to your favorite song, even though you had no talent for actually playing said instrument?

Here's an example of someone who got bitten by the 'rock music bug' and somehow stumbled, in this case literally, into a world-class rock band. Best and Worst bass solo caught on tape here. FWD to 2:09 to skip past the whiskey chugging nonsense. Like whiskey too much to skip past this? No worries. His bass is literally a Jack Daniels bottle. In the words of a YouTube commenter: "More like a Jeff Daniels Whiskey bottle".

Addendum: an old acquaintance from college pointed this out about Mike Anthony on Facebook: "The sad thing is that I have read more than one article where Michael Anthony admitted that he filled the Jack Daniels bottles with iced tea so he's not even drunk when he does that. And that's the best he can come up with."

Rock showmanship at its finest. Emphasis on SHOW and AIR

FOR NON-FACEBOOK USERS....

2010-02-08T23:55:00.000-08:00

Those of you not on Facebook, though familiar with the L.A. art world, might not get wind of this video. I usually hate insider art world jokes, but this is pretty clever. For every high-profile hiring, there is always some angry despot who feels shunned...

Re: DFW on Charlie Rose

2010-02-06T02:49:00.000-08:00

The link on picture didn't work.
GO HERE

David Foster Wallace on Charlie Rose, 1997

2010-02-05T15:50:00.000-08:00

GO HERE FOR VIDEO

John Tesh

2010-01-27T03:40:00.001-08:00

My favorite find of year....so far.

Elephantitus

2010-01-21T23:45:00.000-08:00

I started a new image blog on Tumblr entitled Elephantitus. It's devoted solely to my favorite animal on Earth, the elephant. If you find any good elephant photos please send them my way. Thanks.

Las Vegas Casino Review—for your pleasure.

2010-01-21T17:23:00.001-08:00

I know many of you spend most of your money and free time vomiting 1 dollar vodka gimlets into the indoor pots of fake mini palm trees in casinos whether you're on the West or East coasts, so I'd love to regale you with a review some guy wrote for a new Vegas joint. I found the review via a link Neil Hamburger wrote on Twitter. I trust you will not be disappointed. If you must, the link to the actual review is HERE.

Las Vegas, Nevada--Where getting shit on by corporations has never been such a popular privilege.

As of December 2009, it seems, at least one casino is committed to bringing that metaphor to pungent nostril-stinging life.

Enter MGM's brand new Aria Casino, squat in the middle of the Vegas Strip, the newest something-billion-dollar casino in this prettied up turd of a town, and the place where--make no mistake--fecal matter matters.

The name itself (pronounced AH-rhee-uh, one might presume) may well bring to mind the lilt of a feminine voice across an open-air Italian café, or otherwise earnest operatic strains. But be very clear, the strains you hear in your mind's ear are of a different sort altogether. Once you digest the fact that "Aria" is phonetically the second half of the word "diarrhea," you are ready for a tour of this lower-intestine-meets-porcelain excretory wonderland more appropriately pronounced as "uh-RHEE-uh."

Upon parking in the bowels of the garage, proceed to level NUMBER TWO. Let yourself be unceremoniously squeezed down the winding narrow corridor toward the casino floor. Along the way, take a gander out of one of the picture windows on your right. Below you is the valet entrance in all its grandeur. Notice the white and crystal cantilevered U-shape roof structure high above. Your eyes do not deceive you, it does, in fact, resemble a giant toilet seat. Now look under the lid at the marvelous sheet-fountain rimming nearly the entire diameter of the high-walled " bowl" of the valet entrance. Let's not mince words; it is as if cars and guests are being flushed down a giant crapper, complete with that classic Northern Hemisphere counterclockwise drain-circling action. The final touch? A frothy yellow fountain at the center of this rectal roundabout.

As you continue down the escalator, notice the sculptures in the lobby. The only way these Works of Arse can be described is "chrome-covered dribbly shit, stood on end." Nevertheless people stand around and gawk. Don't do it. Tighten your muscles of resolve and push on.

On the casino floor, the first stop is a coffee shop. If you are a naturalist, big game hunter or hiker who has ever made "that face" while scraping the bottom of your boot with a stick, you will note that the walls of the coffee shop are covered in giant deer turds. The logo for this java joint is an oblong oval with a single curl of steam rising above it. Need I say more?

Now turn your attention to the casino floor as it stretches out before you like a vast sea of sewage. Let it clog your senses. From the soaked carpets to the splattered walls it is brown on brown on brown. This, my friends, is the entire palette of poo. A quivering colon of colors. Magnus dumpus. A full pantload. The rectum spectrum. Dark brown, light brown, deep brown. Wet Leather Mudslide. Trouser Chili Cookoff. Skidmark of the Covenant--these being the names of the various and individual shades of brown being hurled at your eyes like so much dung from the an enraged monkey at the city zoo. Sewer Loaf. Ripe Diaper. Hot Hershey Trickle. Swamp Snake Brown. Beef Leak Brown. Snooki Brown. Downtown Freddy Brown, What-Can-Brown-Do-For-You-Brown . It's on the drapes, the dealer uniforms, everywhere. The craps tables have never been more appropriately named. We are drowning in a steaming pot of gold at the end of the brown rainbow. Liquid Oak. Oompa Loompa. Bread Yogurt. Clevelend Steamer. Dysentery Schiavo.

You are getting claustrophobic. It's hard to breathe. Do you feel more like Tim Robbins escaping through that sewer pipe in Shawshank Redemption or Ewan McGregor in that rat-a-tat-tat Trainspotting bathroom? Guaranteed it's one or the other. I'd bank it. That's the safest bet in this casino.

Signs in the casino point you to the Elvis Theater. Elvis died on the toilet.

Above the gaming tables hang large brown varnished beams of wood, arranged side by side, but cresting and falling as if held aloft on the waves an imaginary ocean. I call them "floaters." I think you will agree. Out of the ceiling next to the floaters descend large tangles of silver bristles like steel wool or some other commode-cleaning implement. Too little, too late.

More signs point you in the direction of other rooms and venues in the casino. Sage is among them, the kind of scent you might spray in your bathroom after laying cable.

By now your head is spinning. You need a drink. Turn to the bar. Oh god, no. Massive chrome-covered logs rise out of the ground complete with gnarled tree bark Like a redwood forest of excrement. Are there any other bars in down this outhouse hole? The haze of cigarette smoke is looking more and more like steam to you. Yes, it does appear that there is indeed one more bar on the far side of the casino. You make your escape to what you think might be the one place you will be safe from the onslaught of dung. You couldn't be more wrong.

The name of that bar? "The Deuce."

House (Nobuhiko Obayashi, 1977)

2010-01-20T23:46:00.000-08:00

I posted the trailer for this film before and have luckily found a link to watching it online!
I plan on buying it on DVD when Criterion puts it out later this year, replete with new subtitles, replacing the old nonsensical ones of past versions. I don't usually plan on this when I haven't even seen the film yet.

I did some research on this and found that Mr. Obayashi, previous to making this film— and after making it— was a prominent and prolific commercial director in Japan.

Apparently silly, scary, beautiful and kitschy all at time same time, this film reeks of awesomeness.

If you watch it online, tell me what you think. I plan on watching it tonight with a box of ginger snaps.

Regarding WITHNAIL AND I

2010-01-17T07:47:00.000-08:00

It's official, Withnail and I (1989) is one of my all-time favorite films.

A comedy with 'no discernible jokes'. Starring Paul McGann and Richard E. Grant

AHHHHHHHH THIS SONG SLAYS ME!

2010-01-16T12:49:00.001-08:00

Best dance song I've heard in months!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

If you want the Mp3, let me know

The Hand of Unknown Origin

2010-01-14T00:49:00.000-08:00

A picture of Stupidity

2010-01-10T23:09:00.000-08:00

A movie marketing exec paid a homeless man to hold a sign advertising a film for $100 a day. Not only is this INSANELY insulting to the man holding this sign, but it renders his humanity null and void. This is a classic example of the road to Hell being paved with good intentions....in this case the intention not so much to 'help' the man but to increase the box office draw for this Michael Cera-brand drool.

Nina + Rowland

2010-01-06T00:13:00.000-08:00

Rowland S. Howard, underrated musician, former member of the Nick Cave's first band, The Birthday Party, and other projects, died this past week. Here's a track from his band, These Immortal Souls.

Hey Girls——These Immortal Souls

And here's a Mp3 version of this amazing video of Nina Simone. I don't know how she did it, but she squeezed every drop of emotion out of anything she sang, especially during this number, even though she looked kind of bored while singing it.

I remember reading somewhere how she used to hold Richard Pryor to relieve his shaking before he went out on stage, and how thankful he was for it.

DOWNLOAD MP3 of "Ain't Got No..." by Nina Simone HITHER

New Year Resolutions

2010-01-02T01:59:00.000-08:00

Things to do:

• Improve productivity and efficiency. I've tried this method called the Pomodoro Technique.
And guess what? It works! I cheat a little here and there, but it's an improvement over
the usual modus operandi. You work in 25 minute intervals, with small breaks in between. This way, you have a solid sense of how much time you worked in a reasonably scheduled allotment.

• Beard Topiary. Better beard care. Or no beard.

• Make Summer 08-09 book, sell it.

• Find a consistent job. Or many more jobs. Or hope Nancy gets rich soon so I can borrow some
mo-ney.

Happy New Year Everyone!

2009-12-31T14:16:00.001-08:00

Alan Cohen

2009-12-30T15:47:00.001-08:00

I came across a website belonging to an artist named Alan Cohen. His work is terrible and interesting. I love how he titles the left column somewhat ironically, "Today's Menu", which contains links to his different bodies of work.

Mr. Cohen breaks down the meaning of this painting on his website:

In the picture on the website the father has one hand on the boy's shoulder, as if to comfort him. But examination of the boy's posture and expression reveals that he feels rigid and held back, as if he is angry and blazing with repressed rage but cannot express it; the situation is made all the more complex by the double-bind feeling that the father is only trying to do his best; so the boy feels guilty and angry at resenting his hold. Another hint as to what is really going on is the shadow. In the painting the boy does not have a shadow of his own, which suggests that he does not really exist for the father (and hence for himself). Thus his self is entirely absorbed and devoured by his father. This is also emphasised in the picture by using brighter colours in parts of the picture to which the boy has no access. His life is dull and grey, indeed without love; his father steals the light from him and makes the boy an extension of himself.

Pardon my sarcasm, I love how he felt he had to explain the image to us. This is why I hate narrative painting, yet love it at the same time. You have a poor man's trove of symbols and meanings most people can understand, mostly derived from 19th-20th century psychological theory. They're staid, but cliche for a reason. Yet, the predictability of this approach is boring and without a process of renewal. In other words, layers get thin after repeated reads. I guess narrative painting is like playing James Brown's "I feel Good" at a party.
It's popular for a reason, but most of the time I'd rather be playing something else. This work charms and disgusts me at the same time.

House (Nobuhiko Obayashi, 1977)

2009-12-29T04:47:00.000-08:00

This looks amazing.

Steampunks

2009-12-28T20:01:00.000-08:00

West coast answer to the Juggalos?