Spam: Corporate Shit = Your Annoyance

Shepard Fairey was on The Henry Rollins show this past week, and while I think he's an ok dude, I think his art is just kinda eh. Though he does have a cool pic of Jay Adams:



I digress. The point Fairey (man, did HE get picked on as a kid) made that's worth echoing is the one about spam. Basically, why is it that he has to take shit for his graf when just because corporations pay all of a sudden their spam is legitimized, and moreover, we just accept it or shrug our collective shoulders.

Good point. One that Robbie Conal has been making for way longer than Fairey. And of course, the poster boy, Keith Haring.

But isn't it interesting that white dudes like Conal, Fairey and Haring are celebrated as art iconoclasts and even sometimes go on to commercial success, as Fairey admitted? Point: Graf is a staple where I came up, on the Old English tip and beyond.


The above is probably one of, if not the most notorious and steeped in East LA lore barrios: Cerco Blanco (White Fence). As a kid, I grew up near their arch rivals, Varrio Nuevo Estrada (VNE), but was always more taken with the lyrically named White Fence. Although I probably have it wrong, the way their name was handed down to me was that their founder was shot and fell over a white fence. My pops came up in Boyle Heights, steeped in White Fence.

And graf was everywhere in East LA. My favorite restaurant, Largo's Mitote, (RIP) had a back alley that was littered with spray paint way before it got going as "art" on the east coast.

Cholos - the prototypical/stereotypical "Mexican American gangbanger" - also had tats fired up decades before the current trend. Indeed, I remember being with Jerry Ortiz and going down to the Pike to get tatted. In the end, I chickened out because I just plain hated needles; as a kid I was always getting stuck because I had asthma and allergies. I hated needles.

But a cholo's placa isn't seen as art by the mainstream. And they certainly aren't getting on Hank's show.

Way to Go

Ha HA!!! PassiveAggressiveNotes.com

And peeps have to STILL ask why old media doesn't get it, let alone why it's struggling and/or dying. Oy. Hope I die before I get old...

Brilliant.

What Was Could Be

Golden Ears

I've been doing this gig at a major broadcaster (one of the big four) and happened to bump into an old audiophile friend, "Andy." Andy's a really bright guy when it comes to audio stuff as he works with state-of-the-art rigs in sota studios. We're talking Meyer Sound monitors (for the ultra audiophiles, they're industry standard for near-field monitoring), bass traps and RPG Diffusers.

This is about what I feel confident in saying was not just a near-singular experience while I was living it (because after all, aren't we all living those?) but one that was great.

Andy began telling me how he had a copy of the Alan Parsons quadraphonic mix of Pink Floyd's Dark Side of the Moon and he not only had this but had the hardware and the environment to pump it through.

Needless to say, I imbibed. One of the best hours of my life, aesthetically speaking.

Now, before all of you audio freaks get it twisted up, I'm gonna tell you a thing or two.

On second thought, screw it.

This was a really cool experience. Leave it at that.

It's Ours, but We don't Want it

Appropriation. After "exploitation" it's the word that so aptly conveys the depth and breadth of white culture over and into mud peeples' cultures. When I mentioned Amy Winehouse the other day I thought how it might possibly appear to some of my friends who are sensitive to the subject of a white songstress using black musical tropes to meet success.

Without any apologies, I want to say that I'm a fan of Amy's talent, and that yes, I think it's fucked up when there are talented mud peeps who never even get a shot, particularly the kind of shot she had.

And yet there's no denying her talent; to have the depth of artistic vision she does and the chops to express it with so much bravura is, I think, a rare thing. But to have it while in your early 20's is hitting the lottery. As I write this I have her Love is a Losing Game on, and it's crazy to think that she's writing and singing like this at 24/25.

Should that talent be constrained by genre according to racial precepts? Of course not. Am I saying this because of her undeniable talent or, rather more precisely, because I like her talent? Yes, there's that degree of prejudice involved, but it's more a matter of being "real." Yeah, at some point, art crit does indeed boil down to intangibles and preferences. But it's actually much more, or rather, it can, and should be more. This is totally subjective but it's not a cop-out. There's simply no other way for me to put it.

What I mean. Some artists have that aura of authenticity. A guy like Tarantino comes along and totally jacks the cultural flow of mud peeps left and right and it's hailed as genius.

But to Asians who grew up on shit like Sword of Vengeance we look at something like Kill Bill and just laugh.

Look at Paul Simon, who I can take in limited doses. When he made his critically acclaimed Graceland I sneered. I thought it rang false. I still do. Put it this way; having a celebrity white singer fronting blacks is not only visually problematic but an aesthetic infantilizing that creeps me out.

But this whole appropriation business gets really dizzy when you consider someone like Clapton. Obviously his allegiance and devotion to the blues is real. Any dude who'd leave the Yardbirds at the height of popularity for the Bluesbreakers is making a statement. But I thought his cover of I Shot the Sheriff was limp.

It goes on and on. Led Zep's cover of I Can't Quit You Baby is one of the best I've ever heard. And of course, Stevie Ray who always gave props to Albert King and Jimi.

And I guess this is a way of turning the mirror back on America, because we’re so pathologically contemptuous of our own until someone else appropriates them, and then we climb on board. After all, it wasn’t until the Brit guitarists - Clapton, Beck, Page, but also Peter Green – reminded white Americans of what they had lying in their own backyard but had for all intents rejected. No, Elvis didn’t remind white Amerikkka where rock ‘n roll’s roots lie, no no no. Jimi had to leave and go to Europe to be “discovered.” A few, such as Mike Bloomfield, Duane Allman and many a southern rocker like Johnny Winter (Cool band name: “Johnny Winter And”) or Billy Gibbons of ZZ Top knew.

But for the most part we’re retarded over here. Sorta reminds me of the Churchill quote I heard in The Eleventh Hour: “America always makes the right decision, after exhausting all other possibilities.”

Oh well I haven't resolved the conundrum of a white girl "singing black." But it's doubtful that Americans, particularly young ones, can even see the line that runs from the blues to rock. It’d be amusing for a minute to hold up a picture of, say, Otis Rush, and one of Henry Rollins and ask college students if they think the two are musically related.

"We" can send a man to the moon but...

I always tell my daughter that the baby boomers were goofy, but they did some cool shit. They consistently got up off their asses and said hell no to a racist war, bounced a criminal and his hitmen from the whitey house [sic], fought for civil rights, and fought for women's rights.

But I also like to brag about our art: The films and music of the 60s & 70s stand the test of time. Here's one, courtesy of a reminder from the Stern show, who played it last week.

Note to all you fake azz wanna-be so-called "hard" or "gangsta" mcs that are merely hos for corporate conglomerates: y'all need to ask KRS1 and Chuck (dap to PE's new one on this - and KRS is on it) about the meaning of "hard." Maybe once you get it there, then you can talk to David Hilliard or Elaine Brown or Piri Thomas or Luis Rodriguez...

Yeah, right.

From back in the day, Mister Gil Scott-Heron, circa 1972, couple of years after our moon landing.



WHITEY ON THE MOON

A rat done bit my sister Nell
with Whitey on the moon

Her face and arms began to swell
and Whitey's on the moon

I can't pay no doctor bills
but Whitey's on the moon

Ten years from now I'll be payin' still
while Whitey's on the moon

You know, the man just upped my rent last night
'cause Whitey's on the moon

No hot water, no toilets, no lights
but Whitey's on the moon

I wonder why he's uppin' me?
'cause Whitey's on the moon?

I wuz already givin' 'im fifty a week
and now Whitey's on the moon

Taxes takin' my whole damn check,
Junkies makin' me a nervous wreck,
The price of food is goin' up,
An' as if all that crap wuzn't enough
A rat done bit my sister Nell
with Whitey on the moon

Her face an' arm began to swell
and Whitey's on the moon

With all that money I made last year
for Whitey on the moon
How come I ain't got no money here?
Hmm! Whitey's on the moon

Y'know I jus' 'bout had my fill
of Whitey on the moon
I think I'll send these doctor bills
Airmail special

to Whitey on the moon


Brotha GSH circa '96, holdin' it down.

Le Grand Jeu

Like any other form of art, what passes for the most part as poetry is garbage. But I recall as if yesterday my discovery of Robert Desnos's The Voice at Waldenbooks in Del Amo Mall. When I read the forward I discovered a key feature about Desnos that would forever change me: he was a Surrealist.

I plan on writing about Desnos in a future post, but since I've never addressed poetry I am going to lead off with one of if not my favorite poem. For me, it sums up everything great art should strive for. It's by Aime' Cesaire, a titan if ever there was one.

I dedicate it to you - you know who you are.

============================================

JUDGEMENT OF THE LIGHT

Transfixing muscles and blood
devouring all eyes this intense bright mass of foliage
crowning with truth our usual lights
a ray a spray from the triumphant sun
by means of which
justice will be done
and every arrogance washed away

Household vessels and human flesh slip away into the thick
neck of the waves
silences by way of contrast have begun to exert the most
substantial pressures

Around the circumference of the circle
among public activities along the riverbanks
the flame
stands solitary and splendid in its upright judgment

SWOOSH: Ode to Jeff Johnson

It is important that you risk trying things that you might not be very good at. It is important that you discover that failure is never final, and neither is victory.
-Jeff Johnson, NIKE Employee #1

Today I'm writing about Jeff Johnson, a little-known guy who occupies an enormous place in American entrepreneurship. As noted, he was NIKE employee #1, and he gave the then fledgling company its name. And if I distinguish here between "entrepreneur" and "businessman" that's purposeful, because entrepreneurs are the creatives, dreamers and visionaries who execute and make sculpture from clay.

There's so much to say about his entrepreneurial zeal, how he took a shoe, ripped off the sole and placed the sole from a flip-flop in it and created the first mid-sole cushioned shoe. The way he'd get t-shirts made with the name "Nike" on it before the era of big bucks endorsements, gave them away to winners of races and then took a photo of them holding a victory sign in their shirt.

The entrepreneurial genius of that move? Many a time, the runners would have adidas or Pumas on their feet.

In the '90's I started a small sports marketing company with my good friend Mitch. To call it modest is an understatement; we were young and very green. Yet, we revered Nike and devoured material about the company. I eventually asked everyone in the company who they thought really made Nike what it was and is - besides founder Phil Knight. The consensus was Jeff Johnson.

A runner and lover of sports, he met up with Knight who had concocted the scheme of undercutting adidas, the two-ton gorilla of athletic shoes, by importing adidas knock-offs from Japan, Onitsuka Tiger's to be exact. While not as quality a shoe as adidas, they were considerably cheaper and runners liked the personal touch of Johnson, who was pretty much the public face of "Blue Ribbon Sports," (BRS) the company's then operating name.

A rift would eventually ensue between Onitsuka and BRS, but Knight and company had accomplished too much - there was no looking back now, but they had some moves to make. They had a new logo; Knight had wanted "something like the 3 stripes," but could only muster what looked like a fancy checkmark from student designer Carolyn Davidson.

But they were stuck on choosing a new name. Knight threw out a name that he was stuck on, and all of the "Buttfaces" (an affectionate term for the inner circle, based upon their ability to tell one another they were full of shit) made fun of him. They broke to sleep on it - time was of the essence as they were on deadline, I believe to file articles of incorporation.

That night as Nike legend has it, Johnson, from a dead sleep, sat upright: "Nike, the winged goddess of victory! That's IT!"

It met with a lukewarm Buttface reception. In the eleventh hour, Knight begrudgingly went with it.

Among the many stories I know about Nike, at the top of the heap is this: In the early days they would attend the National Sporting Goods Association (NSGA) trade show, and their booth was a standard 10' X 10' with Knight and whoever seated on folding chairs and maybe some shirts. The adidas reps would walk by Nike's booth and sneer if they paid attention to them at all. But as Nike began their ascent, they heard more than one customer say to them, "Well, you have a few kinks to work out, but I like you guys a helluva lot better than those assholes at adidas."

Early on with our company, I made up my mind - I was going to fire off a letter to Johnson. I knew enough to know he was a voracious reader, loved the written word and, even with the advent of word processors, still used his old typewriter.

I called Nike and eventually got to Knight's secretary and inquired if she knew how to contact Johnson. She seemed mildly surprised that someone even knew who he was, but said that yes, Johnson still came around a couple times a year. He'd long since retired, a multi-millionaire in his forties. She said she'd be glad to forward a message to him. So I fired off a letter, but not before Mitch and I went down the street and took a picture in front of the location where Johnson set up Nike's first retail operation. The Asian Indian dude in the hotel across the street snapped the pic. I put it in the letter.

He wrote back!

From that point on, Mitch and I corresponded with him and it was, to say the least, inspiring. We had one of the founders of Nike advising us schmucks. We met once while Johnson was coaching at Stanford and Mitch and I were in the Bay area on business.

I remember soon afterwards attending "The Super Show," which is what the NSGA had evolved into. It truly is something, occupying the entire Atlanta sports entertainment complex. (The Omni, Georgia Dome, etc.) I remember talking to some really young Philly kids at some little basketball company, And 1 or something like that.

Nike's "booth" wasn't even on one of the show floors, it occupied the entire ballroom on the top floor of the convention center. As you walked past reception, the hallway was completely dark except for an enormous SWOOSH beamed down from above. As you got nearer the ballroom, you could hear the pounding of music, and upon entering it's all you can do but just stand there and gape.

The ballroom was dark and in the center were these huge, at least 20 feet tall stands, about six of them arranged in a large circle, and atop each one was an enormous video display with famous Nike Imagery. The light show and pulsating music combined with this to provide not an experience, but a total mind fucking environment.

Years later, when Nike was making their first foray into Nike retail stores, I happened to go to one of their openings. The store was all flash, but then I noticed something; there, high up on a column, was a small plaque commemorating Nike employee #1.

Today, the romance has been dulled by the harsh light of big money contracts to players like Michael Vick who screw things up and outsourcing horror stories; colonialism is still murdering and instilling miserable-ism, just in a more economic hitman-ish manner. But I do recall fondly our brush with the Swoosh.



Coda: The name Knight wanted for his new shoe company: "Dimension Six."

American Sports Gone Wild

What IS it about our twisted American culture that produces outliers that make foreign psychopaths drool? Of course there are sickos everywhere, but I guess like everything else American, we have to do twisted bigger 'n badder.

And so we come to the sad state of American major league sports, and a unique time in our history. Because major scandals are rocking them all.

To the non-sports fan here they are:

1. NBA: A ref is caught on the take, which means he has been fixing games.

2. NFL: Star quarterback Michael Vick has been indicted on animal cruelty charges, namely, pitbull fighting.

3. MLB: Superstar Barry Bonds has just broken Hank Aaron's all time record - one of the milestone achievements in American sports. Much of the public looks on with a jaundiced eye, as it is widely rumored that Bonds, at age 43, has been juicing roids and thus, his achievement is tainted. It explains why fans in stands hold up signs and wear t-shirts with huge asteriks on them, because his record will be footnoted by the controversy.

Now, when I was only a lad, sports were a big deal and the athletes we revered were gods. This was the birth of the Sabols' fledgling "NFL Films" with the timeless, basso profundo "voice of god" narration by John Facenda. Chicky Baby Hearn called the Lakers and the man known by some as "The Voice" and generally recognized as the greatest play by play baseball shot caller, Vin Scully, called for the Dodgers. The Rams, who walked on water, were straight old school: The Fearsome Foursome - Rosey Grier, Merlin Olsen, Lamar Lundy, and the great Deacon Jones (number 75!). They set the standard for the classic defensive four set, inherited/adapted later by Minnesota's "Purple People Eaters" (Marshall and Page were the standouts) and the infamous Pittsburgh "Steel Curtain."

For me, hoops was it. This was when Jerry West was coming into his legendary "Mr. Clutch" status, and I saw plenty of games where he just dropped like he was unconscious. As unbelievable as "Zeke from Cabin Creek" was, for my money, number 22, Elgin Baylor, was the man. I caught him at the end of his career - bad knees had slowed him - but the man whom no less than Red Auerback proclaimed the greatest forward he'd ever seen, was something else. For me, it boils down to that intangible, that jes nais se quois, what Breton said about reading Cesaire, that he possessed that unmistakable major tone that separates great from lesser.

And Elg had it. I once saw him grab a defensive rebound along the baseline and, while trying to maintain his balance as he was about to fall out of bounds, he flung the ball over his shoulder in a blind no-look, most casually but in total confidence, and hit a streaking Laker guard on the dead run at mid court. Perfectly timed.

How did he do that?

And in those moments, as small a kid as I was, I knew I had caught a glimpse of greatness, pure poetry, as pure as anything I've experienced through music, movies, literature, painting...

I loved sports and worshipped the gods who played and privileged us mere mortals by giving us glimpses of our humanity, the better side of us, under highly regulated conditions.

All of this rambling is to say that I think what's happening is just sad today. Everyone's so friggin' jaded, and that includes the fans. It just doesn't seem fun anymore. Damn.

Forbidden Zone

When people, particularly the tragically hip, discuss surrealism, it's always in the vein of the fantastical, "way out" imagery of Avida Dollars (Salvador Dali). Thus, a movie like Eraserhead is always mentioned as the leader of the pack in terms of American films. While I admire Eraserhead and think it's a terrific movie, I'd put Richard Elfman's Forbidden Zone shoulder to shoulder right by it.

One thing; surrealism is more, much, much more, than "weird" imagery and non-nonsensical rhyme. And I understand that that's EXACTLY the reason ignorant people sneer at it, because their eyes only see what they see. In reality (hey, I did resist saying, "in surreality," so cut me a friggin' break will ya?) surrealism exalted delirium and the high octane L'mour Fou that would become the title of one of Breton's most celebrated "novellas."

And Elfman's masterpiece is nothing if not delirious in the best Tex Avery sense (another iconic hero to the Surrealists). The entire movie is one long ode to the ridiculous and sometimes hysterically funny, kinda like the Marx Brothers on mescaline.

I recall first seeing it at the first true blue film fest in LA - Filmex. It's one of the most underrated films I can think of. And Susan Tyrell has got to be one of the best actresses who never broke through to deservedly bigger things. She's such a trooper, possessing a riveting stage presence that I was lucky enough to see in her one-woman show, My Rotten Life: A Bitter Operetta, motivated by the fact she so impressed me in Huston's, Fat City. (another really terrrifically under-rated flick) You know how some people seem to be born out of another era? She seems to come from another dimension.

Elfman, the elder to Danny who does a nice turn as the devil, was the founder of the LA new wave band, The Mystic Knights of the Oingo Boingo (later just "Oingo Boingo"), and he and crew (his then wife, Marie Pascale did the art direction/sets) pulls out all the stops here. If you love creativity run amok, then Forbidden Zone is not to be missed. One thing: At the very beginning, there's a brief bout of racist imagery with a white actor in black face and some minstrelcy.

The Devil's Rejects

The LA Archdiocese settled a record case of molestation; $660 mil.

Thoughts & tidbits:

-I love legal parlance that, in one word - "settled," glosses over decades of terror.

-The defendants' lawyers will receive 40%.

-Pig Mahoney settled the very day before jury selection was to take place.

-Pig Mahoney said that he was "beginning to understand..." the magnitude of suffering, etc. Huh??? I thought as a high priest muckety muck that was the very foundation of his faith; empathy. But it takes a road leading to half a bil for his high holiness to "begin" to understand. Right.

-The Chicago newspaper otherwise masquerading as the LA Times reported that the archdiocese would have to sell off some of their real estate holdings and I guess liquidate some of their no doubt expansive portfolio in order to make payment. Boo fuckin' hoo.

-I came up in a heavily steeped catholic environment and love it when these holy rollers are exposed as the sick fuck hypocrites they are.

-I wonder what the Holy Ghost thinks of this...?

The Sky is Falling... in LA?!

I snapped this earlier this year while driving westbound on the 10 heading out of the city back to the westside. It was impressive.

To get a better sense of what I was experiencing, CLICK ON THE PICTURE TO ENLARGE IT...

Les Paul: The Players Player

How did he do it?
-Phil Ramone upon hearing Les Paul for the first time

Here's what I look for in artists of any stripe and people in general; enthusiasm. I don't mean blind fellowship. And I don't mean the frivolous, flip attitude of the casually hip.

So let's say I learn about or even meet someone who has enthusiasm. Well, there's actually a sub-class of that group who take it a step further.

These peeps are the creative types, the ones who are somehow imbued with an authenticity. Kinda like what Stacy Peralta was getting at when writing about Jay Adams being an original, an archetype.

And so it is with Les Paul. I'm writing about LP here because I've just seen the American Masters doc, The Wizard of Waukesha, and it reminded me of when I briefly flirted with my first love (music) by playing (piano, then guitar).

Now, among musicians Les Paul is revered; among guitarists he's a legend; and among creatives, inventors and the like, he's in the hall of fame. For he was "the man, the real deal, the original, the first. He is the archetype of our shared heritage." (Peralta on Adams)

His inventing the famous sound on sound dual-head Ampex is one of those ground-breaking moments in human history that forever alters things. Indeed.

But on the popular front, he's on center stage with his world-famous Les Paul solid body guitar. From Allman to Beck to Page and even Jimi (who dabbled with one while straying albeit momentarily) from his beloved Strat, the guitar occupies a special place in music history. Along with the Strat it is without a doubt the most coveted rock instrument in the world.

Les Paul and Mary Ford's music may not suit everyone's tastes; it's corny, homespun hokum. But so is the Carpenters. (Richard Carpenter has a meaty piece in the doc, bowing to the master) But musicians all know how great the Carpenters and Richard in particular were.

At the top of this I said that there were certain people in this world who take enthusiasm to another level, and clearly I had Les in mind. But there's a scene in the film that speaks so clearly to the love of creativity, the pure fun in doing creative, artistic things. LP is walking through one of his and Mary's old homes where, freed from the drudgery of the studio due to LP's sound on sound innovations, they used the natural acoustics of the house; the hallways, the bathrooms... and LP walks in the hallway and reminisces about stringing cords and wires here and there and everywhere, and the look on his face is one of total satisfaction, just fun, like what Welles said about a movie set: "It's the biggest, best erector set ever."

It's tragic to live in a time like this, in a pr crazy world where lame, mediocre and at best just run of the mill crap passes for "deep" and "amazing." Kids these days. (And we haven't even mentioned Tal Farlow, who's also still alive. Talk about a monster.) Yes, Les Paul's music is forgotten, but his mark is forever, whether "they" know it or not. His passion, nee, obsession, creative genius and just outright determinism put him in that special, exclusive club. He is one of the titans upon whose shoulders others stand.


Boy, they were something else, weren't they?
-Bonnie Raitt, on listening to LP & his beloved Mary Ford

Sicko

Say what you will about Moore, but he's got big brass bowling ball sized nuts. With Sicko, he's crafted an in-your-face indictment of corporatized health care that's not just eye-opening for Americans but funny (expected) and really entertaining.

There's a moment in Sicko that's poignant and moving: after having given us firsthand looks at countries that take care of their citizens it shows the mother of all publicized cases of patient dumping by Kaiser - the world's largest HMO - on LA's infamous Skid Row.

To those unfamiliar, HMOs ("health management organizations" = corporate run hospitals) have been caught cutting costs by taking those expendable to their business model - ie: the poor/uninsured and therefore defenseless - and just dumping them on the streets. In this way, the poor and therefore defenseless suffer obscenity in terms of American health care in the same way they suffer obscenities with the legal system. For instance, the great work that Barry Scheck, Cardozo Law School et al and The Innocence Project have performed, freeing over 200 wrongfully convicted poor folk.

But when I or anyone says "patient dumping" it's not just any street. It's skid row. As in, You've hit the skids, kid.

Now, let me not just shunt aside what skid row truly and actually is to those who've never seen it. It is, in the worst of senses, a human garbage heap, a sort of modern day charnel house where death grinds deliberately without recourse. To those Skid Row denizens who don't die and exist on, it's a concrete miserablism machine that slowly and pitilessly consumes flesh and will. A friend who was not from here who visited once said that it looked like a war-torn third world country.

Talking about LA and Skid Row reminds me of sheltered folks who visit Waikiki or Ocho Rios and go back to their mother countries and brag about how they've seen "the islands." If they only knew how natives loathe their condescending asses. So it is with LA, proving once again the ageless rule that truth is indeed an illusion, but it's also a conveniently hidden reality for those it benefits.

Back to patient dumping. It was at that point, about 3/4 of the way through, after seeing how Canada and France take care of their own health-care-wise, that Moore offers a poignant question over the grainy urban cam video of "patient" shuffling aimlessly along skid row:

What have we become, what kind of country are we that dumps people like so much garbage? [paraphrased from memory]

What We Do is Secret

A year and a half ago I covered the Germs show and have been waiting for the Darby bio pic since. So it was I took Cooky to see WHAT WE DO IS SECRET.

It also happened to be the first flick seen at the newly opened Landmark Theaters, and Mark Cuban did it right. These things are nice.

So our annual sojourn to the LA Film Festival was fun, and while I didn't make it, I heard the Germs - Pat, Lorna and Don, with actor Shane West - played in the Village. I must say, for the longest time I've lamented to any and all how ironic it is that LA is the movie capital of the world and yet we have no - and never have had - a world class film fest. (Ah, Filmex, recuerdo, yo recuerdo) That's slowly changing for the better, with Silverlake really coming on strong and the LA Film Fest now doing some very positive things.

And ending on a positive note, sometime later Cooky mentioned that she would have liked to been around LA during the punk era. I asked why, and she said that it seemed fun and interesting. That compared to the mersh crap going on now it was real.

I just smiled and told her that while there was plenty of goofy stuff, it was fun.

Talk to Me

Saw a screening of Kasi Lemmons', Talk To Me, with Fish and really enjoyed it. Cheadle is always solid but it's good to see Chiwetel Ejiofor gettin' his, despite my misgivings about Children of Men and how it was racialized. Taraji Henson gets hers too, and lookin' finer 'n shit.

As someone who was too young to fully participate in the counter-culture of the 60's and 70's, I of course still respond to that era with fondness; that much, the flick accomplishes well, replete with all the right if somewhat familiar soul funk sounds. (The Chambers Brothers' "Time" being the one exception as it's rock)

And Petey Greene's story is, of course, a nitty gritty one worth every dime. Interestingly enough, it's just as much a story about Dewey Hughes, Petey's success hungry agent, friend and later manager. In this way, TTM is like A Star is Born.

What I found interesting to think about was the way race was portrayed - intra-race as well as inter-race relations. Things like "Authenticity" and "Being Real" are negotiated and in flux in this movie in fairly fluid ways in the first part of the flick. I don't wanna talk about it because it'd be a spoiler, so....

The other thing I liked was the way it brought home how much the boomers cared - no matter how goofy they were, those muthaphukas gave a damn and did shit.

Gotta give dap on that.

Vanity (Un)Fair

As I glanced at the cover of Vanity Fair's, "Africa Issue," I did my usual furrowing of the brow. After all, what can one of my countenance do when confronted with the silliness, the stupidity and just plain full of crap chest thumping that mass media doles out? Truth is, crap has always been a staple. After all, over eighty years ago, what were the Dadaists and Surrealists rebelling against if not the mediocrity of ideas run rampant?

But this was pretty over the top big agency manufactured; 21 stars and otherwise notables, from Ali to Mandela to - god help us - George Dumbya Bush. Shot by no less than Annie Liebowitz.

What I find so annoying about this kind of patronizing - aside from the obvious pat-your-head unctuous-ness that goes along with patronizing - is the utter brazen-ness. I love the way white folks can just figure anything out, how their take is the take on a situation, from AIDS to terrorism.

Just right now I have endured the third viewing of the AmEx spam piece with Alicia Keyes, Cheryl Crow, and, Scorsese???

Caramba...

Much like the absent and sorely missed "Black Looks" blog piece that I posted a while ago, I think that the kind of patronizing our mass media conducts infantilizes the viewer/reader. Simply, they toss celebrity at huge problems, problems that require structural change, infra-structural change. I don't expect that they truly believe that they can help, but it makes me think of how in this modern age one goes to a Lakers game and walks into the Staples Center and is utterly bombarded by spam. Only now, with Vanity Fair and Africa, it's celebrity public relations spam. They're getting us to "buy in" to their "good-ness", no doubt the fruition of many an agent's connections.

FADE IN - BACKYARD, GEORGE TAKEI'S HOUSE - DUSK
A throng of celebs and power mongers imbibe under a BANNER which reads: "Happy B-DAY GEORGE". The CAMERA TRACKS IN to an AGENT and EDITOR - two of the many present.

Agent: I heard you're planning an "Africa Issue."
VF Editor: It's slated for June of '07.
A: Take your pick, you got the roster.
VFE: I dunno Jeremy....
A: Hey, I got you Ricky Martin that time.
VFE: That wasn't the "Africa Issue."
A: I still delivered, and he was white hot.
VFE: Like he didn't need us.
A: You know "People" woulda dropped trow for him then.
VFE: Depends on who was droppin' trow.
A: Ah, well. AFRICA! I like the sound of it...
VFE: You and every agent schmuck here.
A: Nevermind about my aspirations, let's talk cover.
VFE: (spritzes drink) OH LOOK whose balls have grown larger than his big mouth...
A: C'mon man.
VFE: It's gonna cost ya.
A: I got deep pockets. And then some.
VFE: Christ, you went to Yale Law School to ho around like this?
A: Hey, "Thaaaaat's poker." I mean, it's a living.

Bully

T2

John Conner: We're not gonna make it, are we? Humans, I mean.

Terminator: It's in your nature to destroy yourselves.

A Letter to O

I received this recently:

Greetings to all my colleagues, friends and family,

A funny thing happened on this fine day. I got to type these six magic letters: THE END. After 10 years and five months, 15 chapters and an epilogue at 598 pages, I have finally completed a first draft of my post WWII novel, "Justines." A rambling over grown weed of a story that began as that of a young girl growing up in a rough and tumble, male dominated East St. Louis juke joint. It isn’t as smooth as I would like. Loose ends and plot holes abound. Being the notorious perfectionist I am. But it is finished. At long last. The struggle is over. The true work now begins.

Had to share the news.

Ofay Peckerwood


Dear Ofay,

I think we've known each other for about the life span of "Justines." During that time I've come to know you as an uncompromising artist, but even more solid person. There's no speaking to "Justines," just yet, but there's no doubt when I say that you embody the best in us; an unwavering morality, rock solid fairness, an intellect that never sleeps, a great laugh, and loyalty that, when called upon, has never faltered.

Truly a brotha. Truly my brotha.

I salute your accomplishment. But far beyond your artistic accomplishments, you by far are your best work.

Excelsior,

Bruce Li