I go to parties a lot.
I never learn my lesson.
I have fun at parties, but I never learn my lesson. What lesson am I talking about?
The Lesson At The End Of The Night: All parties are illusory diversions. They don't mean anything in and of themselves.
Whether it is a good one or a bad one, I always come away feeling like I should've just stayed home. Even if I meet a bevvy of Playboy Playmates who all want to eat sushi off of my genitalia, I will somehow feel dejected by night's end.
That's because the promise of a party cannot ever be delivered... ever.
I remember parties in high school-- they never turned out to be the way people expected. No matter what happened, someone always ended up crying in the back room; someone always got their heart broken; someone always got too wasted; someone found out who their real friends were...
Things haven't changed much since high school. I went to a few college parties in the '90's, but they were just high school parties on steroids.
I have yet to attend a party that will change my life. That's because there never will be such a party.
Think about the greatest party you ever attended. In your memory, there are some stand-out moments, I'm sure... but if you were to actually transport yourself back in time, to the exact time and place where the party was held, and if you were to watch the whole scene unfurl objectively from a distance, you'd see that the party was not great at all, and in fact the greatness of any given party is directly proportionate to your own mood.
This party should've been great. There were fire eaters and trapeze artists. There were live bands and slammin' DJs. There were hot girls and freaky guys. There were hippies and ravers and stoners and punks and Goths and whores and strippers and artists and weirdly-dressed people, all in some downtown L.A. warehouse.
I learned from one of my friends who attended with me that the person who threw this party used to have them at his home. "Those parties were better," he said. "You still had to pay $20 to get in, but there was all this free booze. Now, they have drink tickets. Uggh!"
He also said that the home parties were more intimate. "Lotta outsiders here tonight," he said. "At the home parties, it was all people we knew."
Granted, the people I attended this party with are the type who never go to parties, and when they do it's strictly to laugh at weirdoes. But there was nothing to laugh at, as it became clear that now the parties were being "commercialized" i.e., the people putting it on wanted to make their money back... and then some.
The truth is, I could've driven by any number of warehouse parties in the same warehouse district and found an identical bash going on, for possibly less money.
That's why I prefer throwing parties. And I prefer them to happen in my home. But it's been YEARS since I threw a party.
Years, I tell you.
Maybe it's time to throw one. A cookout, maybe? Or a small get-together? I can't use my place because my neighbors in sleepy Burbank might trip, but if I can find a party house...
I think that's what I need to do-- throw a party. A good one. Not the greatest ever... just a good one will suffice.
How's that sound?
Monday, June 27, 2005
Thursday, June 23, 2005
the pseudo-pimp game
Here's a site that pimpafies your name for you.
I tell you, I'm sick of all this pimp shit.
Why? Because I started it, that's why.
Allow me to clarify: I didn't start the profession of pimping a.k.a. "easy riding" a.k.a. "pandering". No, that dubious distinction belongs elsewhere.
What I mean is: I was the first person in the world to use the word 'pimp' outside of its original context.
For a brief time in the '70's, pimp chic was in. The movies Shaft and Superfly were in vogue. Disco was big. Fashion was outrageous, the result of too many Quaaludes and not enough sober reflection.
But it never transcended beyond a cultish following, and once punk rock started to usurp the Establishment values from the bottom up, it soon became unfashionable to wear floppy pimp hats and goldfish-bowl platform heels.
Or at least that's what The Fashion Police wanted you to believe at the time.
*/*
I was born in 1974. I grew up in the '70's and came of age in the '80's. I remember what it was like in my neighborhood: the pimp chic never died. We still wore butterfly collars on our shirts, sported corderuoy jeans, and our hair covered our ears.
We thought it was genuinely cool to dress this way. I remember getting bagged on for wearing the shit I wore. When the '80's descended upon me, I changed my style to fit in, but I knew in my heart that pimp shit was cool.
Mind you, I didn't know what a pimp was or what they did for a living. I just knew that Huggy Bear on Starsky & Hutch was a pimp. I knew that Harvey Keitel in Taxi Driver was a pimp.
I also knew that, subconsciously, the move away from pimp chic had a lot to do with the rise of racial intolerance in the early Reagan years. The slogan "Disco sucks" was seen, in my community, as a nice way of saying "Fuck black and brown culture". Why? Because the majority of people saying "Disco sucks" were white.
That's why it took me a long time to embrace punk culture-- until I heard of bands like Fishbone, Suicidal Tendencies and Bad Brains, I was convinced that punk rock was "white-boy music", as I heard it described in 1983.
Anyway, rap and hip-hop descended from disco, and so that's how I got into that scene. And one of my favorite early rappers was a man named Tracey Morrow. His stage name was Ice T.
Ice T started off as a disco MC, a freestyler, and a fixture on the burgeoning L.A. rap scene, what is now known collectively as "The West Coast". Back in 1983, L.A. was trying to get recognized by NYC, the birthplace of hip-hop. We had a radio station (KDAY, recently resurrected here in Los Angeles) and we had a few underground hits and artists, but nothing out here could compete with RUN-DMC or Grandmaster Flash and the Furious Five. The East Coast was controlling the game up until this point.
Ice T is known nowadays as the architect of "gangsta rap" but he started off doing party jams like everyone else. Check out the MC in the cult movie classic Breakin'-- it's none other than Ice motherfuckin' T, y'all! In an Adidas running suit, no less!
Ice T was the first rapper I heard who referred to pimping, in the immortal song "Pimpin' Ain't Easy (But Somebody Got To Do It)" off his Rhyme Pays album. On the cover, Ice is wearing a fat diamond ring, with a gold pistol swinging from his dookie rope chain, as a big booty bitch sits next to him, helping him count his cash.
As much as I loved RUN-DMC, they didn't have big booty bitches in their videos or on their album covers. They didn't have songs about sex or pimping. RUN-DMC were pretty wholesome, when you think about it.
After a while, I used the word "pimp" to describe anything that had a '70's vibe to it, or anything that involved making money or "jocking chicks".
It was a joke. Before I started using the word, pimping wasn't something kids aspired to. I recall a rumor that started among my friends, that the word "dude" meant "a wart on an elephant's ass"; someone also chimed in that it meant "a pimp", but we still kept on using the word "dude" despite all of that.
So, using the word "pimp" was social suicide, in a way. I didn't care.
And, just like my imitation of Al Pacino in Scarface, it took off. Soon, everywhere I looked, people were claiming "pimp" as their own. I thought nothing of it.
It died out after a while, but I kept using the word. And I would get clowned by my '80's-immersed friends for calling this "pimp" or calling that "pimp". And until I was 16, I still didn't know what pimps did for a living.
Finally, after being clued in by the black kids in my neighborhood, I found out what a pimp really was. And I still kept using the word. Now, it was even funnier to use the word... especially as an adjective.
"Hey, man, that's a real pimp jacket you got on!"
"Man, fuck you, James. Why you gotta dis?"
"I ain't dissin' you-- that's my way of saying your jacket is fresh!"
"Well, then, say it's fresh-- what's this 'pimp' shit? That 'pimp' shit is wick-wick-wack!"
"Yeah, you might get beat up callin' somebody a pimp."
"Whatever, guys. You can keep saying 'fresh' and 'nasty' and all that. I'll stick with 'pimp', all right?"
And I did. I pioneered the use of the word 'pimp' as an adjective. The rest is slang history.
*/*
The Neo-Mack Renaissance started at the end of the '80's, when The Beastie Boys released Paul's Boutique, their second album. The album flopped, due to the inevitable white-rapper backlash, but the first single was a ditty called "Hey Ladies". The video for this song was absolutely hysterical: the Boys were all dressed like extras from Saturday Night Fever, wearing gaudy clothes they had discovered in an abandoned home in Los Angeles. The music sampled West Coast artists like Zapp and the L.A. Dream Team. The video had them cavorting around a mansion in the Hollywood Hills and also frequenting a disco.
Like I said, people slept on that album when it first came out. And if they slept on the album, they most definitely didn't get the "concept" of the video. It was generally believed that The Beastie Boys' career was over.
But game recognizes game, and I knew what was stirring in the air.
By the time I'm Gonna GIt You Sucka came out in theaters, I was telling my guidance counselors at school that I wanted to be a pimp when I grew up. They knew me well enough to know I was joking, but my irreverence still bothered them.
I was still listening to Ice T. Before N.W.A. came out and made everyone want to be a gangster, Ice T was the hardest MC on the mic. Power, his second album, featured Ice on the cover, with the same big booty bitch from the first album (later on I discovered this was his first wife) and an Uzi in his hand. One song was titled "Soul On Ice" and was a direct tribute to an album by an artist named Lightnin' Rod, entitled Hustler's Convention.
Lightnin' Rod is the alter ego of Jalal Nuriddin, one of the Last Poets, a group of pro-black spoken word performers who released albums in the mid-'70's. I'd heard Hustler's Convention via my Japanese grandmother(!) who owned the album on vinyl. The cover was a close-up of the upper torso of a "hustler"-- another term for a pimp. He had a wad of cash in his ring-encrusted fingers.
This is how I became pimpified.
*/*
I never pimped women out, but many times in my life I've felt like I could have done so easily. That's because pimps are not made-- they're born. Ask any pimp how he got into the game, and he'll tell you that when he was a kid, girls used to give him their money to hold onto. This progresses into more, obviously, as time goes on, but a true pimp never initiates it. In fact, a true mack will resist it at first, because he will not understand the motivation of a woman who gives of herself with no strings attached.
There are many myths about pimping: first and foremost, there is a myth that pimps always beat their hoes. While it does happen, I'm sure of it, the main reason a hoe gets a pimp in the first place is because they need protection from the johns, who don't give a two-bit shit about a hooker.
Unfortunately, the myth of the hoe-beating pimp stems from reality-- many of these street walkers don't know how to respond to anything other than cruelty. The pimp ends up beating them because there is no other way to get through to a woman who was raised in a home where beatings came regularly.
This leads to Myth #2: Pimps sleep with their hoes. No, the dumb pimps sleep with their hoes. The smart ones keep a stable, and maybe they might even break a hoe in before turning her out; but the smart pimp knows that he should keep his pen out of the company ink. Just like the crack dealer who doesn't get high off of his own supply, the smart pimp must take on a fatherly interest in his charges. He must view them not as girlfriends or wives, but as misguided nieces, orphaned cousins, illegitimate daughters...
I stated earlier that I could've been a pimp. That's because girls came up to me and gave me things: money, candy, toys, their own jewelry. I inspire trust in a certain type of woman, or maybe their maternal sides come out more in my prescence. Over the years, many women have given of themselves to me, and I always appreciate their generosity. They've given me food, temporary shelter, rides, money, gifts, clothes and what have you. They gave me love and affection and sometimes a shoulder to cry on.
But I chose to be an artist, which is just a pimp who doesn't put his hoes on the street, when you think about it. Instead, the artist refers to his hoes as "muses", and uses them as inspiration instead of financial reliance.
That's not to say that every girl I've ever called my "muse" is a hoe. Rather, they function as a muse to me in almost the same way that a hoe functions to a pimp.
The pimp needs the hoe just as much as the hoe needs the pimp.
*/*
I bring all of this up because I'm sick of the pimpery. Everywhere you look now, it's "pimp" here and "pimp" there. The sad part is, I can tell who the real pimps are and who are the fakers. And let me just say: right now there's more fakers than true pimps out there.
It used to be funny when I was in the rap band, talking about "pimp" this and "pimp" that, because no one else was doing it. I got funny looks from people. After a while, they caught on and followed suit. Soon, I was getting people to laugh at it with me.
Now, it's just not funny. Everyone wants to be a pimp but most of these self-proclaimed players haven't got one single pimp bone in their body. It makes me sick.
So I retired from the pseudo-pimp trade, after I reached my peak. The crowning achievement was in 1996 or 1997, when I won a Halloween costume contest sponsored by my old radio network. The first prize was a three-day cruise to Baja California.
I spent $160 on a costume. I'd never spent that much on a costume, but I was determined to win that cruise.
I dressed up as-- you guessed it --a pimp.
I had an afro wig, one-inch high platform shoes, (which were a size too small, but it enabled me to walk with a pimp limp) a blue velvet jacket and a ruffled baby-blue Mexican tux dress shirt. I even had a Walkman with speakers hooked up inside my jacket, playing my "theme music".
I won the first prize, and what did I turn around and do? I ended up selling the cruise ticket to a co-worker for $600!
I pimped out the First Prize-- now THAT's pimp!
Fuck all this "Pimp My Ride" shit, fuck all these wannabe ballers and players, fuck all the Snoop Dogg imitators and Johnny-Come-Latelies... They're all bandwagon riders, and they wouldn't know anything unless it was dictated to them by mass media.
Shortly after I retired from the pseudo-pimp game, people would ask me to borrow the pimp costume for some 'pimp and ho' ball thrown by some buster lookin' to make a quick buck. They started quoting from movies like American Pimp, or that HBO Undercover special, "Pimps Up Hoes Down".
But me? I'm over it. I'll be over it for some time. But I also know the truth: that at any given moment, I can be right back in that frame of mind again. In fact, I would argue that it never goes away-- I haven't really changed in the sense that, to this day, women still come up to me and give me their time, their attention, their opinions. They want to know if I'm doing okay. And I want to know how they are doing also.
Most of my muses-- my "hoes", if you will --are settled down, married perhaps, or maybe they found another pimp. They have moved on, and have kids and jobs and they are real happy. And I am happy for them, because they knew me at a time when I needed them just as much as they relied on me for whatever it was they saw in me.
If I had ever become a real pimp, earning a living off of prostitutes, I think I would've been the Thomas Jefferson of pimps. I'd be like Doctor Detroit. Anyone remember Doctor Detroit?
No? That's okay. Only the real hustlers know...
I tell you, I'm sick of all this pimp shit.
Why? Because I started it, that's why.
Allow me to clarify: I didn't start the profession of pimping a.k.a. "easy riding" a.k.a. "pandering". No, that dubious distinction belongs elsewhere.
What I mean is: I was the first person in the world to use the word 'pimp' outside of its original context.
For a brief time in the '70's, pimp chic was in. The movies Shaft and Superfly were in vogue. Disco was big. Fashion was outrageous, the result of too many Quaaludes and not enough sober reflection.
But it never transcended beyond a cultish following, and once punk rock started to usurp the Establishment values from the bottom up, it soon became unfashionable to wear floppy pimp hats and goldfish-bowl platform heels.
Or at least that's what The Fashion Police wanted you to believe at the time.
*/*
I was born in 1974. I grew up in the '70's and came of age in the '80's. I remember what it was like in my neighborhood: the pimp chic never died. We still wore butterfly collars on our shirts, sported corderuoy jeans, and our hair covered our ears.
We thought it was genuinely cool to dress this way. I remember getting bagged on for wearing the shit I wore. When the '80's descended upon me, I changed my style to fit in, but I knew in my heart that pimp shit was cool.
Mind you, I didn't know what a pimp was or what they did for a living. I just knew that Huggy Bear on Starsky & Hutch was a pimp. I knew that Harvey Keitel in Taxi Driver was a pimp.
I also knew that, subconsciously, the move away from pimp chic had a lot to do with the rise of racial intolerance in the early Reagan years. The slogan "Disco sucks" was seen, in my community, as a nice way of saying "Fuck black and brown culture". Why? Because the majority of people saying "Disco sucks" were white.
That's why it took me a long time to embrace punk culture-- until I heard of bands like Fishbone, Suicidal Tendencies and Bad Brains, I was convinced that punk rock was "white-boy music", as I heard it described in 1983.
Anyway, rap and hip-hop descended from disco, and so that's how I got into that scene. And one of my favorite early rappers was a man named Tracey Morrow. His stage name was Ice T.
Ice T started off as a disco MC, a freestyler, and a fixture on the burgeoning L.A. rap scene, what is now known collectively as "The West Coast". Back in 1983, L.A. was trying to get recognized by NYC, the birthplace of hip-hop. We had a radio station (KDAY, recently resurrected here in Los Angeles) and we had a few underground hits and artists, but nothing out here could compete with RUN-DMC or Grandmaster Flash and the Furious Five. The East Coast was controlling the game up until this point.
Ice T is known nowadays as the architect of "gangsta rap" but he started off doing party jams like everyone else. Check out the MC in the cult movie classic Breakin'-- it's none other than Ice motherfuckin' T, y'all! In an Adidas running suit, no less!
Ice T was the first rapper I heard who referred to pimping, in the immortal song "Pimpin' Ain't Easy (But Somebody Got To Do It)" off his Rhyme Pays album. On the cover, Ice is wearing a fat diamond ring, with a gold pistol swinging from his dookie rope chain, as a big booty bitch sits next to him, helping him count his cash.
As much as I loved RUN-DMC, they didn't have big booty bitches in their videos or on their album covers. They didn't have songs about sex or pimping. RUN-DMC were pretty wholesome, when you think about it.
After a while, I used the word "pimp" to describe anything that had a '70's vibe to it, or anything that involved making money or "jocking chicks".
It was a joke. Before I started using the word, pimping wasn't something kids aspired to. I recall a rumor that started among my friends, that the word "dude" meant "a wart on an elephant's ass"; someone also chimed in that it meant "a pimp", but we still kept on using the word "dude" despite all of that.
So, using the word "pimp" was social suicide, in a way. I didn't care.
And, just like my imitation of Al Pacino in Scarface, it took off. Soon, everywhere I looked, people were claiming "pimp" as their own. I thought nothing of it.
It died out after a while, but I kept using the word. And I would get clowned by my '80's-immersed friends for calling this "pimp" or calling that "pimp". And until I was 16, I still didn't know what pimps did for a living.
Finally, after being clued in by the black kids in my neighborhood, I found out what a pimp really was. And I still kept using the word. Now, it was even funnier to use the word... especially as an adjective.
"Hey, man, that's a real pimp jacket you got on!"
"Man, fuck you, James. Why you gotta dis?"
"I ain't dissin' you-- that's my way of saying your jacket is fresh!"
"Well, then, say it's fresh-- what's this 'pimp' shit? That 'pimp' shit is wick-wick-wack!"
"Yeah, you might get beat up callin' somebody a pimp."
"Whatever, guys. You can keep saying 'fresh' and 'nasty' and all that. I'll stick with 'pimp', all right?"
And I did. I pioneered the use of the word 'pimp' as an adjective. The rest is slang history.
*/*
The Neo-Mack Renaissance started at the end of the '80's, when The Beastie Boys released Paul's Boutique, their second album. The album flopped, due to the inevitable white-rapper backlash, but the first single was a ditty called "Hey Ladies". The video for this song was absolutely hysterical: the Boys were all dressed like extras from Saturday Night Fever, wearing gaudy clothes they had discovered in an abandoned home in Los Angeles. The music sampled West Coast artists like Zapp and the L.A. Dream Team. The video had them cavorting around a mansion in the Hollywood Hills and also frequenting a disco.
Like I said, people slept on that album when it first came out. And if they slept on the album, they most definitely didn't get the "concept" of the video. It was generally believed that The Beastie Boys' career was over.
But game recognizes game, and I knew what was stirring in the air.
By the time I'm Gonna GIt You Sucka came out in theaters, I was telling my guidance counselors at school that I wanted to be a pimp when I grew up. They knew me well enough to know I was joking, but my irreverence still bothered them.
I was still listening to Ice T. Before N.W.A. came out and made everyone want to be a gangster, Ice T was the hardest MC on the mic. Power, his second album, featured Ice on the cover, with the same big booty bitch from the first album (later on I discovered this was his first wife) and an Uzi in his hand. One song was titled "Soul On Ice" and was a direct tribute to an album by an artist named Lightnin' Rod, entitled Hustler's Convention.
Lightnin' Rod is the alter ego of Jalal Nuriddin, one of the Last Poets, a group of pro-black spoken word performers who released albums in the mid-'70's. I'd heard Hustler's Convention via my Japanese grandmother(!) who owned the album on vinyl. The cover was a close-up of the upper torso of a "hustler"-- another term for a pimp. He had a wad of cash in his ring-encrusted fingers.
This is how I became pimpified.
*/*
I never pimped women out, but many times in my life I've felt like I could have done so easily. That's because pimps are not made-- they're born. Ask any pimp how he got into the game, and he'll tell you that when he was a kid, girls used to give him their money to hold onto. This progresses into more, obviously, as time goes on, but a true pimp never initiates it. In fact, a true mack will resist it at first, because he will not understand the motivation of a woman who gives of herself with no strings attached.
There are many myths about pimping: first and foremost, there is a myth that pimps always beat their hoes. While it does happen, I'm sure of it, the main reason a hoe gets a pimp in the first place is because they need protection from the johns, who don't give a two-bit shit about a hooker.
Unfortunately, the myth of the hoe-beating pimp stems from reality-- many of these street walkers don't know how to respond to anything other than cruelty. The pimp ends up beating them because there is no other way to get through to a woman who was raised in a home where beatings came regularly.
This leads to Myth #2: Pimps sleep with their hoes. No, the dumb pimps sleep with their hoes. The smart ones keep a stable, and maybe they might even break a hoe in before turning her out; but the smart pimp knows that he should keep his pen out of the company ink. Just like the crack dealer who doesn't get high off of his own supply, the smart pimp must take on a fatherly interest in his charges. He must view them not as girlfriends or wives, but as misguided nieces, orphaned cousins, illegitimate daughters...
I stated earlier that I could've been a pimp. That's because girls came up to me and gave me things: money, candy, toys, their own jewelry. I inspire trust in a certain type of woman, or maybe their maternal sides come out more in my prescence. Over the years, many women have given of themselves to me, and I always appreciate their generosity. They've given me food, temporary shelter, rides, money, gifts, clothes and what have you. They gave me love and affection and sometimes a shoulder to cry on.
But I chose to be an artist, which is just a pimp who doesn't put his hoes on the street, when you think about it. Instead, the artist refers to his hoes as "muses", and uses them as inspiration instead of financial reliance.
That's not to say that every girl I've ever called my "muse" is a hoe. Rather, they function as a muse to me in almost the same way that a hoe functions to a pimp.
The pimp needs the hoe just as much as the hoe needs the pimp.
*/*
I bring all of this up because I'm sick of the pimpery. Everywhere you look now, it's "pimp" here and "pimp" there. The sad part is, I can tell who the real pimps are and who are the fakers. And let me just say: right now there's more fakers than true pimps out there.
It used to be funny when I was in the rap band, talking about "pimp" this and "pimp" that, because no one else was doing it. I got funny looks from people. After a while, they caught on and followed suit. Soon, I was getting people to laugh at it with me.
Now, it's just not funny. Everyone wants to be a pimp but most of these self-proclaimed players haven't got one single pimp bone in their body. It makes me sick.
So I retired from the pseudo-pimp trade, after I reached my peak. The crowning achievement was in 1996 or 1997, when I won a Halloween costume contest sponsored by my old radio network. The first prize was a three-day cruise to Baja California.
I spent $160 on a costume. I'd never spent that much on a costume, but I was determined to win that cruise.
I dressed up as-- you guessed it --a pimp.
I had an afro wig, one-inch high platform shoes, (which were a size too small, but it enabled me to walk with a pimp limp) a blue velvet jacket and a ruffled baby-blue Mexican tux dress shirt. I even had a Walkman with speakers hooked up inside my jacket, playing my "theme music".
I won the first prize, and what did I turn around and do? I ended up selling the cruise ticket to a co-worker for $600!
I pimped out the First Prize-- now THAT's pimp!
Fuck all this "Pimp My Ride" shit, fuck all these wannabe ballers and players, fuck all the Snoop Dogg imitators and Johnny-Come-Latelies... They're all bandwagon riders, and they wouldn't know anything unless it was dictated to them by mass media.
Shortly after I retired from the pseudo-pimp game, people would ask me to borrow the pimp costume for some 'pimp and ho' ball thrown by some buster lookin' to make a quick buck. They started quoting from movies like American Pimp, or that HBO Undercover special, "Pimps Up Hoes Down".
But me? I'm over it. I'll be over it for some time. But I also know the truth: that at any given moment, I can be right back in that frame of mind again. In fact, I would argue that it never goes away-- I haven't really changed in the sense that, to this day, women still come up to me and give me their time, their attention, their opinions. They want to know if I'm doing okay. And I want to know how they are doing also.
Most of my muses-- my "hoes", if you will --are settled down, married perhaps, or maybe they found another pimp. They have moved on, and have kids and jobs and they are real happy. And I am happy for them, because they knew me at a time when I needed them just as much as they relied on me for whatever it was they saw in me.
If I had ever become a real pimp, earning a living off of prostitutes, I think I would've been the Thomas Jefferson of pimps. I'd be like Doctor Detroit. Anyone remember Doctor Detroit?
No? That's okay. Only the real hustlers know...
Monday, June 20, 2005
no hablo espanol
I'm a good talker.
I am what you'd call a great conversationalist. No, really, I'm not bragging or boasting.
I can find out anything that interests you and get you talking. If you are resistant at first, I will seduce you with words. If you are as talkative as I am, I will be quiet and take it all in. If you are ten times more talkative than I am (which is rare but possible) I will quickly get bored of you, but I will still talk to you.
I write, and therefore my command of conversational English is strengthened by my writing skills. Sometimes, though, my conversational language gets mixed in with my writing, and I tend to bend the rules of grammar to suit my needs. This causes my writing to suffer.
When I talk, I definitely need a script. I express myself better with the written word. Although I'm good at improvising, I usually have to access the "useless trivia" part of my brain in order to keep the conversation lively. This results in my regurgitating things I've read, seen or heard elsewhere. This causes my speaking abilities to suffer, because I become too reliant on established texts and words to get my point across verbally.
It all boils down to possessing a wealth of word knowledge. Language is power-- don't let anyone tell you otherwise.
*/*
Now...
As you may or may not know, I don't know how to speak Spanish.
I took Spanish in high school. I received a B for my efforts, and retained very little of what I learned.
My father speaks fluent Spanish AND English. Never in the three decades that I've been talking has the issue come up for him. Never. Not once. Amazing, isn't it? Not one drop of pressure from my father to learn Spanish. He didn't care. He wanted me to completely assimilate. He succeeded.
My father is not ashamed of his roots at all. Rather, he has the Old School Immigrant view of America: This is not Mexico, so learn the ways of this new country or else get pushed around.
My mother only speaks English. She is half-Japanese and half-Mexican. Certainly there has never any pressure from her on me to learn Spanish.
Even though my parents don't care about it, it has always puzzled me: Why haven't I learned to speak Spanish?
*/*
I bring this up because I have been here for two years, at this job, working for a Spanish talk radio network, and my knowledge of espanol is just as bad as it was two years ago.
Two years, and I still haven't "assimilated".
A year ago, there was this girl I had a crush on who worked here. She barely spoke English. I flirted with her, she flirted with me. She gave me her phone number... and then she was fired.
I never saw her again. I still have the number. I don't call. Why?
Because I don't know Spanish.
She was beautiful. We got along well. But how can I communicate with her, especially on the phone?
If I were to call her at, say, two in the morning and leave a message on her VM, then I could write a script telling her to call me up so we can hang out. But maybe too much time has passed. Maybe she wouldn't even remember me.
The point is: my inability to learn Spanish may be metaphorical.
*/*
Lately, my confidence has been in full swing. My approach to the people in my life has changed considerably, thanks to the fact that I've been back on my own two feet for at least a year now.
I am meeting new people and getting out more. This is good.
Today, while waiting for the elevator, a beautiful girl who works as an on-air personality talked with me. I know her, she knows me, and we chat often.
This girl, whom I will call "Vera", is half-Chinese and half-Mexican, so we have a lot in common. She is a big sports buff, and does a show with an all Spanish-speaking crew of guys who are always around her wherever she goes.
Since she is an on-air personality, it logically follows that she speaks Spanish. She is very fluent.
She knows I don't speak Spanish. Today, when I saw her, I said "Hello" and she answered me in Spanish. It was almost as if she dared me to answer her back in Spanish.
I couldn't. I answered (and continued the rest of my comments) in English.
We got into the elevator with the rest of her show crew. They were speaking in Spanish. They know English, but prefer Spanish.
I have never cared whether people who work with me like me or dislike me because of my language barrier. However, I wanted to communicate with her, and it was obvious that she was throwing down a gauntlet. She wanted me to meet her halfway, and I backed down.
When I walked out of the elevator, I got really shy and walked as fast as I could out of the lobby. And it sucks, because I like her and she likes me... and yet I feel like a little boy who is tongue-tied.
And that's when it hit me-- my inability to speak Spanish is a metaphor for my shyness around certain people, particularly women.
I like the feeling of having a command of the English language. I have always felt in control of most situations because of that confidence. Whenever I have skewered up the courage to talk to a woman, I relied on my silver tongue. It has usually helped me out, occasionally backfiring but seldom enough to make it all interesting.
Talking in Spanish, for me, is a weak point, and my confidence gets sapped. It is like a man who is so enamored of a woman that he doesn't know what to say.
I am never at a loss for words in my everyday life, so to come across this type of situation is a moment of linguistic impotence for me.
*/*
I know that Vera must understand my plight, and I'm pretty sure that, as a racially mixed person herself, she has had difficulties with her identity over the years. Plus, being a female working in a male-dominated field such as sports, surrounded by the machismo of Latino sports fans such as her show crew, has toughened her up and made her who she is today.
Her challenge to me is one I should accept. Vera learned Spanish because her mother wouldn't talk to her in English. She refused to talk to her in English, even though she knew how to speak it.
By doing the same to me, she is not trying to distance herself from me. She is trying to help me improve my Spanish. And maybe I should do something about it, because there's no excuse for me to be working here and not knowing shit.
I said I'd learn it when I was lusting after that other girl who worked here, the one who eventually got fired. Then, I got switched to the graveyard shift and stopped trying to learn. When I got back on to the normal shift, she was long gone.
And I still have her number...
I should just swallow my pride and learn it, for fuck's sake. That way, I can answer the few people who work here, who think that just because I can't speak it means I can't understand it. I know what they say about me, behind my back. And if you ask me, it's no different than what my born again Christian co-workers at the other radio network used to say about me.
The only difference is, they only spoke English. Therefore, they had to do it behind my back. Over here, they say it right to my face, in another tongue.
Vera's not talking shit about me, though-- she's trying to get me on the same page as her.
I'll make the effort, and get clowned for my weak Spanish. So what, right? Big deal.
I'm also going to try and blog in Spanish. We'll see how that goes.
I am what you'd call a great conversationalist. No, really, I'm not bragging or boasting.
I can find out anything that interests you and get you talking. If you are resistant at first, I will seduce you with words. If you are as talkative as I am, I will be quiet and take it all in. If you are ten times more talkative than I am (which is rare but possible) I will quickly get bored of you, but I will still talk to you.
I write, and therefore my command of conversational English is strengthened by my writing skills. Sometimes, though, my conversational language gets mixed in with my writing, and I tend to bend the rules of grammar to suit my needs. This causes my writing to suffer.
When I talk, I definitely need a script. I express myself better with the written word. Although I'm good at improvising, I usually have to access the "useless trivia" part of my brain in order to keep the conversation lively. This results in my regurgitating things I've read, seen or heard elsewhere. This causes my speaking abilities to suffer, because I become too reliant on established texts and words to get my point across verbally.
It all boils down to possessing a wealth of word knowledge. Language is power-- don't let anyone tell you otherwise.
*/*
Now...
As you may or may not know, I don't know how to speak Spanish.
I took Spanish in high school. I received a B for my efforts, and retained very little of what I learned.
My father speaks fluent Spanish AND English. Never in the three decades that I've been talking has the issue come up for him. Never. Not once. Amazing, isn't it? Not one drop of pressure from my father to learn Spanish. He didn't care. He wanted me to completely assimilate. He succeeded.
My father is not ashamed of his roots at all. Rather, he has the Old School Immigrant view of America: This is not Mexico, so learn the ways of this new country or else get pushed around.
My mother only speaks English. She is half-Japanese and half-Mexican. Certainly there has never any pressure from her on me to learn Spanish.
Even though my parents don't care about it, it has always puzzled me: Why haven't I learned to speak Spanish?
*/*
I bring this up because I have been here for two years, at this job, working for a Spanish talk radio network, and my knowledge of espanol is just as bad as it was two years ago.
Two years, and I still haven't "assimilated".
A year ago, there was this girl I had a crush on who worked here. She barely spoke English. I flirted with her, she flirted with me. She gave me her phone number... and then she was fired.
I never saw her again. I still have the number. I don't call. Why?
Because I don't know Spanish.
She was beautiful. We got along well. But how can I communicate with her, especially on the phone?
If I were to call her at, say, two in the morning and leave a message on her VM, then I could write a script telling her to call me up so we can hang out. But maybe too much time has passed. Maybe she wouldn't even remember me.
The point is: my inability to learn Spanish may be metaphorical.
*/*
Lately, my confidence has been in full swing. My approach to the people in my life has changed considerably, thanks to the fact that I've been back on my own two feet for at least a year now.
I am meeting new people and getting out more. This is good.
Today, while waiting for the elevator, a beautiful girl who works as an on-air personality talked with me. I know her, she knows me, and we chat often.
This girl, whom I will call "Vera", is half-Chinese and half-Mexican, so we have a lot in common. She is a big sports buff, and does a show with an all Spanish-speaking crew of guys who are always around her wherever she goes.
Since she is an on-air personality, it logically follows that she speaks Spanish. She is very fluent.
She knows I don't speak Spanish. Today, when I saw her, I said "Hello" and she answered me in Spanish. It was almost as if she dared me to answer her back in Spanish.
I couldn't. I answered (and continued the rest of my comments) in English.
We got into the elevator with the rest of her show crew. They were speaking in Spanish. They know English, but prefer Spanish.
I have never cared whether people who work with me like me or dislike me because of my language barrier. However, I wanted to communicate with her, and it was obvious that she was throwing down a gauntlet. She wanted me to meet her halfway, and I backed down.
When I walked out of the elevator, I got really shy and walked as fast as I could out of the lobby. And it sucks, because I like her and she likes me... and yet I feel like a little boy who is tongue-tied.
And that's when it hit me-- my inability to speak Spanish is a metaphor for my shyness around certain people, particularly women.
I like the feeling of having a command of the English language. I have always felt in control of most situations because of that confidence. Whenever I have skewered up the courage to talk to a woman, I relied on my silver tongue. It has usually helped me out, occasionally backfiring but seldom enough to make it all interesting.
Talking in Spanish, for me, is a weak point, and my confidence gets sapped. It is like a man who is so enamored of a woman that he doesn't know what to say.
I am never at a loss for words in my everyday life, so to come across this type of situation is a moment of linguistic impotence for me.
*/*
I know that Vera must understand my plight, and I'm pretty sure that, as a racially mixed person herself, she has had difficulties with her identity over the years. Plus, being a female working in a male-dominated field such as sports, surrounded by the machismo of Latino sports fans such as her show crew, has toughened her up and made her who she is today.
Her challenge to me is one I should accept. Vera learned Spanish because her mother wouldn't talk to her in English. She refused to talk to her in English, even though she knew how to speak it.
By doing the same to me, she is not trying to distance herself from me. She is trying to help me improve my Spanish. And maybe I should do something about it, because there's no excuse for me to be working here and not knowing shit.
I said I'd learn it when I was lusting after that other girl who worked here, the one who eventually got fired. Then, I got switched to the graveyard shift and stopped trying to learn. When I got back on to the normal shift, she was long gone.
And I still have her number...
I should just swallow my pride and learn it, for fuck's sake. That way, I can answer the few people who work here, who think that just because I can't speak it means I can't understand it. I know what they say about me, behind my back. And if you ask me, it's no different than what my born again Christian co-workers at the other radio network used to say about me.
The only difference is, they only spoke English. Therefore, they had to do it behind my back. Over here, they say it right to my face, in another tongue.
Vera's not talking shit about me, though-- she's trying to get me on the same page as her.
I'll make the effort, and get clowned for my weak Spanish. So what, right? Big deal.
I'm also going to try and blog in Spanish. We'll see how that goes.
gently down the stream
The notion of life being a dream and death being an awakening gets no respect, gets taken for granted, somehow has slipped into mainstream consciousness without any real investigation into the matter.
No one takes it seriously; it is seen as a daft idea, mystic mumbo-jumbo.
The last two weeks for me have seemed dream-like, day changing to night, changing in an instant, never knowing where the reality begins and the sleep ends.
Because of this somnambulant state of affairs, I think I've been rather content with my life. This waking dream that I am dropping in and out of is an anesthetic of sorts, chloroform for the spirit.
Comfortably numb...
Maybe it was the rarified air of the Sequoia National Forest this weekend that did it to me. Maybe it was the alcohol, the marijuana... maybe it was the sleeplessness and the stunning view of Hume Lake that we had...
Maybe it was the fire, and its attendant smoke. Maybe it was the laughter, or the night cold, or the outstanding stars piercing the sky like pinholes in a shoebox...
No, I wasn't on LSD, or mushrooms, or E. And relatively speaking, I wasn't that high or drunk either.
When I returned home yesterday, I still couldn't shake the feeling. The drive home saw me in the back seat, lapsing in and out of consciousness, overhearing conversational fragments and piecing together new narratives in my mind.
Eve stopped by with a case of beer and pictures from her recent trip to New York. She didn't stay long, but her arrival was unexpected because I had fallen asleep and was awakened by the phone ringing. To add to the disorientation, she was calling me from her cel phone, as she stood outside my front door. Yet I hadn't heard the doorbell... or maybe I had heard it in a dream and confused it with an air raid siren.
She left as soon as she came, because she had to go to work early. I finished the beers and wondered if it all hadn't been a dream: the whole weekend, filled with travel and partying and relaxation, could've been a figment of my imagination.
But it wasn't. Dotty and her friends were real nice. They took me in as one of their own. They made me feel at home.
My brain is changing, and my interaction with people in the past three months has been remarkable for me. It's as if I am re-discovering the human race and writing a brand new pop mythology to go along with everything I see in front of me and also everything that my racing mind accelerates to catch up to, in a hurry to understand.
Right now I am definitely awake. But I am prone to slip back inside the dream at any moment. Hopefully, I won't be driving or working heavy machinery when it happens...
I will write more later-- I'm sure of it.
No one takes it seriously; it is seen as a daft idea, mystic mumbo-jumbo.
The last two weeks for me have seemed dream-like, day changing to night, changing in an instant, never knowing where the reality begins and the sleep ends.
Because of this somnambulant state of affairs, I think I've been rather content with my life. This waking dream that I am dropping in and out of is an anesthetic of sorts, chloroform for the spirit.
Comfortably numb...
Maybe it was the rarified air of the Sequoia National Forest this weekend that did it to me. Maybe it was the alcohol, the marijuana... maybe it was the sleeplessness and the stunning view of Hume Lake that we had...
Maybe it was the fire, and its attendant smoke. Maybe it was the laughter, or the night cold, or the outstanding stars piercing the sky like pinholes in a shoebox...
No, I wasn't on LSD, or mushrooms, or E. And relatively speaking, I wasn't that high or drunk either.
When I returned home yesterday, I still couldn't shake the feeling. The drive home saw me in the back seat, lapsing in and out of consciousness, overhearing conversational fragments and piecing together new narratives in my mind.
Eve stopped by with a case of beer and pictures from her recent trip to New York. She didn't stay long, but her arrival was unexpected because I had fallen asleep and was awakened by the phone ringing. To add to the disorientation, she was calling me from her cel phone, as she stood outside my front door. Yet I hadn't heard the doorbell... or maybe I had heard it in a dream and confused it with an air raid siren.
She left as soon as she came, because she had to go to work early. I finished the beers and wondered if it all hadn't been a dream: the whole weekend, filled with travel and partying and relaxation, could've been a figment of my imagination.
But it wasn't. Dotty and her friends were real nice. They took me in as one of their own. They made me feel at home.
My brain is changing, and my interaction with people in the past three months has been remarkable for me. It's as if I am re-discovering the human race and writing a brand new pop mythology to go along with everything I see in front of me and also everything that my racing mind accelerates to catch up to, in a hurry to understand.
Right now I am definitely awake. But I am prone to slip back inside the dream at any moment. Hopefully, I won't be driving or working heavy machinery when it happens...
I will write more later-- I'm sure of it.
Friday, June 17, 2005
expression
Please read my letter to the editor of City Beat, a free magazine not unlike the LA WEEKLY or New Times. My letter is under the tagline "PC WORLD"...
My letter was a response to someone who wrote a letter to the editor, complaining of the tyranny of "political correctness" in this day and age.
To sum up my position on PC: I'm all for it. Yes, I tend to not write in a PC manner, but that's because I have no fear of uneducated dimwits not getting my sarcastic messages.
I don't think "political correctness" stifles free expression. Everyone makes a choice when they express themselves, and one of those choices is whether you are willing to defend what you have expressed to the death or not.
No matter what I say or write, I can defend it. I think very long and hard about what I express to others. If I decide to use a buzz word, then that's my choice. I know the power of certain words, and the weight their meanings carry.
If I use off-color words or phrases, I don't feel the need to apologize for them.
And on that note, have a nice weekend... you bitches!
My letter was a response to someone who wrote a letter to the editor, complaining of the tyranny of "political correctness" in this day and age.
To sum up my position on PC: I'm all for it. Yes, I tend to not write in a PC manner, but that's because I have no fear of uneducated dimwits not getting my sarcastic messages.
I don't think "political correctness" stifles free expression. Everyone makes a choice when they express themselves, and one of those choices is whether you are willing to defend what you have expressed to the death or not.
No matter what I say or write, I can defend it. I think very long and hard about what I express to others. If I decide to use a buzz word, then that's my choice. I know the power of certain words, and the weight their meanings carry.
If I use off-color words or phrases, I don't feel the need to apologize for them.
And on that note, have a nice weekend... you bitches!
Tuesday, June 14, 2005
'electability'
I believe it may have been around this time last year... my Archives on this blog from this time last year are gone, so bear with me...
Pre-election Democratic pundits were content to have John Kerry as their nominee. I believe the buzz word was 'electability'...
A year later, we now know that the 'electable' nominee didn't get elected.
And now, the one who should have been nominated and elected is making good on his promises, now that he is the Democratic Party Chairman.
And judging from the reactions on the Right, he's getting under conservatives' skin.
But of course, there is an air of "I told you so" in my voice, and when you click on this link from February of last year, you'll see what it was that I told people.
btw: Howard Dean is a Scorpio...
That's all for now.
Pre-election Democratic pundits were content to have John Kerry as their nominee. I believe the buzz word was 'electability'...
A year later, we now know that the 'electable' nominee didn't get elected.
And now, the one who should have been nominated and elected is making good on his promises, now that he is the Democratic Party Chairman.
And judging from the reactions on the Right, he's getting under conservatives' skin.
But of course, there is an air of "I told you so" in my voice, and when you click on this link from February of last year, you'll see what it was that I told people.
btw: Howard Dean is a Scorpio...
That's all for now.
it figures
The Dante's Inferno Test has banished you to the Fifth Level of Hell!
Here is how you matched up against all the levels:
Take the Dante's Inferno Hell Test
Here is how you matched up against all the levels:
| Level | Score |
|---|---|
| Purgatory (Repenting Believers) | Moderate |
| Level 1 - Limbo (Virtuous Non-Believers) | Very Low |
| Level 2 (Lustful) | Very High |
| Level 3 (Gluttonous) | High |
| Level 4 (Prodigal and Avaricious) | Very Low |
| Level 5 (Wrathful and Gloomy) | Very High |
| Level 6 - The City of Dis (Heretics) | Very Low |
| Level 7 (Violent) | High |
| Level 8- the Malebolge (Fraudulent, Malicious, Panderers) | Very High |
| Level 9 - Cocytus (Treacherous) | Very High |
Take the Dante's Inferno Hell Test
Monday, June 13, 2005
shocked (i tell you)
I guess this is a sign of getting old: when you find something you wrote a long time ago and find that you are SHOCKED at what you wrote.
I am shocked mostly because of my frankness. It was written in September of 2003, and at the time I was subletting from my old roomie Jessica in Sherman Oaks. I had just joined Holly Golightly's band and had a slight crush on her. I also was looking for something-- anything --to take away my blues.
When you read this excerpt from my old blog, you might see a contrast in tone, but at the same time I still retain a certain ornery-ness. What is shocking is that this particular post was about real people, in this case a band called Exploiting Eve. They googled their band name and came across the post. They liked it, so they e-mailed me and asked if they could reproduce it. I said yes, on the condition they put up a disclaimer, a move I am glad I suggested.
On their site, they wrote:
Here's a funny blog story featuring Vincent and Janelle of Exploiting Eve. It's written by "Sex McGinty". We came across it as we were vainly Googling ourselves several months ago. It was written nearly a year ago but we only now found time to post it. Read this disclaimer from the author, then click the link below to get to the story.
"..although I did not change Ex Eve's names in my story, other names have been changed, and events have been fictionalized for artistic license and functional narrative. In other words, it's for entertainment purposes, not journalism. I wouldn't want people to read it and think that this is exactly what happened down to the last detail."
Here is the post in question, old template and all.
In the time since this post was reproduced on their site, Exploiting Eve have disbanded, and now the singer (and the subject of my leering post) has her own site. I am on her e-mail list, and she sent out a notice that she has branched out on her own.
I figure, if I'm still on her e-mail list then she probably thought my post was fine and dandy. But I still can't believe I had the balls to write that post. I guess I never thought it would get back to them. And the fact that they were cool about it makes me respect them even more.
Of course, I'm not ashamed of the post... but I did blush when I read my initial description of the singer.
I've shocked myself in the past, but reading this was like reading someone else's diary. In a way, it validates the deleting of my Archives, which was not entirely accidental nor was it entirely deliberate. There were some moments I was proud of, but I think the tone I have set currently is more of a true representation of who I am.
In 2003, I was trying to be outrageous, provocative, and bold. I think this one worked on many different levels, none of them related to what was my original intent.
And besides, it's only rock 'n' roll, right?
Right.
And even though I'm getting old and it's only rock 'n' roll, I still like it.
I am shocked mostly because of my frankness. It was written in September of 2003, and at the time I was subletting from my old roomie Jessica in Sherman Oaks. I had just joined Holly Golightly's band and had a slight crush on her. I also was looking for something-- anything --to take away my blues.
When you read this excerpt from my old blog, you might see a contrast in tone, but at the same time I still retain a certain ornery-ness. What is shocking is that this particular post was about real people, in this case a band called Exploiting Eve. They googled their band name and came across the post. They liked it, so they e-mailed me and asked if they could reproduce it. I said yes, on the condition they put up a disclaimer, a move I am glad I suggested.
On their site, they wrote:
Here's a funny blog story featuring Vincent and Janelle of Exploiting Eve. It's written by "Sex McGinty". We came across it as we were vainly Googling ourselves several months ago. It was written nearly a year ago but we only now found time to post it. Read this disclaimer from the author, then click the link below to get to the story.
"..although I did not change Ex Eve's names in my story, other names have been changed, and events have been fictionalized for artistic license and functional narrative. In other words, it's for entertainment purposes, not journalism. I wouldn't want people to read it and think that this is exactly what happened down to the last detail."
Here is the post in question, old template and all.
In the time since this post was reproduced on their site, Exploiting Eve have disbanded, and now the singer (and the subject of my leering post) has her own site. I am on her e-mail list, and she sent out a notice that she has branched out on her own.
I figure, if I'm still on her e-mail list then she probably thought my post was fine and dandy. But I still can't believe I had the balls to write that post. I guess I never thought it would get back to them. And the fact that they were cool about it makes me respect them even more.
Of course, I'm not ashamed of the post... but I did blush when I read my initial description of the singer.
I've shocked myself in the past, but reading this was like reading someone else's diary. In a way, it validates the deleting of my Archives, which was not entirely accidental nor was it entirely deliberate. There were some moments I was proud of, but I think the tone I have set currently is more of a true representation of who I am.
In 2003, I was trying to be outrageous, provocative, and bold. I think this one worked on many different levels, none of them related to what was my original intent.
And besides, it's only rock 'n' roll, right?
Right.
And even though I'm getting old and it's only rock 'n' roll, I still like it.
my life is good
Lately things have been working out. I have no explanation, other than the accumulated experiences of three decades are finally making an impact on how I go about my business.
Thursday, I stayed up all night working on this instrumental, and I must say I am digging it, although it still needs some restructuring and editing... as well as some vocals!
Friday night I had a sumptuous dinner with Paulie and the crew at Palms Restaurant in Thai Town. The "Thai Elvis" was there, crooning the hits. In case y'all didn't know, I am a huge Elvis fan-- no, I don't dress up like him, and I don't have sideburns. But I have been known to sport a pompador, and I know all the words to some of his best songs.
I drove Nona's sister Nina home and almost stayed for a drink or two. Nina and I have been friends forever. She is a successful architect now, living in Hollywood with her dude. I couldn't find parking, so I took a raincheck on the drink.
Saturday saw me rehearsing with the metalheads, learning Bon Jovi's "You Give Love A Bad Name". There was a time when I wouldn't be caught dead even humming that tune, but I have nothing to prove to anyone anymore-- in high school, I cared about being cooler-than-thou. However, high school has been over for quite some time, and besides: those types of things never even mattered in high school.
When I think about high school, I think about how I ditched all of my friends for the Theatre Arts people, because they could make me laugh as opposed to trying to argue with me. That's an important distinction, people: to quote Morrissey, why waste good time fighting the people you like?
I mean, I was literally surrounded by smart kids who knew the answers to everything but knew the value of nothing. What good is physics going to do you as a teenager, when you have never even had one night of reckless abandon to crow about?
Anyway...
Later on, Dotty and I went to Burbank Bar & Grill, for my sister-in-law's birthday. There was a cover band called Decades. The singer was done up like Robert Palmer, the five-string bassist was dressed like Flavor Flav, the guitarist looked like the stereotypical punk rocker with spiky hair, and the drummer could've been part of Huey Lewis and The News. These guys were good. I liked them not for the nostalgia-- I loathe nostalgia, actually --but because they had chops and played their instruments well, and got the party moving.
Dotty and I stayed up all night watching Chappelle's Show Season Two on DVD. I am not sick of that show yet.
Lately, the less I think about things, the more fun I have. It's sad but true. There's a time to intellectualize, and then there's a time to laugh and have fun. I'm putting the intellectualizing on hold for a bit.
Sunday found me at an Arts & Crafts Fair at Warner Center, trying to drum up ideas for my next painting. Then, I rehearsed again with the metalheads, and drove back to Paulie's place for the Sunday night BBQ ritual.
It makes no sense to try and rationalize these things. I can't explain what makes me happy or what has me smiling, other than the feeling that I've come a long way from the person I was two years ago.
Believe me, when things go wrong, you all will be the first people to hear about it. I guarantee it. I have no problem venting my rage in these blog pages. But just once, I want to keep the detailed articulations of my happiness to myself. There's no reason behind any of it, and that is the best reason of all.
Is that cool?
I knew you'd understand.
Thursday, I stayed up all night working on this instrumental, and I must say I am digging it, although it still needs some restructuring and editing... as well as some vocals!
Friday night I had a sumptuous dinner with Paulie and the crew at Palms Restaurant in Thai Town. The "Thai Elvis" was there, crooning the hits. In case y'all didn't know, I am a huge Elvis fan-- no, I don't dress up like him, and I don't have sideburns. But I have been known to sport a pompador, and I know all the words to some of his best songs.
I drove Nona's sister Nina home and almost stayed for a drink or two. Nina and I have been friends forever. She is a successful architect now, living in Hollywood with her dude. I couldn't find parking, so I took a raincheck on the drink.
Saturday saw me rehearsing with the metalheads, learning Bon Jovi's "You Give Love A Bad Name". There was a time when I wouldn't be caught dead even humming that tune, but I have nothing to prove to anyone anymore-- in high school, I cared about being cooler-than-thou. However, high school has been over for quite some time, and besides: those types of things never even mattered in high school.
When I think about high school, I think about how I ditched all of my friends for the Theatre Arts people, because they could make me laugh as opposed to trying to argue with me. That's an important distinction, people: to quote Morrissey, why waste good time fighting the people you like?
I mean, I was literally surrounded by smart kids who knew the answers to everything but knew the value of nothing. What good is physics going to do you as a teenager, when you have never even had one night of reckless abandon to crow about?
Anyway...
Later on, Dotty and I went to Burbank Bar & Grill, for my sister-in-law's birthday. There was a cover band called Decades. The singer was done up like Robert Palmer, the five-string bassist was dressed like Flavor Flav, the guitarist looked like the stereotypical punk rocker with spiky hair, and the drummer could've been part of Huey Lewis and The News. These guys were good. I liked them not for the nostalgia-- I loathe nostalgia, actually --but because they had chops and played their instruments well, and got the party moving.
Dotty and I stayed up all night watching Chappelle's Show Season Two on DVD. I am not sick of that show yet.
Lately, the less I think about things, the more fun I have. It's sad but true. There's a time to intellectualize, and then there's a time to laugh and have fun. I'm putting the intellectualizing on hold for a bit.
Sunday found me at an Arts & Crafts Fair at Warner Center, trying to drum up ideas for my next painting. Then, I rehearsed again with the metalheads, and drove back to Paulie's place for the Sunday night BBQ ritual.
It makes no sense to try and rationalize these things. I can't explain what makes me happy or what has me smiling, other than the feeling that I've come a long way from the person I was two years ago.
Believe me, when things go wrong, you all will be the first people to hear about it. I guarantee it. I have no problem venting my rage in these blog pages. But just once, I want to keep the detailed articulations of my happiness to myself. There's no reason behind any of it, and that is the best reason of all.
Is that cool?
I knew you'd understand.
Friday, June 10, 2005
the scream
JERUSALEM - Israel is considering using an unusual new weapon against Jewish settlers who resist this summer's Gaza Strip evacuation — a device that emits penetrating bursts of sound that leaves targets reeling with dizziness and nausea.
Security forces could employ the weapon to overcome resistance without resorting to force, their paramount aim. But experts warn that the effects of prolonged exposure are unknown.
The army employed the new device, which it dubbed "The Scream," at a recent violent demonstration by Palestinians and Jewish sympathizers against Israel's West Bank separation barrier.
Protesters covered their ears and grabbed their heads, overcome by dizziness and nausea, after the vehicle-mounted device began sending out bursts of audible, but not loud, sound at intervals of about 10 seconds. An Associated Press photographer at the scene said that even after he covered his ears, he continued to hear the sound ringing in his head.
A military official said the device emits a special frequency that targets the inner ear. Exposure for several minutes at close range could cause auditory damage, but the noise is too intolerable for people to remain in the area for that long, he said.
Another official, also speaking on condition of anonymity because of his sensitive position, said the device hasn't been tested on subjects for hours at a time, so he couldn't discuss effects from prolonged exposure.
He said there was no direct connection between the recent introduction of "The Scream" and the forcible removal of settlers who resist evacuation orders, which is to begin in mid-August. But he didn't rule out the possibility of using it to root out settlers if persuasion fails.
The other official said "The Scream" could be used if protesters march on Gaza settlements or take up military positions.
"The whole issue of non-lethal is viewed from a desire not to get into a situation where soldiers are in distress and the consequences would be harsher than expected," he explained.
He said the military is still evaluating the device's debut performance in the field.
John Pike, director of the GlobalSecurity.org think tank in Alexandria, Va., said he believed last Friday's demonstration was the first case of such technology making it out of the laboratory and into the field. He said the U.S. and possibly China and Russia are developing acoustic weapons.
"I'm not aware of any other agency that is actively using it at this point," Pike said.
The military offered few details on the device, but Pike said he assumed it worked on very low frequencies that set off resonance in the inner ear. He said he was unaware of potential damage besides possible hearing loss.
Though the military refused to comment, Pike said the device probably sends its sound waves out in a specific direction, protecting the soldiers behind it.
"Most governments don't face large-scale demonstrations with a potential for lethal violence," he said. "So I think I would look to Israeli security forces to be an innovator in the non-lethal arena, simply because of the unique challenges it faces in the crowd control arena."
The military officials said Israel is constantly trying to bring new non-lethal weapons into the field but wouldn't disclose details. Its current arsenal includes tear gas as well as rubber-coated steel bullets, which have caused dozens of Palestinian fatalities.
Critics say Israel, with all its military technology savvy, should have done more in the years since the first Palestinian uprising began in 1987 to develop non-lethal weapons for use against hostile Palestinian masses.
Troops often turn to live fire, sometimes against teenage Palestinian stone-throwers. Police, too, used deadly force in October 2000 to put down rioting by Israeli Arabs at the start of the second Palestinian uprising. Thirteen Israeli Arabs were killed in those riots, and a commission of inquiry found that police used excessive force.
Israel's B'Tselem human rights group says Israeli security officers don't come equipped to police protests. "Although they could have anticipated they would have to disperse crowds, they didn't equip themselves with non-lethal means," spokeswoman Sarit Michaeli said.
Weapons they do have, such as rubber-coated bullets, are misused — fired, for example, at too close a range, Michaeli said. The rubber-coated bullets can be lethal from close range.
Pike said the reason there aren't more non-lethal weapons available worldwide is because it is difficult to achieve both safety and effectiveness.
"The number of things that are genuinely effective at crowd control and substantially less lethal than lethal weapons — it's a pretty short list," he said.
Weapons like pepper gas wouldn't put off a determined crowd, Pike said. Something like sticky foam might keep people out of a building, "but if I'm talking about controlling a mob in a city square, it just doesn't enter into play," he said.
Israel's past efforts to develop non-lethal crowd dispersal weapons included a gravel-spewing machine introduced and quickly abandoned during the first Palestinian uprising.
I hope to have an appropriate update to my online novel real soon, but it's getting harder and harder to keep one step ahead of current events.
Suffice it to say: The Revolution will not be televised-- instead, it will be broadcast in stereo where available...
Have a nice weekend, folks!
Security forces could employ the weapon to overcome resistance without resorting to force, their paramount aim. But experts warn that the effects of prolonged exposure are unknown.
The army employed the new device, which it dubbed "The Scream," at a recent violent demonstration by Palestinians and Jewish sympathizers against Israel's West Bank separation barrier.
Protesters covered their ears and grabbed their heads, overcome by dizziness and nausea, after the vehicle-mounted device began sending out bursts of audible, but not loud, sound at intervals of about 10 seconds. An Associated Press photographer at the scene said that even after he covered his ears, he continued to hear the sound ringing in his head.
A military official said the device emits a special frequency that targets the inner ear. Exposure for several minutes at close range could cause auditory damage, but the noise is too intolerable for people to remain in the area for that long, he said.
Another official, also speaking on condition of anonymity because of his sensitive position, said the device hasn't been tested on subjects for hours at a time, so he couldn't discuss effects from prolonged exposure.
He said there was no direct connection between the recent introduction of "The Scream" and the forcible removal of settlers who resist evacuation orders, which is to begin in mid-August. But he didn't rule out the possibility of using it to root out settlers if persuasion fails.
The other official said "The Scream" could be used if protesters march on Gaza settlements or take up military positions.
"The whole issue of non-lethal is viewed from a desire not to get into a situation where soldiers are in distress and the consequences would be harsher than expected," he explained.
He said the military is still evaluating the device's debut performance in the field.
John Pike, director of the GlobalSecurity.org think tank in Alexandria, Va., said he believed last Friday's demonstration was the first case of such technology making it out of the laboratory and into the field. He said the U.S. and possibly China and Russia are developing acoustic weapons.
"I'm not aware of any other agency that is actively using it at this point," Pike said.
The military offered few details on the device, but Pike said he assumed it worked on very low frequencies that set off resonance in the inner ear. He said he was unaware of potential damage besides possible hearing loss.
Though the military refused to comment, Pike said the device probably sends its sound waves out in a specific direction, protecting the soldiers behind it.
"Most governments don't face large-scale demonstrations with a potential for lethal violence," he said. "So I think I would look to Israeli security forces to be an innovator in the non-lethal arena, simply because of the unique challenges it faces in the crowd control arena."
The military officials said Israel is constantly trying to bring new non-lethal weapons into the field but wouldn't disclose details. Its current arsenal includes tear gas as well as rubber-coated steel bullets, which have caused dozens of Palestinian fatalities.
Critics say Israel, with all its military technology savvy, should have done more in the years since the first Palestinian uprising began in 1987 to develop non-lethal weapons for use against hostile Palestinian masses.
Troops often turn to live fire, sometimes against teenage Palestinian stone-throwers. Police, too, used deadly force in October 2000 to put down rioting by Israeli Arabs at the start of the second Palestinian uprising. Thirteen Israeli Arabs were killed in those riots, and a commission of inquiry found that police used excessive force.
Israel's B'Tselem human rights group says Israeli security officers don't come equipped to police protests. "Although they could have anticipated they would have to disperse crowds, they didn't equip themselves with non-lethal means," spokeswoman Sarit Michaeli said.
Weapons they do have, such as rubber-coated bullets, are misused — fired, for example, at too close a range, Michaeli said. The rubber-coated bullets can be lethal from close range.
Pike said the reason there aren't more non-lethal weapons available worldwide is because it is difficult to achieve both safety and effectiveness.
"The number of things that are genuinely effective at crowd control and substantially less lethal than lethal weapons — it's a pretty short list," he said.
Weapons like pepper gas wouldn't put off a determined crowd, Pike said. Something like sticky foam might keep people out of a building, "but if I'm talking about controlling a mob in a city square, it just doesn't enter into play," he said.
Israel's past efforts to develop non-lethal crowd dispersal weapons included a gravel-spewing machine introduced and quickly abandoned during the first Palestinian uprising.
I hope to have an appropriate update to my online novel real soon, but it's getting harder and harder to keep one step ahead of current events.
Suffice it to say: The Revolution will not be televised-- instead, it will be broadcast in stereo where available...
Have a nice weekend, folks!
Tuesday, June 07, 2005
with a bang
I have an idea for a character in a novel or a movie: a Southerner born in Missouri whose parents are carny folk; they travel around the country with freak shows and a three-ring circus, stopping here and there to put on shows and soak up the atmosphere. Along the way, the Southern boy gets real good at drawing detailed caricatures of the people around him. As soon as he's old enough, he attends the New York High School of Music and Art, where Arturo Toscanini gives weekly lectures and his contemporaries include the likes of Leonard Bernstein. He skips college, marries his high school sweetheart and gets a job in a Detroit factory, but it isn't enough. He puts together a stand-up act where he uses his drawing skills to tell jokes under a stage name. When this doesn't help, he gathers the family up, sells off most of possessions, and heads to Los Angeles to paint portaits for a living.
Among the posh and wealthy Beverly Hills crowd, the Southerner (now the Artist as a Young Man) finds many patrons, and over time begins to creates a unique body of work that, until yesterday, escaped my attention.
As you can tell by now, this is no made-up scenario at all: the Southern Artist is a real man named Charles Bragg, and I discovered his art by accident while returning books to the library.
I am trying to get myself revved up for another painting. Lately I've been scheduling my hobbies in weekly increments: when the UCLA exhibit went down, my week was devoted to paint; the week after that, I stopped blogging frequently and concentrated on writing the Jarry screenplay; the week after that saw me working on my own music and doing some animation-related tasks; last week was devoted to other people's music, in the two or three bands I'm in at any given time; and now, I am trying to get myself geared up for next week, because I need this week to be a breather of sorts.
The weekly thing is not only a handy way for me to juggle my various projects-- it also happens to resemble the way I work. I get bored after about six or seven days, and so other projects are on standby indefinitely as my attention wanders. I don't have ADD-- if I had a deadline I'd bang everything out as quickly as possible. But since I have no real deadlines to meet, I can take my time cultivating my projects.
Anyway, I have taken a liking to Bragg's work because it reminds me of some of my favorite artists. Most notably, I see a resemblance to the work of Terry Gilliam of Monty Python fame. In fact, I thought Bragg was British when I first leafed through a collection of his work while lookng for more conventional art books by accepted masters. There's definitely something very Old World about his work, despite his apparent American-ness.
As you'll see when you look at Bragg's work via the link I provided, Bragg's a bit of a master himself. His realm is that of the caricature-- distorted shapes, bulbous noses, and spectacular grotesques are the hallmarks of his pieces. I showed the book to a fellow artist-- a graffitti tagger --and he was amazed at the similarities between certain graffitti styles and Bragg's work.
I like the details of his bio-- the weirder the better. Here's a quote from the man himself:
"...[T]hings can never be boring or predictable as long as there's a human race. It's guaranteed to always have lots of sparks flying. T.S. Eliot said we won't go out with a bang but with a whimper. I disagree with him 100 percent. We're gonna go out with a bang."
I think I'm going to set up my paints, and just start painting with no idea in mind-- automatic painting, if you will. That's the way I draw, actually-- I never pre-plan sketches. If I am trying to capture something specific, I draw in my notebook over and over until one of them comes out right. Otherwise, I throw caution off the cliff and just dive right in.
I think I'll shoot for Sunday. That way, I can listen to The Beatles on the radio, order breakfast delivered from Andre's, and get all dirty and painty before I even step into the shower. Then I can let the paint dry and smoke. Afterwards, when I'm satisfied for the time being, I'll watch The Simpsons on TV and maybe even head out to Paulie's place for a late-night BBQ.
Yes, the summer is here, and I'm prepared.
Among the posh and wealthy Beverly Hills crowd, the Southerner (now the Artist as a Young Man) finds many patrons, and over time begins to creates a unique body of work that, until yesterday, escaped my attention.
As you can tell by now, this is no made-up scenario at all: the Southern Artist is a real man named Charles Bragg, and I discovered his art by accident while returning books to the library.
I am trying to get myself revved up for another painting. Lately I've been scheduling my hobbies in weekly increments: when the UCLA exhibit went down, my week was devoted to paint; the week after that, I stopped blogging frequently and concentrated on writing the Jarry screenplay; the week after that saw me working on my own music and doing some animation-related tasks; last week was devoted to other people's music, in the two or three bands I'm in at any given time; and now, I am trying to get myself geared up for next week, because I need this week to be a breather of sorts.
The weekly thing is not only a handy way for me to juggle my various projects-- it also happens to resemble the way I work. I get bored after about six or seven days, and so other projects are on standby indefinitely as my attention wanders. I don't have ADD-- if I had a deadline I'd bang everything out as quickly as possible. But since I have no real deadlines to meet, I can take my time cultivating my projects.
Anyway, I have taken a liking to Bragg's work because it reminds me of some of my favorite artists. Most notably, I see a resemblance to the work of Terry Gilliam of Monty Python fame. In fact, I thought Bragg was British when I first leafed through a collection of his work while lookng for more conventional art books by accepted masters. There's definitely something very Old World about his work, despite his apparent American-ness.
As you'll see when you look at Bragg's work via the link I provided, Bragg's a bit of a master himself. His realm is that of the caricature-- distorted shapes, bulbous noses, and spectacular grotesques are the hallmarks of his pieces. I showed the book to a fellow artist-- a graffitti tagger --and he was amazed at the similarities between certain graffitti styles and Bragg's work.
I like the details of his bio-- the weirder the better. Here's a quote from the man himself:
"...[T]hings can never be boring or predictable as long as there's a human race. It's guaranteed to always have lots of sparks flying. T.S. Eliot said we won't go out with a bang but with a whimper. I disagree with him 100 percent. We're gonna go out with a bang."
I think I'm going to set up my paints, and just start painting with no idea in mind-- automatic painting, if you will. That's the way I draw, actually-- I never pre-plan sketches. If I am trying to capture something specific, I draw in my notebook over and over until one of them comes out right. Otherwise, I throw caution off the cliff and just dive right in.
I think I'll shoot for Sunday. That way, I can listen to The Beatles on the radio, order breakfast delivered from Andre's, and get all dirty and painty before I even step into the shower. Then I can let the paint dry and smoke. Afterwards, when I'm satisfied for the time being, I'll watch The Simpsons on TV and maybe even head out to Paulie's place for a late-night BBQ.
Yes, the summer is here, and I'm prepared.
Monday, June 06, 2005
satire
Here's a link to some great political satire, which begs the obvious question: WHY ARE THERE NO GOOD RIGHT-WING SATIRISTS?
The obvious answer: BECAUSE ANYONE THAT EVIL CANNOT BE FUNNY.
thanx 2 sascha for the link and the obvious answer...
The obvious answer: BECAUSE ANYONE THAT EVIL CANNOT BE FUNNY.
thanx 2 sascha for the link and the obvious answer...
Friday, June 03, 2005
amid the metamorphosis
"Gentlemen", he said,
"I don't need your organization, I've shined your shoes,
I've moved your mountains and marked your cards
But Eden is burning, either brace yourself for elimination
Or else your hearts must have the courage for the changing of the guards..."
Peace will come
With tranquility and splendor on the wheels of fire
But will bring us no reward when her false idols fall
And cruel death surrenders with its pale ghost retreating
Between the King and the Queen of Swords.
Bob Dylan, "The Changing Of The Guard", from the album Street Legal
"I don't need your organization, I've shined your shoes,
I've moved your mountains and marked your cards
But Eden is burning, either brace yourself for elimination
Or else your hearts must have the courage for the changing of the guards..."
Peace will come
With tranquility and splendor on the wheels of fire
But will bring us no reward when her false idols fall
And cruel death surrenders with its pale ghost retreating
Between the King and the Queen of Swords.
Bob Dylan, "The Changing Of The Guard", from the album Street Legal
Thursday, June 02, 2005
spirit
Punk rock saved a lot of lives, but Jello Biafra and Dead Kennedys showed me how to live mine.
Not that I swallowed everything they said hook line and sinker; rather, it was the method of their madness that I took as my personal model: agit-prop dsiguised as entertainment.
The "entertainment" part of the equation cannot be underestimated. Jello Biafra's lyrics, when separated from the music to which he composed, can be humorless and didactic. However, when coupled with the exhilratingly melodic hardcore punk that Dead Kennedys specialized in, the message was incisive, devastating... and given today's political climate, eerily prophetic.
I got into the DKs around the time of the Frankenchrist album, which resulted in the band and their indie label, Alternative Tentacles, being taken to court for "distribution of harmful matter to minors" in the form of a poster with images designed by reknowned Swiss artist H. R. Giger (best known for creating the creature from the Alien movies). They won the battle, but it was a Pyrrhic victory in the long run-- the band broke up shortly afterward.
I played catch-up with their whole catalog, and it was around this time (circa 1987) that I started to immerse myself in conspiracy theories as a hobby. I can directly attribute Biafra's paranoid rants as the inspiration for my future obsessions with JFK's assassination and other sinister plots to control the world.
You see, Biafra wasn't just some tinfoil-hat-wearing loonie-- for a punk rock frontman, he was always surprisingly articulate and very handy with a searing turn-of-phrase. His conspiratorial subject matter always fell between the frighteningly plausible to the hilariously over-the-top: in one verse he can hint that the Peace Corps builds labor camps instead of schools in Third World countries, and then also imply that Ronald Reagan dined on the flesh of charred Nicaraguan nuns!
In 1979, he ran for mayor in San Francisco and came in fourth-- out of a field of ten, and he even forced the top two contenders into a run-off! His platform was a sturdy demonstration mixing punk-rock politics with a near-'pataphysical absurdity: forcing businessmen in the Market district to wear clown suits; allocating empty high-rises for squatters; holding elections for police in their patrol areas; rent control...
He has paid the price for being such a polarizing figure in the punk rock scene. He was beaten by Berkeley punkers for being a "sellout", resulting in a shattered leg; his old bandmates sued him for back royalties; and the Frankenchrist trial sealed the band's fate for good.
But then again, he didn't sell his songs to Levi-Strauss for a TV commercial, which was the catalyst for the record label books being opened and the band lawsuit coming about; and at every opportunity Jello Biafra has risen to the occasion to decry corruption and hypocrisy at all levels of society. One recent story I heard was that he was asked to speak at some music symposium decrying the advent of Napster and file-sharing software. The symposium expected Biafra, an indie-label owner, to rant against the new technology infringing upon profits, but instead he used his time on the mic to inform everyone in the room that not only did he endorse file-sharing, but he also wished more people would do it! He cleared the room, but not before some people on the panel agreed with his outrageous sentiments.
I write all of this because I went out ands bought a 2-in-1 CD copy of two classic DK albums-- Plastic Surgery Disasters and In God We Trust Inc. Because Biafra lost the lawsuit against his former bandmates, he no longer owns the rights to the masters of those albums, so the money I spent goes not to him but to the other litigants. I intend to burn copies of the CD and return it to Amoeba Records for store credit.
I have the original albums on cassette and vinyl respectively. I could make copies from those sources onto my computer, and then burn them onto CD, but this time I took the shortcut-- I really needed to hear these albums again, and as quickly as possible. And I really need to hear them in my car-- what good is a song like "Buzzbomb" if I'm not cruising around like the protagonist in that song's lyrics?
Plus, it's not like I hate the remaining DKs-- I understand a musician's frustration at not being paid enough for musical contributions to classic albums. It's not like East Bay Ray, Klaus Flouride and D.H. Peligro were session musicians-- they were a part of one of the greatest punk rock bands that ever formed. Their contributions were just as important as Jello's, even as Jello bore the brunt of the band's image by virtue of being the frontman. Ray's guitar lines are signature; Klaus' basslines rise above the call of duty time and time again; and when African-American drummer Peligro joined the group, his intense hardcore style helped the band take their brand of punk vitriol up a full notch or two.
The lyrics, at one time in my life, were irrelevant. The PMRC was long gone, Clinton was in office, and no one ever thought we'd go back to the days of Reagan/Bush Republicanism... then, the year 2000 came around, and just when we thought we were over the Y2K scare, along came W and 9/11 to usher in a backwards-retreating Age of Fear.
And now, songs like "Bleed For Me" have deeper meanings once again. With Abu Ghraib and the horrors of Guantanamo Bay captivating the headlines, the lyrics of "Bleed For Me" merely need a timely updating regarding names and locations-- otherwise, they echo what's going on in the world today with alarming clarity. Just change the reference to the Russians to terrorists, and change the reference to "Cowboy Ronnie" to "Cowboy Georgie", and the song is still potent.
If the members of Dead Kennedys weren't squabbling right now, maybe they'd be doing just that. In 1981, on the heels of Reagan's landslide election, DK changed the lyrics of their 1979 underground hit "California Uber Alles" to reflect the changing of the political guard. Instead of lampooning Governor Jerry Brown, DK realized they had more dangerous fish to fry... they even retitled the update "We've Got A Bigger Problem Now" and referred to the 40th President as "Emperor Ronald Reagan/born again with fascist cravings"...
What is rock music doing to stem the tide nowadays? Not much. For example, Audioslave played Cuba recently because George W. Bush granted them visas-- it makes sense for a band whose majority of members made up Rage Against The Machine. I like Rage's music, but politically they were an anomaly: they got popular after the first Bush reich was voted out of office, and-- curiously enough-- they disbanded just before the second Bush regime came into power.
I was there at the DNC 2000 conecert that almost turned into a riot. Rage played their set, and they were in their limos by the time the near-riots started. Who was onstage by the time the cops pulled the plug? Local band Ozomatli... but the press played up the Rage angle because it made for better copy.
Compare this to when the DKs played the Washington Mall in D.C.: I was in the third grade and living in California, obviously, so I didn't even hear about that legendary show until a few years ago, which brought D.C. punks out by the hundreds of thousands to fuck shit up in the nation's capitol.
Take into account the fact that then-Attorney General Ed Meese was busy revoking the visas of bands that wanted to play the U.S., and you see how wrong the notion of Audioslave playing Castro-controlled Cuba under W's watch really is.
I saw a kid in Burbank the other day as I drove to work. He had a Mohawk, a leather jacket, a Misfits T-shirt... and a cel phone.
Did I get pissed? Sort of, but for different reasons. I got pissed off because the more things change, the more they stay the same. Back when I first discovered punk rock, I was surprised at how many kids were more into the fashion than the message. I mean, I was a late-bloomer when it came to the punk phenomenon, but I felt like I'd been a punk in spirit before I found the scene. Meanwhile, the kids who looked the most "punk" were just a bunch of bored rich kids with credit cards and the free time to pick and choose their carefully crafted outfits.
I walked around with long hair (a punk anathema at the time), unbuttoned flannels, and dirty jeans. No Doc Marten boots. No bomber jacket. No cool band T-shirts. I prefigured the grunge style, I suppose, by a few years, but I wasn't trying to make a fashion statement-- I was just trying to get by as best as I could.
So when I see kids aping the latest style, my impulse is not to get all huffy, as if punk belonged to me and only me. No, instead I let out a deep sigh and remember that I was seeing these kinds of absurdities occur when I was a kid.
But that gives me hope, you see... because for every clueless suburban kid who doesn't know Dead Kennedys from Good Charlotte, there's a slew of kids out there who are going to take to heart the lessons of bands like DK. These same kids also will take cues from bands like Public Enemy, The Ramones, The Coup, The MC5, Fugazi, and The Clash.
These kids will care about the world they live in, and they will fight for the right to live in a world that they have a hand in creating.
And that is truly a cause for celebration. "Punk's not dead, it just deserves to die," Jello Biafra once sang. And he was right. And he still is right.
But I thank God that every day on this planet, another child is born, another child with the potential to keep the punk spirit alive... because as we know, the punk spirit is really the hip-hop spirit, the Hippie spirit, the Beat spirit, the Surrealist spirit, the Cubist spirit, the avant-garde spirit, all the spirits of rebellions past, updated and tricked out to appeal to the new masses.
The urge to rebel, to question authority and spit in the face of convention... that will never die, so long as humans keep coming into this world. And as we speak, there's a kid out there who is poised to become the new Jello Biafra, or maybe the new KRS-ONE, or perhaps the new Ian MacKaye (frontman for Minor Threat/Fugazi)... at the very least, the new Joe Strummer or (gasp!) Eddie Vedder...
I can't wait to see what form it will take on next...
Not that I swallowed everything they said hook line and sinker; rather, it was the method of their madness that I took as my personal model: agit-prop dsiguised as entertainment.
The "entertainment" part of the equation cannot be underestimated. Jello Biafra's lyrics, when separated from the music to which he composed, can be humorless and didactic. However, when coupled with the exhilratingly melodic hardcore punk that Dead Kennedys specialized in, the message was incisive, devastating... and given today's political climate, eerily prophetic.
I got into the DKs around the time of the Frankenchrist album, which resulted in the band and their indie label, Alternative Tentacles, being taken to court for "distribution of harmful matter to minors" in the form of a poster with images designed by reknowned Swiss artist H. R. Giger (best known for creating the creature from the Alien movies). They won the battle, but it was a Pyrrhic victory in the long run-- the band broke up shortly afterward.
I played catch-up with their whole catalog, and it was around this time (circa 1987) that I started to immerse myself in conspiracy theories as a hobby. I can directly attribute Biafra's paranoid rants as the inspiration for my future obsessions with JFK's assassination and other sinister plots to control the world.
You see, Biafra wasn't just some tinfoil-hat-wearing loonie-- for a punk rock frontman, he was always surprisingly articulate and very handy with a searing turn-of-phrase. His conspiratorial subject matter always fell between the frighteningly plausible to the hilariously over-the-top: in one verse he can hint that the Peace Corps builds labor camps instead of schools in Third World countries, and then also imply that Ronald Reagan dined on the flesh of charred Nicaraguan nuns!
In 1979, he ran for mayor in San Francisco and came in fourth-- out of a field of ten, and he even forced the top two contenders into a run-off! His platform was a sturdy demonstration mixing punk-rock politics with a near-'pataphysical absurdity: forcing businessmen in the Market district to wear clown suits; allocating empty high-rises for squatters; holding elections for police in their patrol areas; rent control...
He has paid the price for being such a polarizing figure in the punk rock scene. He was beaten by Berkeley punkers for being a "sellout", resulting in a shattered leg; his old bandmates sued him for back royalties; and the Frankenchrist trial sealed the band's fate for good.
But then again, he didn't sell his songs to Levi-Strauss for a TV commercial, which was the catalyst for the record label books being opened and the band lawsuit coming about; and at every opportunity Jello Biafra has risen to the occasion to decry corruption and hypocrisy at all levels of society. One recent story I heard was that he was asked to speak at some music symposium decrying the advent of Napster and file-sharing software. The symposium expected Biafra, an indie-label owner, to rant against the new technology infringing upon profits, but instead he used his time on the mic to inform everyone in the room that not only did he endorse file-sharing, but he also wished more people would do it! He cleared the room, but not before some people on the panel agreed with his outrageous sentiments.
I write all of this because I went out ands bought a 2-in-1 CD copy of two classic DK albums-- Plastic Surgery Disasters and In God We Trust Inc. Because Biafra lost the lawsuit against his former bandmates, he no longer owns the rights to the masters of those albums, so the money I spent goes not to him but to the other litigants. I intend to burn copies of the CD and return it to Amoeba Records for store credit.
I have the original albums on cassette and vinyl respectively. I could make copies from those sources onto my computer, and then burn them onto CD, but this time I took the shortcut-- I really needed to hear these albums again, and as quickly as possible. And I really need to hear them in my car-- what good is a song like "Buzzbomb" if I'm not cruising around like the protagonist in that song's lyrics?
Plus, it's not like I hate the remaining DKs-- I understand a musician's frustration at not being paid enough for musical contributions to classic albums. It's not like East Bay Ray, Klaus Flouride and D.H. Peligro were session musicians-- they were a part of one of the greatest punk rock bands that ever formed. Their contributions were just as important as Jello's, even as Jello bore the brunt of the band's image by virtue of being the frontman. Ray's guitar lines are signature; Klaus' basslines rise above the call of duty time and time again; and when African-American drummer Peligro joined the group, his intense hardcore style helped the band take their brand of punk vitriol up a full notch or two.
The lyrics, at one time in my life, were irrelevant. The PMRC was long gone, Clinton was in office, and no one ever thought we'd go back to the days of Reagan/Bush Republicanism... then, the year 2000 came around, and just when we thought we were over the Y2K scare, along came W and 9/11 to usher in a backwards-retreating Age of Fear.
And now, songs like "Bleed For Me" have deeper meanings once again. With Abu Ghraib and the horrors of Guantanamo Bay captivating the headlines, the lyrics of "Bleed For Me" merely need a timely updating regarding names and locations-- otherwise, they echo what's going on in the world today with alarming clarity. Just change the reference to the Russians to terrorists, and change the reference to "Cowboy Ronnie" to "Cowboy Georgie", and the song is still potent.
If the members of Dead Kennedys weren't squabbling right now, maybe they'd be doing just that. In 1981, on the heels of Reagan's landslide election, DK changed the lyrics of their 1979 underground hit "California Uber Alles" to reflect the changing of the political guard. Instead of lampooning Governor Jerry Brown, DK realized they had more dangerous fish to fry... they even retitled the update "We've Got A Bigger Problem Now" and referred to the 40th President as "Emperor Ronald Reagan/born again with fascist cravings"...
What is rock music doing to stem the tide nowadays? Not much. For example, Audioslave played Cuba recently because George W. Bush granted them visas-- it makes sense for a band whose majority of members made up Rage Against The Machine. I like Rage's music, but politically they were an anomaly: they got popular after the first Bush reich was voted out of office, and-- curiously enough-- they disbanded just before the second Bush regime came into power.
I was there at the DNC 2000 conecert that almost turned into a riot. Rage played their set, and they were in their limos by the time the near-riots started. Who was onstage by the time the cops pulled the plug? Local band Ozomatli... but the press played up the Rage angle because it made for better copy.
Compare this to when the DKs played the Washington Mall in D.C.: I was in the third grade and living in California, obviously, so I didn't even hear about that legendary show until a few years ago, which brought D.C. punks out by the hundreds of thousands to fuck shit up in the nation's capitol.
Take into account the fact that then-Attorney General Ed Meese was busy revoking the visas of bands that wanted to play the U.S., and you see how wrong the notion of Audioslave playing Castro-controlled Cuba under W's watch really is.
I saw a kid in Burbank the other day as I drove to work. He had a Mohawk, a leather jacket, a Misfits T-shirt... and a cel phone.
Did I get pissed? Sort of, but for different reasons. I got pissed off because the more things change, the more they stay the same. Back when I first discovered punk rock, I was surprised at how many kids were more into the fashion than the message. I mean, I was a late-bloomer when it came to the punk phenomenon, but I felt like I'd been a punk in spirit before I found the scene. Meanwhile, the kids who looked the most "punk" were just a bunch of bored rich kids with credit cards and the free time to pick and choose their carefully crafted outfits.
I walked around with long hair (a punk anathema at the time), unbuttoned flannels, and dirty jeans. No Doc Marten boots. No bomber jacket. No cool band T-shirts. I prefigured the grunge style, I suppose, by a few years, but I wasn't trying to make a fashion statement-- I was just trying to get by as best as I could.
So when I see kids aping the latest style, my impulse is not to get all huffy, as if punk belonged to me and only me. No, instead I let out a deep sigh and remember that I was seeing these kinds of absurdities occur when I was a kid.
But that gives me hope, you see... because for every clueless suburban kid who doesn't know Dead Kennedys from Good Charlotte, there's a slew of kids out there who are going to take to heart the lessons of bands like DK. These same kids also will take cues from bands like Public Enemy, The Ramones, The Coup, The MC5, Fugazi, and The Clash.
These kids will care about the world they live in, and they will fight for the right to live in a world that they have a hand in creating.
And that is truly a cause for celebration. "Punk's not dead, it just deserves to die," Jello Biafra once sang. And he was right. And he still is right.
But I thank God that every day on this planet, another child is born, another child with the potential to keep the punk spirit alive... because as we know, the punk spirit is really the hip-hop spirit, the Hippie spirit, the Beat spirit, the Surrealist spirit, the Cubist spirit, the avant-garde spirit, all the spirits of rebellions past, updated and tricked out to appeal to the new masses.
The urge to rebel, to question authority and spit in the face of convention... that will never die, so long as humans keep coming into this world. And as we speak, there's a kid out there who is poised to become the new Jello Biafra, or maybe the new KRS-ONE, or perhaps the new Ian MacKaye (frontman for Minor Threat/Fugazi)... at the very least, the new Joe Strummer or (gasp!) Eddie Vedder...
I can't wait to see what form it will take on next...
CHAPTER SEVEN: work in progress
THE STORY SO FAR: Fabian Rourke and Robert River, old high school buddies, have reunited because Fabian wants Robert to work for him at Council Corps, a mysterious company that has a hand in world and national affairs.
Fabian Rourke was so glad to leave Wholesome High School.
He graduated and ran away, never to look back. His departure was strange and unexpected-- people assumed he was going to go off to college and become a lawyer or a doctor, or maybe even a writer or a journalist.
There were rumors of why he left Wholesome and fled to the cultural Mecca of Los Angeles: problems at home, issues he was dealing with, mysterious allusions to dysfunction... but Fabian never confided in his friends about anything.
Robert River never before felt one ounce of guilt for not asking Fabian about his private life, but now that he was working for his old friend in a decidedly sudden fashion, he now wished he knew what made Fabian Rourke tick.
And Fabian wasn't going to give any easy answers.
Of course, Fabian always knew the story, because it pretty much motivated him in every facet of his new life as a Mover, the kind of person who makes things happen behind the scenes.
Fabian lived as a bohemian for a while, holed up in crash pads in Hollywood and Silver Lake, smoking opium and writing reams and reams of unpublished manifestos and short stories. What he did for work is anybody's guess. In rare interviews Fabian had intimated that he'd performed such menial tasks as telemarketing and newspaper subscriptions before he made it big.
There was a phase when he was managing a rock band known as Spooky Electric. They were a Prince cover band. The lead singer had plastic surgery done on his face so that he could further resemble Prince. After two years of toiling in L.A. clubs, Spooky Electric called it quits. But it was during this brief foray into music that Fabian met Drake Nimbus, the man who ended up heading his sonic operations at Council Corps.
Fabian and Drake pooled their money together and started up a small nightclub on the Sunset Strip called The Opener. They didn't own the space; rather, they rented out another, better known club on Tuesdays and Fridays. They had all sorts of acts playing at The Opener: hair metal, thrash, skate punk, old school rap, pre-techno dance, freestyle dance, and Latin dance. Later on they branched out into all-ages Goth nights and once they even sponsored a White Pride Night, which led to an ugly confrontation outside of the club and the eventual draining of The Opener's resources, thanks to numerous lawsuits that arose from the ill-fated booking.
Within months, The Opener had closed in an inglorious haze.
Fabian caught a lot of flak for putting up the money to sponsor an evening of neo-Nazi hardcore groups and skinheads, but Fabian didn't care-- he made a lot of money that night, even if he had to put it all back into "cleaning up the mess", as he liked to put it.
Years later, Drake Nimbus finally understood what Fabian's intention had been that night: to exploit a cause that he detested by embracing it. The experiment had failed because Fabian and Drake hadn't taken into account the controversy that such an event would generate, but Fabian still wanted to try the same type of thing on different levels.
Soon, Fabian had Drake in a sound lab, coming up with ways to "sonically assault" crowds of unsuspecting people, while Fabian started making money sponsoring conservative group meetings and right-wing lobbyist conventions. On the surface, it seemed that Fabian had gone mad, switching sides like Daniel Lazarus, the former Black Panther who sold out and went publicly Republican.
But Drake started to see the subversiveness of Fabian's plans.
*/*
Fabian Rourke was so glad to leave the town of Wholesome.
Gone was the small town hypocrisy, the religiously laced undercurrent that caused ordinary folk to turn mean and nasty, parading sanctimonious self-righteousness on the outside in order to hide the repugnance and wickedness of their hearts. At least in the Big City, there was no mistaking the calculation and greed that drove everyone to act like animals. It was purer than in Wholesome, where the sickness crawled underneath the radar and never reared its ugly head above the surface.
When Fabian and Drake were recruited by Council Corps scouts to join the organization, the first thing Fabian did was go back to Wholesome and "clean up the mess".
Local politicians were suddenly being outed in the newspapers, and since most of those who were outed had been hardline anti-gay legislative figureheads, they proved to be most embarrassing.
A few child-porn rings were busted, featuring prominent community pillars like Little League coaches and well-respected policeman. Priests and businessmen were suddenly being arrested with alarming frequency, usually in connection with such shady dealings as violating the Mann Act or purchasing cocaine off the streets.
The most surprising turn of events, however, was when an English teacher from Wholesome High voluntarily turned himself in to the authorities, tearfully alleging that he had been sexually involved with at least 30 female students in the ten years he had been teaching at the high school.
The shock from this news sent reverberations throughout the town of Wholesome, and soon many women and girls were coming forward to corroborate this teacher's claims. Many of the women said they never told a soul about his behavior because they knew that no one would believe them if they spoke out.
But what the newspapers and the local press couldn't figure out was why the teacher turned himself in. The suspect himself never explained his decision, other than to say during a press conference that "what [he] did was wrong, and it has been on [his] conscience for a decade..."
While the news was splashing the lurid details of this scandal all over the front pages, very little attention was paid to the Wholesome High ten year reunion that was taking place that week. A lot of former students were in town for the reunion, but most of those who attened had never left the town to begin with.
*/*
Fabian Rourke was so glad to be returning to Wholesome.
Normally, he abhorred things like high school reunions, because he never really liked anyone in high school, save for his small group of friends.
Ironically enough, none of his old friends were going to the reunion. Kelly Paper flat out refused when fabian called her and asked her if she was going; so did Rachel Edison; Tom Fargo could not be located at the time and it was safe to assume that he didn't have any inkling of going back; and Brian and Robert were nowhere to be found.
Thus, there was no real reason for Fabian Rourke to return to Wholesome.
No reason at all.
If you ever find a copy of the program for the Wholesome High School Ten Year Class Reunion, you might notice that Fabian Rourke's name is not on the list of attendees.
And yet, he was there. Drake Nimbus can verify this-- he was with him when they drove out to the small farm town and set up their van outside of the school auditorium.
With their surveillance cameras and sound equipment, they were having a blast, trying out their sound guns and frequency modulators on unsuspecting subjects.
Drake and Fabian, to make the activity more interesting, placved bets on what a person might do if they were unknowingly subjected to, say, high-pitch soundwaves that were undetectable to the ear but still able to influence brain chemistry.
Fabian lost $50 to Drake when one test subject failed to jump up in the air upon being blasted with a sound bullet that could deafen a dog. Instead, the subject went into an epileptic seizure and twitched on the ground until an ambulance was summoned.
The man who was subjected to this treatment was a guy who used to be the big bully in school, a burly kid named Doug Petit. Fabian remembered him as the guy who broke his nose in 9th grade. The reason? None was ever given. But Fabian knew why Doug punched him out that day.
Because he could.
And so, that's why Fabian induced a grand mal seizure in Doug Petit that night, ten years later... because he could.
When Drake and Fabian drove home that night, they considered themselves lucky to be part of Council Corps, making changes and addressing the wrongs that had been committed in the world, but not the world that others knew of-- this was a shadow world they were existing in now, one that never spilled over into the overt world of appearances and images.
And yet, it seemed to them that their new purpose in life was to merge the Overt and the Shadow.
They were thrilled.
CHAPTER EIGHT: Whenever I feel like it...
Fabian Rourke was so glad to leave Wholesome High School.
He graduated and ran away, never to look back. His departure was strange and unexpected-- people assumed he was going to go off to college and become a lawyer or a doctor, or maybe even a writer or a journalist.
There were rumors of why he left Wholesome and fled to the cultural Mecca of Los Angeles: problems at home, issues he was dealing with, mysterious allusions to dysfunction... but Fabian never confided in his friends about anything.
Robert River never before felt one ounce of guilt for not asking Fabian about his private life, but now that he was working for his old friend in a decidedly sudden fashion, he now wished he knew what made Fabian Rourke tick.
And Fabian wasn't going to give any easy answers.
Of course, Fabian always knew the story, because it pretty much motivated him in every facet of his new life as a Mover, the kind of person who makes things happen behind the scenes.
Fabian lived as a bohemian for a while, holed up in crash pads in Hollywood and Silver Lake, smoking opium and writing reams and reams of unpublished manifestos and short stories. What he did for work is anybody's guess. In rare interviews Fabian had intimated that he'd performed such menial tasks as telemarketing and newspaper subscriptions before he made it big.
There was a phase when he was managing a rock band known as Spooky Electric. They were a Prince cover band. The lead singer had plastic surgery done on his face so that he could further resemble Prince. After two years of toiling in L.A. clubs, Spooky Electric called it quits. But it was during this brief foray into music that Fabian met Drake Nimbus, the man who ended up heading his sonic operations at Council Corps.
Fabian and Drake pooled their money together and started up a small nightclub on the Sunset Strip called The Opener. They didn't own the space; rather, they rented out another, better known club on Tuesdays and Fridays. They had all sorts of acts playing at The Opener: hair metal, thrash, skate punk, old school rap, pre-techno dance, freestyle dance, and Latin dance. Later on they branched out into all-ages Goth nights and once they even sponsored a White Pride Night, which led to an ugly confrontation outside of the club and the eventual draining of The Opener's resources, thanks to numerous lawsuits that arose from the ill-fated booking.
Within months, The Opener had closed in an inglorious haze.
Fabian caught a lot of flak for putting up the money to sponsor an evening of neo-Nazi hardcore groups and skinheads, but Fabian didn't care-- he made a lot of money that night, even if he had to put it all back into "cleaning up the mess", as he liked to put it.
Years later, Drake Nimbus finally understood what Fabian's intention had been that night: to exploit a cause that he detested by embracing it. The experiment had failed because Fabian and Drake hadn't taken into account the controversy that such an event would generate, but Fabian still wanted to try the same type of thing on different levels.
Soon, Fabian had Drake in a sound lab, coming up with ways to "sonically assault" crowds of unsuspecting people, while Fabian started making money sponsoring conservative group meetings and right-wing lobbyist conventions. On the surface, it seemed that Fabian had gone mad, switching sides like Daniel Lazarus, the former Black Panther who sold out and went publicly Republican.
But Drake started to see the subversiveness of Fabian's plans.
*/*
Fabian Rourke was so glad to leave the town of Wholesome.
Gone was the small town hypocrisy, the religiously laced undercurrent that caused ordinary folk to turn mean and nasty, parading sanctimonious self-righteousness on the outside in order to hide the repugnance and wickedness of their hearts. At least in the Big City, there was no mistaking the calculation and greed that drove everyone to act like animals. It was purer than in Wholesome, where the sickness crawled underneath the radar and never reared its ugly head above the surface.
When Fabian and Drake were recruited by Council Corps scouts to join the organization, the first thing Fabian did was go back to Wholesome and "clean up the mess".
Local politicians were suddenly being outed in the newspapers, and since most of those who were outed had been hardline anti-gay legislative figureheads, they proved to be most embarrassing.
A few child-porn rings were busted, featuring prominent community pillars like Little League coaches and well-respected policeman. Priests and businessmen were suddenly being arrested with alarming frequency, usually in connection with such shady dealings as violating the Mann Act or purchasing cocaine off the streets.
The most surprising turn of events, however, was when an English teacher from Wholesome High voluntarily turned himself in to the authorities, tearfully alleging that he had been sexually involved with at least 30 female students in the ten years he had been teaching at the high school.
The shock from this news sent reverberations throughout the town of Wholesome, and soon many women and girls were coming forward to corroborate this teacher's claims. Many of the women said they never told a soul about his behavior because they knew that no one would believe them if they spoke out.
But what the newspapers and the local press couldn't figure out was why the teacher turned himself in. The suspect himself never explained his decision, other than to say during a press conference that "what [he] did was wrong, and it has been on [his] conscience for a decade..."
While the news was splashing the lurid details of this scandal all over the front pages, very little attention was paid to the Wholesome High ten year reunion that was taking place that week. A lot of former students were in town for the reunion, but most of those who attened had never left the town to begin with.
*/*
Fabian Rourke was so glad to be returning to Wholesome.
Normally, he abhorred things like high school reunions, because he never really liked anyone in high school, save for his small group of friends.
Ironically enough, none of his old friends were going to the reunion. Kelly Paper flat out refused when fabian called her and asked her if she was going; so did Rachel Edison; Tom Fargo could not be located at the time and it was safe to assume that he didn't have any inkling of going back; and Brian and Robert were nowhere to be found.
Thus, there was no real reason for Fabian Rourke to return to Wholesome.
No reason at all.
If you ever find a copy of the program for the Wholesome High School Ten Year Class Reunion, you might notice that Fabian Rourke's name is not on the list of attendees.
And yet, he was there. Drake Nimbus can verify this-- he was with him when they drove out to the small farm town and set up their van outside of the school auditorium.
With their surveillance cameras and sound equipment, they were having a blast, trying out their sound guns and frequency modulators on unsuspecting subjects.
Drake and Fabian, to make the activity more interesting, placved bets on what a person might do if they were unknowingly subjected to, say, high-pitch soundwaves that were undetectable to the ear but still able to influence brain chemistry.
Fabian lost $50 to Drake when one test subject failed to jump up in the air upon being blasted with a sound bullet that could deafen a dog. Instead, the subject went into an epileptic seizure and twitched on the ground until an ambulance was summoned.
The man who was subjected to this treatment was a guy who used to be the big bully in school, a burly kid named Doug Petit. Fabian remembered him as the guy who broke his nose in 9th grade. The reason? None was ever given. But Fabian knew why Doug punched him out that day.
Because he could.
And so, that's why Fabian induced a grand mal seizure in Doug Petit that night, ten years later... because he could.
When Drake and Fabian drove home that night, they considered themselves lucky to be part of Council Corps, making changes and addressing the wrongs that had been committed in the world, but not the world that others knew of-- this was a shadow world they were existing in now, one that never spilled over into the overt world of appearances and images.
And yet, it seemed to them that their new purpose in life was to merge the Overt and the Shadow.
They were thrilled.
CHAPTER EIGHT: Whenever I feel like it...
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