Saturday, July 12, 2008
Sunday, June 22, 2008
George Carlin
I can't believe this, especially after having just written about him, but a newsbreak just announced that Carlin just died.
I'll write more soon.
I'll write more soon.
Tuesday, June 17, 2008
I Enjoy That
For centuries now, man has done everything he can to destroy, defile, and interfere with nature: clear-cutting forests, strip-mining mountains, poisoning the atmosphere, over-fishing the oceans, polluting the rivers and lakes, destroying wetlands and aquifers... so when nature strikes back, and smacks him on the head and kicks him in the nuts, I enjoy that. I have absolutely no sympathy for human beings whatsoever. None. And no matter what kind of problem humans are facing, whether it's natural or man-made, I always hope it gets worse.
--George Carlin
Been on a Carlin kick recently, re-visiting my past... much like Magic Johnson was the player's player, Carlin's the comedian's comedian. Just past 70 now [!!!], I recently saw one of his HBO specials, and dude's sharper than ever. What an American treasure. Love him.
Monday, June 02, 2008
Handful of Memories: Cousin Joey
Moms was prescient enough when I was a kid to take me to New York, and while there we skipped over to Chi-Town to see my Auntie Frances and Uncle Joe who had a brownstone in Hyde Park near the University of Chicago, where they met. From Chi, my auntie, moms and my cousin Joey and I drove to Des Moines to see my Uncle George and Auntie Ann.
Here's one thing I remember about Auntie Frances & Unc Joe's; it was crawling with kids - 8 siblings! But I was lucky enough to share a room with my cousin Joey, a couple of years older than me, but seemingly light years ahead of me in everything. I'd lie there in the bottom bunk for what seemed like endless hours while he schooled me on the intricacies of dog fighting, the fighter plane type. I can remember that he was the first one to tell me who Eddie Rickenbacker was. Later, Uncle Joe, or "Unc" as I liked to call him, took us to see The Blue Max. Joey and I of course cracked up when George Peppard and Ursula Andress got it on.
Over the ensuing years we had a couple of big family shindigs, and I remember a couple of them the Chi-brood stayed at our joint. But for the most part, with so much space in between LA and Chi, we didn't really share much.
What's funny though is how, as I got older, I'd mention my cousins for any number of reasons, more often than not when issues of race would come up. This was more common when talking with other APAs about inter-racial marriages, because the majority of the time it's about Asian and white unions. And when I'd mention I had black relatives, they'd just smile, and say, "Oh, really?" Well, what are they supposed to say...?
Those couple of nights I spent in Joey's room are seared into my memory forever because of this:
A man had a dog named "Balls Itch." One day, Balls Itch got loose, and the man ran down the street yelling, "My Balls Itch, my Balls Itch!" When a policeman stopped him and said, "Hey Mister, my balls itch too, but if I were you I wouldn't run around advertising it!"
Joey had jokes, and I was in heaven, as he had me either in stitches or enthralled talking about the differences between bi-planes and tri-planes.
There's a great picture - somewhere - of Joey and I while on our trip to Des Moines, furiously pumping a water pump out in podunk somewhere.
He joined the army and served in Nam. He told me a few hair-raising stories when I saw him last in New York, where we shared dinner and a really solid conversation about life, politics, race... I remember turning back to look at him as he limped off and thinking that I was pretty damn lucky to be related to a guy like that.
That limp by the way is a whale of a story. I probably have a bunch of the details wrong, but Joey was driving when he saw someone whose car had broken down, so he pulled over to help. As he's standing there between the cars, talking to the driver, a drunk slams into the back of Joey's car and crushes Joey between the two cars. He drags himself to the embankment and angles his legs upward to slow the bleeding.
So of course, Joey went on to become a doctor.
Chi-town of course, like any major urban city, had its rough spots, and I remember Auntie telling me of hearing that one of his sisters was in trouble somewhere and he'd grab a knife and run out of the house.
In fact, one more memory has re-surfaced; when Joey and I were going to go out in the hood one day, I remember he handed me a small canister. I asked what it was, and he said, "just in case." Well, it was pepper spray, so of course, we being two young boys, we beat Jackass to the punch and had to find out what it was about. So we went into an alley and sprayed a bit into the air and then sniffed. Hahahahahahahahaha....
One more funny story: My Auntie Frances is afflicted with the "Yoshida Curse" - she loves to laugh. And of the eight Yoshida siblings, her and my mom are probably at the top of the heap. I remember Auntie telling of how she knew Joey was growing up because she said she picked up something to whup his ass with one day and Joey kept on dodging her and cracking jokes. She said she finally gave up and flopped in a chair because she was laughing too much!
I'm jealous of Joey's brothers and sisters, because he was so smart, so funny, and just a really solid, good guy. He was a good raconteur... I wish I could have known him better, but am truly grateful for the fond memories.
Here's one thing I remember about Auntie Frances & Unc Joe's; it was crawling with kids - 8 siblings! But I was lucky enough to share a room with my cousin Joey, a couple of years older than me, but seemingly light years ahead of me in everything. I'd lie there in the bottom bunk for what seemed like endless hours while he schooled me on the intricacies of dog fighting, the fighter plane type. I can remember that he was the first one to tell me who Eddie Rickenbacker was. Later, Uncle Joe, or "Unc" as I liked to call him, took us to see The Blue Max. Joey and I of course cracked up when George Peppard and Ursula Andress got it on.
Over the ensuing years we had a couple of big family shindigs, and I remember a couple of them the Chi-brood stayed at our joint. But for the most part, with so much space in between LA and Chi, we didn't really share much.
What's funny though is how, as I got older, I'd mention my cousins for any number of reasons, more often than not when issues of race would come up. This was more common when talking with other APAs about inter-racial marriages, because the majority of the time it's about Asian and white unions. And when I'd mention I had black relatives, they'd just smile, and say, "Oh, really?" Well, what are they supposed to say...?
Those couple of nights I spent in Joey's room are seared into my memory forever because of this:
A man had a dog named "Balls Itch." One day, Balls Itch got loose, and the man ran down the street yelling, "My Balls Itch, my Balls Itch!" When a policeman stopped him and said, "Hey Mister, my balls itch too, but if I were you I wouldn't run around advertising it!"
Joey had jokes, and I was in heaven, as he had me either in stitches or enthralled talking about the differences between bi-planes and tri-planes.
There's a great picture - somewhere - of Joey and I while on our trip to Des Moines, furiously pumping a water pump out in podunk somewhere.
He joined the army and served in Nam. He told me a few hair-raising stories when I saw him last in New York, where we shared dinner and a really solid conversation about life, politics, race... I remember turning back to look at him as he limped off and thinking that I was pretty damn lucky to be related to a guy like that.
That limp by the way is a whale of a story. I probably have a bunch of the details wrong, but Joey was driving when he saw someone whose car had broken down, so he pulled over to help. As he's standing there between the cars, talking to the driver, a drunk slams into the back of Joey's car and crushes Joey between the two cars. He drags himself to the embankment and angles his legs upward to slow the bleeding.
So of course, Joey went on to become a doctor.
Chi-town of course, like any major urban city, had its rough spots, and I remember Auntie telling me of hearing that one of his sisters was in trouble somewhere and he'd grab a knife and run out of the house.
In fact, one more memory has re-surfaced; when Joey and I were going to go out in the hood one day, I remember he handed me a small canister. I asked what it was, and he said, "just in case." Well, it was pepper spray, so of course, we being two young boys, we beat Jackass to the punch and had to find out what it was about. So we went into an alley and sprayed a bit into the air and then sniffed. Hahahahahahahahaha....
One more funny story: My Auntie Frances is afflicted with the "Yoshida Curse" - she loves to laugh. And of the eight Yoshida siblings, her and my mom are probably at the top of the heap. I remember Auntie telling of how she knew Joey was growing up because she said she picked up something to whup his ass with one day and Joey kept on dodging her and cracking jokes. She said she finally gave up and flopped in a chair because she was laughing too much!
I'm jealous of Joey's brothers and sisters, because he was so smart, so funny, and just a really solid, good guy. He was a good raconteur... I wish I could have known him better, but am truly grateful for the fond memories.
Thursday, May 22, 2008
Michael Kang's The Motel
I haven't attended VC's Asian Pacific Film Fest for two years straight now. It's not that I have an aversion to APA films, but more of a general apathy. I just never see anything remotely exciting or worthwhile or even entertaining.
In fairness, this extends to black and Latino (American) filmmaking as well as national Asian cinema as well. For instance the so-called Tokyo and Korean new-waves are no-waves. Two exceptions: I liked Park's Oldboy, but didn't care for the other two in his "Revenge" trilogy. Then there's my friend Danny's documentary on Pancho Gonzalez, Warrior of the Court, which was better than I thought it would be.
In the end, movies are a real commitment - you decide to block out 3-4 hours of time inclusive of commuting. If it's a fest, even more. So, for me, it was just a matter of diminishing return, plain and simple.
So finally, my daughter picks out Michael Kang's The Motel, and not only was I pleasantly surprised, but really impressed. Perfect? No. Would I have done some things differently? Of course, but what was interesting was listening to Kang's - and Jeffrey Chyau's & Sung Kang's - commentary. How in certain scenes where I would have told the actors to do it differently, the way Kang justified it. That line between maudlin/just right... and the way people see it so differently...
But that's minor shit talkin'. For what I'm assuming is his first feature, he delivered. And while I'd heard of The Motel since it'd done so well at Sundance, my paranoia kept me away. So, thanks to DVD and a lack of good stuff, The Motel finally caught up with me.
Kang not only has good instincts/taste, but really knows what he's doing. He exudes the same confidence that Dayton/Faris did on Little Miss Sunshine. It's doubly satisfying; not only is it a solid flick, but I can at last point to an APA filmmaker and not feel embarrassed, but in fact, pretty proud. I hate to keep making this about me - hey, it IS my dumb blog after all - but as I was saying, for me, that's a breakthrough.
In fairness, this extends to black and Latino (American) filmmaking as well as national Asian cinema as well. For instance the so-called Tokyo and Korean new-waves are no-waves. Two exceptions: I liked Park's Oldboy, but didn't care for the other two in his "Revenge" trilogy. Then there's my friend Danny's documentary on Pancho Gonzalez, Warrior of the Court, which was better than I thought it would be.
In the end, movies are a real commitment - you decide to block out 3-4 hours of time inclusive of commuting. If it's a fest, even more. So, for me, it was just a matter of diminishing return, plain and simple.
So finally, my daughter picks out Michael Kang's The Motel, and not only was I pleasantly surprised, but really impressed. Perfect? No. Would I have done some things differently? Of course, but what was interesting was listening to Kang's - and Jeffrey Chyau's & Sung Kang's - commentary. How in certain scenes where I would have told the actors to do it differently, the way Kang justified it. That line between maudlin/just right... and the way people see it so differently...
But that's minor shit talkin'. For what I'm assuming is his first feature, he delivered. And while I'd heard of The Motel since it'd done so well at Sundance, my paranoia kept me away. So, thanks to DVD and a lack of good stuff, The Motel finally caught up with me.
Kang not only has good instincts/taste, but really knows what he's doing. He exudes the same confidence that Dayton/Faris did on Little Miss Sunshine. It's doubly satisfying; not only is it a solid flick, but I can at last point to an APA filmmaker and not feel embarrassed, but in fact, pretty proud. I hate to keep making this about me - hey, it IS my dumb blog after all - but as I was saying, for me, that's a breakthrough.
Saturday, May 03, 2008
Believe Me, I know
Renee-
There's so much swelling in my chest that it's hard to get it all straightened out.
Parents and teens are in an awkward position, for it's the first time when kids begin to really see themselves, the world, and yes, their parents, in a different light. But with care and thought, a warrior, as Don Juan would say, traverses life with her cup overflowing. She has what she needs and then some.
Luis wrote about the challenge of dealing with his son Ramiro during his teen years, relating it to his own experience. And he says it much more eloquently than I ever could. His words mirror my thoughts and express the profound love and affection I feel for you. I hope they make sense.
With all my heart,
-dad
Twenty years ago, at 18 years old, I felt like a war veteran, with a sort of post-traumatic stress syndrome. I wanted the pain to end, the self-consuming hate to wither in the sunlight. With the help of those who saw potential in me, I got out.
And what of my son? Recently, Ramiro went up to the stage at a Chicago poetry event and read a moving piece about being physically abused by a step-father when he was a child. It stopped everyone cold. He later read the poem to some 2,000 people at Chicago's Poetry Festival. Its title: "Running Away."
There's a small but intense fire burning in Ramiro. He turned 17 in 1992; he's made it so far, but every day is a challenge. Now I tell him: You have worth outside of a job, outside the "jacket" imposed on you since birth. Draw on your expressive powers.
Stop running.
Luis Rodriguez
Always Running
La Vida Loca: Gang Days in L.A.
There's so much swelling in my chest that it's hard to get it all straightened out.
Parents and teens are in an awkward position, for it's the first time when kids begin to really see themselves, the world, and yes, their parents, in a different light. But with care and thought, a warrior, as Don Juan would say, traverses life with her cup overflowing. She has what she needs and then some.
Luis wrote about the challenge of dealing with his son Ramiro during his teen years, relating it to his own experience. And he says it much more eloquently than I ever could. His words mirror my thoughts and express the profound love and affection I feel for you. I hope they make sense.
With all my heart,
-dad
Twenty years ago, at 18 years old, I felt like a war veteran, with a sort of post-traumatic stress syndrome. I wanted the pain to end, the self-consuming hate to wither in the sunlight. With the help of those who saw potential in me, I got out.
And what of my son? Recently, Ramiro went up to the stage at a Chicago poetry event and read a moving piece about being physically abused by a step-father when he was a child. It stopped everyone cold. He later read the poem to some 2,000 people at Chicago's Poetry Festival. Its title: "Running Away."
There's a small but intense fire burning in Ramiro. He turned 17 in 1992; he's made it so far, but every day is a challenge. Now I tell him: You have worth outside of a job, outside the "jacket" imposed on you since birth. Draw on your expressive powers.
Stop running.
Luis Rodriguez
Always Running
La Vida Loca: Gang Days in L.A.
Friday, April 25, 2008
Inside Looking Out
The sad thing about consumerism at the top, ie: American consumerism - is that it carries the weight of veracity. That is, we luxuriate under the grand illusion that afflicted the bio-racists, such as Binet, of colonialism's heyday: That rationalism, hard science, logic, and economics were proof of western (subtext/subliminally, white) culture being superior.
On the obvious level, well... there's just too many examples of how gross we are as a consumer society. I remember I saw an aerial shot of an industrial sized cattle and hog farm, which had huge swaths of brown running out of them.
Yes folks, they were rivers of crap. Shit rivers.
For those of you who aren't aware of the implications of this kind of food production, take my word for it: it's bad news on several fronts and all of them having to do with the environment, your health and animal cruelty.
Yes, we Amerikkans are the fattest, grossest, most wasteful and consuming-est... and as was true in "The Mysterious Orient" a fat kid was a sign of posterity.
Which serves as a weird prolegomena to this chain of events:
1. An article which appeared in Jezebel;
2. A solicited response of a Woman of Color by an editor at Racialicious; and,
3. My response below.
While I think the original Jezebel article speaks to all of the naive aspects of Amerikkkan culture/peeps, the thing that leaps out to me is Sarah's admitted ignorance; "I was not into interna'tl politics at ALL..." [sic] But there's a catch; she takes the usual colonialist's way out and places the onus on the Other: "I started wondering about Islam and why people hated the U.S. so much." Typical.
It reminds me of the time when a white gal asked Malcolm if there was anything she as a white person could do, and he hurt her by saying "No." While Malcolm wishes later he hadn't told her that, he then makes a very valid point: white peeps, instead of attempting to understand the Other, should FIRST understand themselves.
As the cliche' goes, there's two sides to every story, and as Rashomon points out, sometimes more. This means understanding history outside of the usual pablum we are fed via the US conglomerated news media. A good place to understanding why any Other peeps hate us is to look at ourselves, our foreign policies of invasion, installation, and yes, terror. Think about Korea, Japan, Vietnam, El Salvador, guns for hostages trading with Iran, the Janus-faced creation of Saddam and then his lynching... and that's just the tip of the iceberg.
Yes, uncle scam LOVES to fuck with Others and then open his eyes wide and ask with upturned palms, "WHY do 'they' hate us?"
This is the main problem I have with Aaminah. Additionally, unless one is being entertaining or funny, I've grown a thick skin toward peeps who have to qualify their responses with a level of physicality. So she pukes because of Jezebel's transgression. Ok, you are sickened, literally, by such ignorance and flaunting of power. But unless you get white people in power to turn the mirror of reflection on themselves and away from the microscope of examining the Other, you can't possibly expect white people in power to "get it."
Empathy and self-reflection; two huge things missing in Amerikkkan consciousness. And yes, it all comes full circle folks. Remember our reality, those comfy two-car garages, our lattes and Sunday strolls on Malibu Beach or the barrio/ghetto where even mainstream news media is ignored, but yet the blaring spam of corporate consumerism is heard loud and clear? That's our psychological blanky, and we're like big babies, being fed pablum while told, "THIS is the life."
It isn't. It's OUR life. Rife with all of the Stepford Wives and their manicured lawns that reach their fingers into our brains and massage it - CONSTANTLY. And with that comfort comes the assurance that what we are doing must be right, otherwise things wouldn't be so good. What's dumbya's big tagline; "They hate our freedom."
Freedom to do what? Buy a $10 sweatshirt at Wal-Mart (China's largest consumer and therefore instigator of mass pollution. Take a look at Beijing's air sometime - it's disgusting) and feel like you got a deal while being blisffuly unaware that some Chinese person worked like a machine cranking those out in a sweat shop for a dime?
Wasn't it dumbya who said in 9/11's aftermath, "Go out shopping?"
This is why I say, Marx got it wrong. Religion isn't the opiate of the masses, it's that rectangular piece of plastic with "Mastercard" on it.
Aaminah concludes by saying that rags like Jezebel can't be expected to incorporate Other views. Well, news bulletin: YEAH. But by not calling them or even Sarah (whom she kinda lets off the hook) out to turn that reflection back on themselves, she misses the opportunity to get white peeps to do the most important thing in life: look at yourself. Clarification: pointing out their prejudice is fine, but relating it to the overall terrain of mass media and how they are no different from, say, the major broadcast networks in that regard.
The thing is not being surprised, or shocked, or even sickened. Ok, you can get sick, but to make that the lead in to your piece instead of calling out whites for their lack of self-understanding misses the boat. In so doing, you've made your revulsion the theme. It's like balling out a kid for leaving his computer on while his room's a mess. So ignorant white peeps, like little kids, don't wanna hear it, and keep on "leaving their rooms a mess."
So keep telling them their room's a mess.
That's your job, to point out their pathology, and not to stop until they get it, not to make it about you, and your revulsion, your shock. Is it tiring/wearying/a pain in the ass? Of course. But, seriously, who gives a flying fuck about your shock (or mine for that matter?) when powerful old white men are running amuck and giving Others plenty of reasons to hate us ... ? I mean, c'mon, check out Exxon-Mobil's profits over the past two years - records for any corporations in our entire history. (Save for Walmart who rose to number one this year, but Exxon-Mobil was right behind them) Think there's some connections to be made here?
It's like what Don Piri Thomas said his dad told him when he was a boy; that before attempting to smell other peep's caca (bullshit) that he should first start with himself and realize that he had plenty of his own.
On the obvious level, well... there's just too many examples of how gross we are as a consumer society. I remember I saw an aerial shot of an industrial sized cattle and hog farm, which had huge swaths of brown running out of them.
Yes folks, they were rivers of crap. Shit rivers.
For those of you who aren't aware of the implications of this kind of food production, take my word for it: it's bad news on several fronts and all of them having to do with the environment, your health and animal cruelty.
Yes, we Amerikkans are the fattest, grossest, most wasteful and consuming-est... and as was true in "The Mysterious Orient" a fat kid was a sign of posterity.
Which serves as a weird prolegomena to this chain of events:
1. An article which appeared in Jezebel;
2. A solicited response of a Woman of Color by an editor at Racialicious; and,
3. My response below.
While I think the original Jezebel article speaks to all of the naive aspects of Amerikkkan culture/peeps, the thing that leaps out to me is Sarah's admitted ignorance; "I was not into interna'tl politics at ALL..." [sic] But there's a catch; she takes the usual colonialist's way out and places the onus on the Other: "I started wondering about Islam and why people hated the U.S. so much." Typical.
It reminds me of the time when a white gal asked Malcolm if there was anything she as a white person could do, and he hurt her by saying "No." While Malcolm wishes later he hadn't told her that, he then makes a very valid point: white peeps, instead of attempting to understand the Other, should FIRST understand themselves.
As the cliche' goes, there's two sides to every story, and as Rashomon points out, sometimes more. This means understanding history outside of the usual pablum we are fed via the US conglomerated news media. A good place to understanding why any Other peeps hate us is to look at ourselves, our foreign policies of invasion, installation, and yes, terror. Think about Korea, Japan, Vietnam, El Salvador, guns for hostages trading with Iran, the Janus-faced creation of Saddam and then his lynching... and that's just the tip of the iceberg.
Yes, uncle scam LOVES to fuck with Others and then open his eyes wide and ask with upturned palms, "WHY do 'they' hate us?"
This is the main problem I have with Aaminah. Additionally, unless one is being entertaining or funny, I've grown a thick skin toward peeps who have to qualify their responses with a level of physicality. So she pukes because of Jezebel's transgression. Ok, you are sickened, literally, by such ignorance and flaunting of power. But unless you get white people in power to turn the mirror of reflection on themselves and away from the microscope of examining the Other, you can't possibly expect white people in power to "get it."
Empathy and self-reflection; two huge things missing in Amerikkkan consciousness. And yes, it all comes full circle folks. Remember our reality, those comfy two-car garages, our lattes and Sunday strolls on Malibu Beach or the barrio/ghetto where even mainstream news media is ignored, but yet the blaring spam of corporate consumerism is heard loud and clear? That's our psychological blanky, and we're like big babies, being fed pablum while told, "THIS is the life."
It isn't. It's OUR life. Rife with all of the Stepford Wives and their manicured lawns that reach their fingers into our brains and massage it - CONSTANTLY. And with that comfort comes the assurance that what we are doing must be right, otherwise things wouldn't be so good. What's dumbya's big tagline; "They hate our freedom."
Freedom to do what? Buy a $10 sweatshirt at Wal-Mart (China's largest consumer and therefore instigator of mass pollution. Take a look at Beijing's air sometime - it's disgusting) and feel like you got a deal while being blisffuly unaware that some Chinese person worked like a machine cranking those out in a sweat shop for a dime?
Wasn't it dumbya who said in 9/11's aftermath, "Go out shopping?"
This is why I say, Marx got it wrong. Religion isn't the opiate of the masses, it's that rectangular piece of plastic with "Mastercard" on it.
Aaminah concludes by saying that rags like Jezebel can't be expected to incorporate Other views. Well, news bulletin: YEAH. But by not calling them or even Sarah (whom she kinda lets off the hook) out to turn that reflection back on themselves, she misses the opportunity to get white peeps to do the most important thing in life: look at yourself. Clarification: pointing out their prejudice is fine, but relating it to the overall terrain of mass media and how they are no different from, say, the major broadcast networks in that regard.
The thing is not being surprised, or shocked, or even sickened. Ok, you can get sick, but to make that the lead in to your piece instead of calling out whites for their lack of self-understanding misses the boat. In so doing, you've made your revulsion the theme. It's like balling out a kid for leaving his computer on while his room's a mess. So ignorant white peeps, like little kids, don't wanna hear it, and keep on "leaving their rooms a mess."
So keep telling them their room's a mess.
That's your job, to point out their pathology, and not to stop until they get it, not to make it about you, and your revulsion, your shock. Is it tiring/wearying/a pain in the ass? Of course. But, seriously, who gives a flying fuck about your shock (or mine for that matter?) when powerful old white men are running amuck and giving Others plenty of reasons to hate us ... ? I mean, c'mon, check out Exxon-Mobil's profits over the past two years - records for any corporations in our entire history. (Save for Walmart who rose to number one this year, but Exxon-Mobil was right behind them) Think there's some connections to be made here?
It's like what Don Piri Thomas said his dad told him when he was a boy; that before attempting to smell other peep's caca (bullshit) that he should first start with himself and realize that he had plenty of his own.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
