exiled midwesterner

NEW SITE

2006-07-13T11:59:00.000-07:00

This blog is a bog. of neglect. As promised, though, I've got a new site, with extra goodies. Still working out a few kinks, but here's where I'll be from here on out:

http://www.exiledmidwesterner.com

It's been nice, blogspot.

6/6/06. National Day of Slayer!

2006-06-06T08:48:00.000-07:00

Friends, Hell awaits! It's National Day of Slayer today, and as you may see from the official site, you are encouraged to listen to Slayer sans headphones throughout the day. Or perhaps you'd like to stage a "Slay-out." (which consists of not going to work and listening to Slayer).

I discussed the day with my bandmates, and it was proposed that the actual day of slayer should have been in the year 6, rather than 2006. The pesky leading zero ruins all. No matter, we can disregard this digit, after all what's it worth? I'm willing to set aside such finicky considerations in the face of:

Night will come and I will follow
For my victims, no tomorrow
Make it fast, your time of sorrow
On his trail, Ill make you follow

Not So Triumphant This Return

2006-06-01T12:07:00.000-07:00

Hi. Remember me? Well, it seems I've been tagged. Tagged = your blog has been dead lately, so here, get off your ass and make a top five list. Someone started this in a fit of frustration over unkept blogs, I imagine, like an angry neighbor furious about some lawn exceeding the standards of conformity. I'll do my best:

5 items in my fridge

1. A single 12 oz. bottle of Lost Coast Downtown Brown ale.
2. Two slices of leftover pepperoni pizza.
3. Leftover Indian food.
4. A variety of fancy olives. Sweet Jesus I love olives. All of them. From the green stuffed fare of mainstream supermarkets to the shriveled black pasty-textured raisin-looking things one pit away from instant tapenade. I eat too many in one sitting, and -- olives being acidic -- it results in abdominal discomfort. Ouch, my guts. I could make love to olives, though. You're delicious, you little fuckers.
5. Old hummus.

5 items in my closet

1. Wearable clothing.
2. Unwearable clothing.
3. A remote control lightswitch. The closet was originally a murphy bed and was repurposed as a large walk-in closet. As there was no existing electronic wiring in there, it appears they installed the light but not a switchbox, instead utilizing this remote control version. For the longest time we thought it was faulty wiring when it stopped working consistently, but then the Ladyfriend investigated and discovered this.
4. Various backpacks and bags.
5. Ancient ski boots.

5 items in my car

1. I
2. don't
3. have
4. a
5. car. Which has truly been a life-changing experience. I never want to own one again. I owned a full-size Dodge Ram van that had an ongoing issue with one misfiring cylinder. No one could fix it, and it was diagnosed incorrectly about a thousand times. I broke down on every highway in the bay area. I broke down on the fucking San Mateo Bridge for fuck's sake. I spent dollar after dollar. Getting rid of it was like having a sword removed from my eye.

5 items in my ~~purse~~ backpack

1. USB flash drive.
2. Let's Go! Peru guide. The Ladyfriend and I are embarking on a Peruvian trek in less than two weeks. From Lima to Puno to Cusco and a hike to Macchu Piccu. I will eat guinea pig. I will buy a tiny guitar. I will speak rusty Spanish, but it will be so much better than my Chinese was, which is a shame given that we will likely be more on the beaten path this time, surrounded by people who speak some English. But there is one homestay, near lake Titicaca (which at age 31 I still find to be the world's most funny geographical site). Maybe there I can flex the tongue.
3. Combination Lock (for gym).
4. Various pens.
5. Marijuana.

5 people who are now tagged

Respectfully declining. I don't feel I can legitimately tag anyone else, with them being kettles and me being a black pot. I've been rather absent. My blogginess has withered like some sad office plant. I have blog erectile disfunction. I'm like a deadbeat blog dad, off drinking with his buddies in Duluth. I'm a pen with no ink. A slab of marble and no chisel.

What gives? I don't know. Somedays I'm sick of blogs and blogging, and even the word "blog" just makes me cringe a little bit. You can get a free blog anywhere now; American Idol was handing them out (not that I was watching that -- OK I was, but that's another post). They have taken on the sort of crassness I associate with chat rooms. OMG WTF I'm blogging ROFL, and such. Not to mention corporate blogs used as marketing devices; ugh.

But the form has blown up for a reason, a social angle to this so-very-antisocial world of technology. I still visit plenty throughout my day of office drudgery, and all of them I find valuable, and those of close friends/family invaluable, as they offer some proximity in the face of our geographical distance. And I know some of my loved ones enjoy this one for that same reason.

My other more valid excuse is that the muse has just been knocking on other doors lately, namely the musical one. I've spent the past month with a recording of my new band, mixing and mixing again, and with my already existing band, writing and writing. Both of them are on the verge of me finally playing a show again. I am genuinely musically inspired right now, and feel poised to do some of my best and most satisfying work.

I'm considering a change to this blog, actually, given my other pursuits. A sort of clearing house of my life and odd ventures, not limited to these blog postings but with updates on musical projects, the soon-to-be-continued-I-promise Turk and Jim, writing endeavors, photography, everything, basically -- leading to the need for more web space and a memorable domain. Now accepting suggestions. In any case, you four readers will be kept posted, I assure you. And I do apologize for neglecting you your two to five minutes of boredom appeasal for the past few months. Thanks again, C'est for "tagging" me. Sometimes that's what it takes.

(Oh, and by the way, there's a new Yacht Rock.)

It's That Time Again

2006-03-30T09:19:00.000-08:00

Episode 8

Product Endorsement

2006-03-29T13:49:00.000-08:00

Product Endorsement

2006-03-25T16:59:00.000-08:00

Guns Guns Guns

2006-03-15T07:27:00.000-08:00

Four people got shot about 3 blocks from our apartment last night. One killed. Didn't hear the shots, but heard the helicopters afterward. It's a bit disconcerting I have to say. Sure, as I'm not in the market for crack, I very rarely cover that block of Mission, heading up 16th a few streets on my way home instead (to the more, shall we say, gentrified streets); but still, yikes. They don't appear to have much information -- the four victims may or may not be related in some way. And then this other report angles it all TV-sensational, claiming shots were fired a little more randomly. Random crimes are of course the worst, as I prefer to pass this off as a gang incident, some fight over turf or whatever. We shall see.

Serendipitously, SF Gate ran this op ed piece today, which explores our top-down cultural obsession with violence. And I think in a way he's right, that our own celebration creates this feedback loop that reaches out to,well, 16th and Mission. Humans have always been violent, of course, but Americans seem particularly loco. What's our deal? Sometimes you just want to kill the compassionless, myopic, deluded and the stupid.

I mean reprimand, sorry.

Still More Yacht Rock

2006-02-28T08:42:00.000-08:00

Beneath the masturbatory typing and our mutual pretense of worthwhileness, I think this page really only serves one purpose -- to alert you to a new Yacht Rock when they make one, in case you hadn't alerted yourselves.

In the new episode, we learn of Yacht Rock's little-publicized connection to Hip Hop, and how it gave Michael McDonald the edge. We listen to Dr. Dre spouting saccharine wisdom, the kind Wilford Brimley may have divvied out, accompanied by strings. We see how smoooooth jams can endure through the years, so smooooth indeed, but so permanent, so solid.

Watch.

Christmas in July

2006-02-27T10:54:00.000-08:00

speakers on. get mousy with it.

200 Days

2006-02-23T08:17:00.000-08:00

So, 200 days without a cigarette. Without a puff. With nicotine gum, although increasingly less and less, it being now relegated to band practices and weekend beerfests. My friend Mel sent me this link to Harper's a while back (she's an ex-smoker, too), and my reaction made me wonder if my DNA hadn't been permanently altered. Somehow I dove right into the article without reading the italicized introduction. I therefore read it as some kind of smoker-penned satire rather than actual propoganda. And I related. I sided with the smokers, chuckling a bit about Hitler and Napolean's supposed disdain of the act, relating it to the liberal version, smoking being now banned in public parks in SF (which this nonsmoker thinks is a bit ridiculous). I remembered dividing the day with cigarettes, plumes of smoke rising film noir as I stopped and meditated. I thought about an entire worldview associated with smoking, a sort of medical nihilism, a fuck you to all maladies -- "I'll do it myself." The cynics' version of the Marlboro man, rugged individualism without the flannel. I thought about a campfire, or a strong cup of coffee, or a large meal, or a belt of whiskey. Don't mind if I do. But nope.

For the first 100+ days, every memory I recounted explicitly contained cigarettes as props. Traveling, playing rock shows, memorable gatherings and events -- the mental camera seemed to zoom in on that feature, perfectly glowing, rhythmically raised to the lips, ritual accomponmient. It seems I'm beyond that now, that the continuity person forgot to replace the smokes at the scene break, that they've crumbled and extinguished now in the mind's eye. This is helpful.

I've developed asthma. That's my gift for quitting? Perhaps it will go away in time, just the unfortunate effect of many enraged scilia, each of them grumpily wiping tar from themselves. Perhaps it will be with me from now on, who knows. Despite this I now walk up hills with ease. I ride my bike around or exercise and I feel great. I sleep quickly, no hour of anxiety withholding slumber. Less anxiety overall, in fact. My eyes are less irritated. I stink less.

200 days. It just kinda happend. Here's to 200 more.

!

2006-02-12T17:07:00.000-08:00

Reign of the Podcast

2006-02-07T08:32:00.000-08:00

It seems one o' my favorite radio shows has landed on NPR, podcast-style. Benjamin Walker's Theory of Everything is now being offered by NPR as part of their "alt.NPR" podcast section, which is evidently composed of fare that is non-broadcast and in some way divergent or experimental. So step into the future, my frens, and concede to the hype of podcasting and my own hype of this show.

p.s. I learned from Walker's blog section about this. Oh jesus.
p.p.s All instances of the word "podcast" in this post should be pronounced in the voice of Sean Connery. Please re-read.

Rock = Death

2006-02-06T16:32:00.000-08:00

Alright, rockers, you may feel your music is some sort of catharsis, or a means of self-expression, or -- oh, this is rich -- art*, even, but what are you really buying with what you're selling? A ticket to hell, fuckers! Or at least an early grave. Just as Mama Cass choked, or Dennis Wilson drowned, or pretty much half of rock history went down in fiery plane wrecks, you shall be immortalized, witnessing inevitable posthumous sales boosts from your fiery pit (probably next to that gin blossoms guy, as much as you'd enjoy Bon Scott's company).

* I actually believe rock is art

New Yacht Rock

2006-01-30T17:51:00.000-08:00

The glory of Yacht Rock continues. If you haven't watched the first five, do it quickly (this will help you understand #6). Enjoy the many-faceted history of "smooth music": the whiplash karate kicks of John Oates, the naive eagerness of Christopher Cross, the tongue-wagging of Eddie Van Halen, the unsatiated libido of Todo, the explosive appearances of Steve Perry, the Napoleanic demands of Jeff "Skunk" Baxter, the inspiration and righteousness of Michael McDonald, the deviation of Kenny Loggins, the drunkenness of Jim Messina, and so much more -- but most of all, Koko's fire, burning through eternity, kept alive by only the smoothest of jams.

Oh, and root crops.

You Have the Mystifying Sheen of a French Mustard

2006-01-25T09:09:00.000-08:00

This morning I woke to the radio, and before refining my senses with coffee, swore I heard the DJ say it was "National Condiment Day." Being one who relishes the absurd, yes, I was intrigued, and ventured forth onto the internet. I soon discovered that there is no National Condiment Day (yet), and that today is instead "National Compliment Day." My burgeoning narrative was crushed like so many mustard seeds; I sat with the perfect complement to condiments, the very Periodic Table of Condiments, all dressed up and no place to go. My mind still buzzed with lowbrow punchlines, an infinite loop of "I will ketchup but first I mustard." Spread before me was the awful truth. I had to face it:

You look lovely today, gentle reader; I value your insight. Did you do something with your hair?

Evil Heads

2006-01-23T08:48:00.000-08:00

The Weekend Draws Nigh

2006-01-20T12:56:00.000-08:00

Rock and roll, my friends, rock and roll.

Art-Friend Thursday

2006-01-19T08:34:00.000-08:00

Noticed that my fren Maria Forde was recently interviewed for the, uh, uniquely-named Fecal Face, a Bay Area arts site. Maria is often one of the most unjustifiably self-deprecating people you'll ever speak to, so humble with regard to her art, which I quite enjoy. She has this great style in her work, for which my art vocabulary is failing me here.... A sort of naive cartoonishness; altogether earnest. The lines are really alive, and drawing seems to play a huge role even in her paintings. Often the work is accompanied by simple captions. Saw several pieces about her hometown at one show here in SF, and the combination seemed to really take you back there emotionally, regardless of any small-town experience (mine's more mid-city suburban). Anyway, see the interview here, and her site here. I will throw some more Art Friends at you soon enough (sounds like some awful children's television show, doesn't it).

Guilty as Most

2006-01-18T15:39:00.000-08:00

Encountered (thanks to the Nonist) this piece, ostensibly a play review, instead a rather beautifully-executed diatribe on the downfalls of irony.

Irony has been much-maligned in the past few years, declared dead again and again, and yes, justifiably enough. I am certainly no stranger to it, and in my life have made attempts at both perfecting and rejecting irony in its more cancerous forms/cycles. I've sworn it off, feeling the sting of my own moral ambivalence/detachment/insensitivity/sheer laziness. But I've embraced it time and time again too, and do feel it has its uses.

It is the apparent MO of this (my) generation, and yes, has arguably lost any critical value it may have had in favor of pure deflection and self-conscious image-maintenence. In the realm of entertainment, a realm so vital in preserving our forgetfulness, it's been basically mastered (see the reviewer's mention of the Daily Show), cracking us up with a wink rather than a laugh track. To be sure, much of our culture invites satire and parody, being so ludicrous one is often dumbfounded, at a loss as to how to conjure a direct course of action/attack. But that's a cop out in't?

Probably like any other spice-of-life, irony is best consumed or dealt in moderation. Maybe this play, which apparently sends up "torture, fratricide, child murder, totalitarian law enforcement, and lying," is a sort of bottom-shelf malt liquor of Irony, cheap and fleeting, inviting potentially lethal addiction.

You?

Stoned Again

2006-01-17T17:01:00.000-08:00

It seems William Shatner sold his kidney stone to an online casino for $25k. No, for real.

Perhaps this explains Shatner's much-poorly-imitated vocal idiosyncrasy, that strange forced pause between words, soon to be recognized as an indicator of the slow passing of a decades-stubborn kidney stone.

Well, that's how I like to imagine it. I should also point out that the proceeds went to Habitat for Humanity. So that's good.

Eat Your Heart Out, the Melvins

2006-01-05T12:31:00.000-08:00

The Melvins and their ilk, heaviest of the heavy slow metal genre, got nothing on Mr. John Cage, even with their impressively slow slowness. The second chord of his "organ2/ASLSP" will ring out today. The thing is, the piece began in September of 2001.

Now that's HEEEEEAAAAAAAAVVVVVVVVVYYYYYYYYY.

Why I Love the Internet Part 345,348,299

2006-01-04T15:10:00.000-08:00

Giant Fucking Snow Head

2006-01-03T20:22:00.000-08:00

Ahhhhh, the American Midwest -- Frigid Minnesota -- where the snow falls. Perfect snow. Snow for latenight family snowball fights, White Christmases, delayed flights, just plain pastoral beauty, and of course the sculpting of giant snow heads. We gave him a mustache, and supposedly earmuffs, but the earmuffs looked like George Washington hair, and the mustache only confused things. Who is he? Who?

Happy New Year.

Giant Fucking Snowman

2005-12-21T18:09:00.000-08:00

Hello Bedford Falls! So good to... What the fuck?! Jesus H. ShitChrist! Holy fuck, look at that snowman! Sweet son of Mary on two sticks, that fucker's huuuuuuuuuuuuuuge! Holy living fuck!

Fuck!

Happy Holidays.

New Live Eye

2005-12-15T09:33:00.000-08:00

So there's a new Live Eye TV now available for internet viewing. Live Eye is kind enough to continue its inclusion of Turk and Jim, so you may witness a reprise/encore of the Thanksgiving special. It's fantastic to imagine people innocently happening upon it on their televisions, I must admit. Additionally, this episode includes appearances by friends Head of Femur, who have a singular and adventurous brand of rock music I endorse big-time. Also appearing are Kinski, Old Time Relijun and others.

View Live Eye Episode 9 Here

Oil to Burn?

2005-12-13T13:45:00.000-08:00

You know, with all this media focus on the clusterfuck in Iraq, or the remnants of the clusterfuck in Afghanistan, the very iffy rhetoric of Iran's pres Ahmadinejad, the neverending Israeli-Palestinian clash, the ever-evolving leadership of Al Qaeda, failed elections, kidnappings, bombings and killing all over the fucking place, etc., etc., ad tooth-gnashing stomach-churning infinitum, we tend to forget the real enemy, which is of course shitty drivers.

Scrooge-Children

2005-12-12T11:01:00.000-08:00

Some kids aren't so ready to concede to being seated on that weird, old, and possibly drunk Santa Claus at the mall. Is it a fear of beards? Or is it just sheer disollusion, an outraged response to being the victim of an eternally-perpetrated hoax -- taken for naive, honestly thought to believe reindeer can fly, or that a single man has the wherewithal to provide gifts to every child in the world (let alone manage the massive beauracracy this implies), that he possesses technology or supernatural powers capable of monitoring each child's every move (and presumably a storage facility capable of storing all the video, complete with a staff of thousands documenting each incident, naughty or nice). "Preposterous!" they seem to be saying, with their pained grimaces and crocodile tears. Thankfully for our sake, this does not stop their parents' itchy camera fingers.

Kicker Co-Conspiracy

2005-12-12T09:23:00.000-08:00

I read the Sunday New York Times, which pointed out that WFMU's blog had an entry regarding Mark E. Smith, lead mumbler of incredible, unpredictable, fortuitous legends the Fall, reading Football scores for the BBC. I then copied the link, pasted it right here, and told you about it, just as I might sell you a used sweatsock, or give you a half-eaten piece of chicken, or tell you I painted the Mona Lisa.

Smith's reading, if pasted over a slightly dissonant repetetive guitar drone, would simply sound like one of his more obscure lyrical ventures, leaving me scratching my head as usual.

p.s. I would like to point out that blogman and St.-Louis-Cardinals-obsessive Matty Fred does a spot-on Mark E. Smith imitation, should you ever find yourself in his company with several beers.

I'd Kill for Some Gruyere Right Now

2005-12-07T23:13:00.000-08:00

But when I need a few people taken out for cheese access, I do the job myself. I'm behind the wheel. I wield the, um, extra sharp weapon. I'll wash any motherfucker's rind when they step in front of the Boursin. Why hire an undercover cop? The very idea makes my blood curd. le.

By the way, did you know there is a cheese called Stinking Bishop?

Cute Chops

2005-12-07T13:24:00.001-08:00

Guitarists,

Wondering what to buy next? Already have some double-humbucker or P-90 type high-gain monster, and wishing you could augment that with the occasional fender twang? I know that you are. I know you also feel your guitar is not sufficiently cute. Worry no more.

Onion Wednesday

2005-12-07T10:46:00.000-08:00

The Onion can sometimes be so concise, simply stating the obvious in a way that at once makes you laugh and depresses the hell out of you. Always love Tuesday afternoon/Wednesday morning for just that reason. Case in point.

In a World...

2005-12-05T13:28:00.000-08:00

A friend o' mine just sent me this link, which anyone who has seen more than 10 movie previews in their life will find amusing. What's amazing to me is the familiarity I have with each of these fellas' disembodied voices, and how they are attached to genres or companies. Pretty good.

Progressive Rock Friday

2005-12-02T11:39:00.001-08:00

I have a little problem. I cannot stop listening to 666 by Aphrodite's Child this week.

As you may or may not know or care, this is Vangelis' first band (yes, he of the ubiquitous Chariots of Fire theme). And the album happens to be his overblown acid doom trip apocolypse orgasm freakout, an archetype any artist should have in their ouvre. At least once.

The story of 666 is apparently as follows: a circus performs a show based on the Book of Revelations. Outside the tent, the actual apocolypse is going down. When the tents open the delineation ceases, and the free-for-all battle of good and evil ensues. Ah, yes, timely, isn't it? 35 years later these themes still hold up, however cheesy -- most of us are still in the tent. I certainly am, typing masturbatory bits on 35-year-old collector-fetish pop culture, but a quick check over my shoulder reveals no approaching locust swarm (I'll refrain from looking at the news, though).

This album is actually quite divergent stylistically, which is a treat: from the grand-scale magma-esque lurch of "Seven Trumpets" to the very Brufordly drum shredding of "The Battle of the Locusts." Also included: Beatles-style crowd noises and silly voices, overblown spoken word sections, demonic voices, and several minutes of rather disturbing moaning on "Infinity," which nearly prevented their label from releasing it. In short, it has everything an album should have when it is progressive rock friday.
I'll refrain from writing 700 more words about the drum production.

More on this one:

Ground and Sky Review
A Vangelis Devotee Perspective
Hippyland
Julian Cope Says...

The Politics of Prancing

2005-12-01T15:27:00.000-08:00

I can never get enough of those stop-motion Christmas animation movies, always prepared to witness Yukon Cornelius, the Burgermeister Meisterburger, the Abominable Snowman, the Misfit Toys et al in their various adventures. Not once, however, did I pay much thought to the power struggles, corporate involvement, and other hijinks occurring behind the snowdrift. Thanks to Rick Goldschmidt's shiny red nose, the fog has parted. (Link via BoingBoing)

Turk and Jim Thanksgiving

2005-11-27T15:37:00.000-08:00

Well, now that you've likely had your fill of starch and bird, yams and pies, wine and whatnot, there remains one more excessive course to ingest. And that, friends, is the very special Thanksgiving episode of Turk and Jim.

Monday Listening

2005-11-21T11:35:00.000-08:00

I swear this might be the best album ever. Have it? It's one damn singular affair, with archetypes from folk to cabaret all sun-soaked and defracted through Parks' weird lens. It's lyrically bustling, exploring the California of myth and reality with humor and ingenuity. It's daring, dissonant: melodious strings share the stage with clatter and street noises. Songs in the public conscience are briefly quoted, alluded to and gone by the time you notice. A Broadway musical, a Hawaiian Hula Dance, all strung together with flawless piano and harpsichord. And nearly 40 years old! So good. I've always liked it, but just yesterday I feel I really heard it for the first time. Thought you should know.

P & P

2005-11-17T15:52:00.000-08:00

If I had these when I was a youngun, I wonder if I would be more or less fixated on the genre of humor commonly referred to as "toilet"?

* Stolen from Hanttula *

Bad Boys Bad Boys, Whatcha Gonna Do?

2005-11-15T15:14:00.000-08:00

Watcha gonna do when they come for you?

Remember that cop who was doing a demonstration for the kids in some U.S. Elementary school and shot himself in the leg? He was lucky.

Centurion

2005-11-15T12:27:00.000-08:00

Sometimes people ask me if I command a Roman army. "No," I say. "But it is true that I haven't smoked a cigarette for 100 days."

They feel ripped off, but still admire my staggering display of willpower.

100 days!

Glassware

2005-11-13T09:46:00.000-08:00

Last night the ladyfriend and I made our way over to Berkeley-town for this event. Ira Glass, host of NPR's This American Life, and Chris Ware, the man responsible for the Acme Novelty Library, Jimmy Corrigan, and various other publications, did a short presentation and then had a moderated discussion with the dean of Cal's journalism school, Orville Schell.

Ware and Glass are an unlikely duo in many ways -- Glass was more than happy to be on stage, in the spotlight. He had an ease about him, as if he were just speaking to a friend at a bar. He kept swearing, too -- here is this familiar disembodied voice, suddenly attached to a face, and it can't stop saying "fuck." Ware, on the other hand, shoulders hunched, hands folded across his lap, was every bit the curmudgeonly comic book artist, playing up his agorophobic and dusty antiquarian tendencies to great effect. Never have I seen a more self-deprecating person on a stage; painfully so. But you got the feeling the guy's IQ goes through the roof, and as his art implies, perhaps he just wasn't made for these times. If you've read Jimmy Corrigan, you might suspect a bit of biography.

The chemistry was actually quite good, largely thanks to the dean's moderation of the discussion. He really got Ware to deliver some fantastic lines, and got Glass to sit aside for a few moments and let his friend speak. It turns out that the two outwardly different personalities are quite similar in their manner of work. Obsessive is the word, with Glass discussing each miniscule edit made to a recording, the insertion of just so much silence for dramatic effect, or the right place to drop the music, and Ware no less the perfectionist, meticulously handcrafting his imagery, plotting each line with the utmost care, paying throwback homage to the buildings and structure so neglected in the present day.

Glass and Ware could both be accused of purveying anachronisms: Radio. Comic Books. What is a sound without an image in our overblown multimedia existance? What is a narrative that requires work on the part of the reader? Where are the ringtones, the streaming video? Where are the gadgets, the bare midruffs, the ever-increasing noise and pandering? Well, they are everywhere else, as you know, and when that storm passes there will remain a few artifacts, evidence of a less myopic, less self-obsessed worldview; time capsules of work compelled to illustrate something of the human condition and explore our inner workings.

I am grateful there are a few artists like this left.

"He's Irritating"

2005-11-11T16:31:00.000-08:00

I really love where I live. It's downright hilarious, sometimes.

Dammit, America

2005-11-11T10:52:00.000-08:00

You've sent another good show to the cult bin. R.I.P., Arrested Development, you may have been network television's last hope.

(Note the picture they chose, with everyone in white. I guess they're in a better place now.)

Total Recall Back at Ya

2005-11-09T07:46:00.000-08:00

Blue, blue, blue. He's feeling blue. Each of his four propositions ruthlessly shot down. In fact, everything on the state ballot. Nice try, though. Excellent waste of hundreds of millions of dollars on an off-year election. Here in SF, liberal muscles were flexed, with interesting results -- handguns and military recruiters are no longer welcome here. Yes, SF may join D.C. and Chicago on the gun-ban list (and we know how well it worked there... oh wait), or may simply find itself in an expensive legal battle, ultimately reducing the ban to a symbolic gesture. Worth it?

Results at SF Gate

You Fuckers Piss Me Off

2005-11-03T16:36:00.000-08:00

Thanks.*

*you don't actually piss me off.

It Ain't Cool to be No Jive Turkey...

2005-11-02T16:37:00.000-08:00

...so close to Thanksgiving.

Three Retired Judges

2005-11-01T14:52:00.000-08:00

It's nearly special election time here in California, and with that comes the usual onslaught of political advertisements. Oddly, one of them is the funniest thing I've ever seen (this week, I mean). When I see the three retired judges I am nearly driven to tears. Something about their demeanor, their black robes, their smirking and shrugging against a black background, even just the concept of "three retired judges" -- I don't know; it just cracks me up. It's a special treat for a couch-borne slackjaw.

View it for yourself.

Incidentally, I will be voting against our imaginary trio next week.

"Lethal Beauty"

2005-11-01T07:41:00.000-08:00

SFGate, the online home of the SF Chronicle, has been doing a series about the legendary suicide spot, the Golden Gate Bridge. Arguments pop up every year that a barrier must be made to shut down this Club Med of self-annihilation.

It's an interesting read, because it directly addresses those of us who have proposed building a plank and charging admission.

Spending millions of dollars on a bridge that already costs 5 bucks to cross -- a fee they've often discussed charging pedestrians and bicyclists as well -- seems a bit silly to some of us, when someone could just as easily jump in front of a BART train or pharmaceutically finish things (both not uncommon round these parts).

But my flippant/sardonic posturing doesn't hold up to stuff like this:

"When someone jumps from that bridge, he is, in a way, joining all those who went before. And that's important, I believe, because even in suicide, people don't like to be too far removed from the herd."

And my resolve in my non-lethal activities can't compare to this nutcase's in his last decision:

Robert Blyther, a 27-year-old Navy veteran, flew from Virginia to San Francisco in December 1980 specifically to jump off the bridge to protest the election of Ronald Reagan as president.

It makes you wonder what can be done, and wedges its way into your (necessary) defenses.

But still, we are confronted daily with grizzly accounts of murder suicides, and the tactical art of the suicide bomber is now woefully etched into our minds.

A peaceful flight into the fog seems so quaint.

New Live Eye

2005-10-28T10:28:00.000-07:00

The new Live Eye TV is up, featuring the latest Turk and Jim episode among other goodies, such as a performance by Oaktown's own Gris Gris, who I've been digging on as of late. Here it is right here yes. My only concern is the use of my real name, as I entertain secret Batman fantasies. But then, you five know who I am already.

As for our friends T+J, production has (sluggishly) begun on the Thanksgiving special. Beware.

Nomination

2005-10-17T08:09:00.000-07:00

I hereby nominate the Steller's Jay as the world's most annoying bird. Pigeons get out of the way, and only make that weird warbly sound. Seagulls keep their distance, and give up after awhile. But if you've ever remained stationary for more than one minute in a West Coast campground, you've heard the annoying shriek of this blue bastard, as it just sits there and does it over and over again, presumably saying, "Hey, are you going to eat that?"

To be fair, it's sad that the bird is so domesticated and dependent on campgrounds. But when I was laying in my tent over the weekend, and heard the more rare and impressive shriek of a hawk, I grinned and envisioned it flying away clutching a few blue babies.

Sincerely,

Ranger Bob

Gone Campin'

2005-10-14T12:28:00.000-07:00

Y'all have a fine weekend now, ya hear? I'll be sitting by the fire, chewing nicotine gum.

Avian Nightmares

2005-10-13T12:49:00.000-07:00

Is all this Avian Flu coverage creeping everyone out as much as me? The hype machine works sometimes on this feeble paranoiac. I mean, jeepers, could a virus have chosen a more perfect host if its ambition is indeed pandemic?

But luckily, there are soldiers on the frontline, bravely risking limb and reputation to quell the beaked menace.

Chirp chirp.

Wednesday Chud

2005-10-12T18:16:00.000-07:00

* not a legitimate post

Ye Olde Internete

2005-10-11T15:57:00.000-07:00

Ye olde internete, back some 8 yeares ago, did spawn a projecte as only the internete (olde or newe) may. Merrymakers of the clowne variety at the time knew such fame as to be forevere embedded in one's accouterments, and one internete member saw fit to have oodles of friends don just such a sweater and photograph themselves (presumably using the chemical process popular at the time to develope said photo-documents -- ah, to venture forth into the public without some brute extending a cellular-telephone-camera device!). The results remain on the internete, archived for generations yet to be adept at keyeboarding.

Yes, my olde-timey language needs some worke.

Friday's Buzz

2005-10-07T08:58:00.000-07:00

Have you heard the buzz going round the interweb? The bark echoing off the routers? The bite delivered to each user visually rather than physically, as they cover their eyes in horror? It's time you got stung, websurfer.

I have a couple bloggy friends who probably visit this site daily, as I know they already exhibit a chronic and unhealthy obsession with this other site.

Hey Doctor Fang

2005-10-07T08:55:00.000-07:00

It was really nice to hear from ya yesterday. One of us needs to make that 6-hour trek sometime so we can beer it up properly.

Young Converts

2005-10-06T12:58:00.000-07:00

Some kids who simply must whip it. Surely out of respect for the motherland, from whence Devo materialized.

Reptilian Row

2005-10-05T13:40:00.000-07:00

If you attempted to eat an alligator, would you explode? Quite possibly. Or at least if you were a python. What? Yes. And also, according to the AP, "The species have battled with increasing frequency" in Florida. Snake vs. Alligator. The final battle? Likely not. Beware.

Today, I must also give a shout-out to the ladyfriend. You are awesome, ladyfriend.

Noooooooooooooooooooo!

2005-10-04T08:36:00.000-07:00

It's Charlton Heston's birthday again. Do you know what that means? It means I, too, have plummeted one further year into my prime. Prime number, specifically*. 31. Noooooooooooooooooooo!

*As a certain sibling pointed out, that won't happen again for six years.

Shining

2005-10-02T09:50:00.000-07:00

Well, if you haven't seen it yet (as the NYTimes can attest, it's all over the fiberoptic ether), you really oughtta. A superstar editor set aside his commercial work to enter a contest in which competitors create a new trailer for an existing film. The result: sheer brilliance and hilarity (of the variety that takes a while to load). His coworkers tried their hand at it as well, invoking a few snickers, but not the kind of guffaws inspired by Shining.

Falling George / Billboard George

2005-09-29T11:37:00.000-07:00

2 amendments to existing objects involving everyone's favorite lame duck to share with you; one virtual and one real. Somebody amended the animation of the falling woman you may have seen, replacing her with GWB in a suit. Quite fun. Mouse-clicking will alter the fall.

Second is the recent transformation of the "Lord of War" billboard on Valencia Street, which is incredibly well done and surely involved quite a time commitment. Check it.

Yacht Rock!

2005-09-21T17:48:00.000-07:00

Ismateo introduced me to Yacht Rock this week after I instigated a session of singing Michael McDonald's "What a Fool Believes." Do not instigate such a session. You will find that "What a Fool Believes" may be the worst earworm of all time, attaching itself to your brainpan and hanging out for weeks. Anyway, Yacht Rock made the blog rounds a while back, but I missed the boat (ahem) -- if you too were left ashore, I suggest you don your sailing attire and set sail. Destination: Smooooooooth.

Fear of an Ironic Death

2005-09-21T11:28:00.000-07:00

You may have noticed the days without a cigarette statistic on the upper right. 45 days, people. Not so much as a puff. And on a fitness kick to boot. But that's what's making me nervous. Inevitably, when someone kicks the bucket, loved ones will point to some recent positive change -- "he had just given up drinking," say, or "she finally nixed the automobile exhaust huffing tendency; bless her soul." It seems people having undergone a big lifestyle change are ripe for the plucking (from this earth), if only to enable their friends and family to point out the sheer injustice in Death's timing. So please, if I do come to pass soon, eulogize me not with this newfound health-seeking, but with my persistant bad habits, such as prodigious beer drinking. Thanks.

This reminds me of a movie I just had the pleasure of viewing: Grizzly Man, by the great Werner Herzog. The movie outwardly explores the strange career of Timothy Treadwell, a wildlife preservationist and grizzly-bear-filming wildman who met his own end in Alaska, killed by one of the very grizzlies he spent over a decade living among, defending, and filming. The movie's subtexts are many, but the thing that really got me, beyond all the man-and-nature stuff, was that Treadwell died doing the very thing that essentially saved his life. He turned his life around in finding his calling, and that calling killed him.

I'm not saying Treadwell played no role in his own death, and in the footage one can certainly witness increasingly deluded and reckless behavior as the years progress, but still. Still.

Go see it.

P.S. I promise this isn't a lengthy justification to smoke a cigarette.

Opening Night

2005-09-16T08:54:00.000-07:00

It is with great pride this Friday that I unleash the newest Turk and Jim adventure, "Showtime," for your consumption. Visit the site and you will see it in all its shining glory. Currently, the only two formats are fairly large, but I'll try and get some tiny ones up there for you non-broadband people soon (you know, with poor video quality and audible compression in mono). This episode, like the last, will likely appear on Seattle's LiveEye TV as well (although I missed the Episode 7 deadline), infecting the Northwest like avian flu. Speaking of the Northwest, this episode features intro music from Seattle's own Young Mothers of the Sierra Madre, who need to come down to SF and play live sometime.

For those of you not in the know, Turk and Jim is the touching tale of a man (Jim) and his friend (Turk). Turk has a bit of a killing and eating problem, but values Jim's friendship. As our story continues to unfold, Turk will attempt to shield Jim from his exploits, and Jim's concern will grow. Such is the mire of friendship, friends, and only love can keep us together.

I will leave you with a rare behind-the-scenes photograph of Turk and Jim, Inc.

Shear Reality

2005-09-14T12:42:00.000-07:00

A coworker sharing my fondness for ewe clued me in to the hot new reality show sweeping Croatia by storm, Stado. The show features 7 sheep. Viewers vote sheep out of the competition, granting muttonhood to the less fortunate just as people (or sheep?) withheld undeserved fame from the lesser-annoying of American Idol blowhards.

Here's the story. Here's the show's site, including video. Go Josip!

Five Days in Iowa: Ethanol

2005-09-08T08:25:00.000-07:00

The cabby taking me to SFO at 4:30 a.m. may have been up too long. He asked if I was a lawyer, and if I thought citizens owned their trash. I supposed so. He went on to inform me of the unspoken history of the internal combustion engine, letting me know that even up past the production of the model T, most engines ran on alcohol. Rockerfellers being in bed with those in office, however, a quick migration to gasoline occurred. Gaskets were redesigned, eventually created to not work with alcohol rather than gasoline. Ethanol was pushed out of the picture, with Prohibition as the excuse, said the cabby. His idea, and reason for needing a lawyer I suppose, was to create some kind of civic Ethanol program, wherein our lawn/garden/food waste is converted to Ethanol. Sensible enough, I guess, lots to iron out first, but the coincidence? I was about to get on a plane to THE state with some percentage of government subsidized Ethanol at most every pump.

Yes, my friends, what's round on both sides and high in the middle? Ohio. But that's not where I am. Idaho? No, you damn Californians. Iowa!

"The Ostrich's Butt Broke the Window."

2005-08-30T16:07:00.000-07:00

A 6-foot-tall Ostrich broke out of a cargo van and ran rampant on the Golden Gate Bridge today. A coworker pointed me to the goods. Thanks, coworker!

Bike Shorts

2005-08-28T11:01:00.000-07:00

The ladyfriend informed me she has a new phobia. The fear of professional cyclist clothing. You've seen these people in their spandex or lycra, with logos ablaze, parking their bikes and strutting around. Do they wear those at home? In the shower?

A phobia of bikers, gruff motorized counterparts of cyclists, might seem more likely, at least as far as danger is concerned. The difference, though, is that those of the Hog with loud exhaust carry an explicit message -- don't fuck with me. The danger with professional cyclist clothing is purely psychological. Insidious. Creepy. You know, like Jockeys.

My, um, research reveals that there is a documented fear of bicycles -- Cyclophobia. And though my ladyfriend's problem is specific to neither males nor netherregions, there is also Medectophobia, which is the fear of the contour of the penis visible through clothes. And of course there is Vestiphobia, the fear of clothing.

Combining these three phobias with the lating term angustus (meaning narrow, limited, strait, tight, constricted -- thank you Latin-English Dictionary), we may arrive at the term for her phobia, and thus begin treatment: Cyclomedectangustuvestiphobia.

yikes!

LGBTGIF

2005-08-26T10:45:00.000-07:00

I'm looking for investors for my three restaraunts as I embark on my new career of restauranteur.

1) I've noticed a trend of puns in coffee-house naming. That is why the success of You're Grounded will be unmatched.

2) It is clear that French fare is timeless. Creperies can do no wrong. My Creperie still lacks a name, but upon each customer's motion towards the exit, the staff will smile and say, "Have a crepe-y day!" Surely business will soar.

3) The genre of restaurants in which a bunch of shit is hung on the walls is usually pointed at suburban families. But what of the alternative lifestyle? Are they not entitled to potato skins with bacon? San Francisco's newest eatery, LGBTGIF, will be completely unstoppable.

Please send checks soon.

Happy Birthday

2005-08-25T08:05:00.003-07:00

Today is Gene Simmons' Birthday -- the one and only KISS bassist extraordinairre, penis-talker, millionaire, patronizer, and tongue-waving anachronism. He painted quite the picture in his 2002 Fresh Air interview, and then didn't allow them to archive it. But the internet stepped up -- like this guy, who posted it here.

Personalities aside, one out of twelve KISS songs does rock. My personal favorite is "Love it Loud" from Creatures of the Night, featuring our birthday boy on vocals. Here's what he had to say:

Stand up, you don’t have to be afraid, get down - love is like a hurricane
Street boy, no I never could be tamed, better believe it
Guilty ’til I’m proven innocent, whiplash, heavy metal accident
Rock on, I wanna be president, ’cos

Chorus:
I love it loud, I wanna hear it loud, right between the eyes
Loud, I wanna hear it loud, I don’t want to compromise

Turn it up, hungry for the medicine, two fisted to the very end
No more treated like aliens, we’re not gonna take it
No lies, no more alibis, turn it up, it’s got me hypnotized
Rock on, I won’t be tranquilized, ’cos

Chorus repeats 2x

Headlines jungle is the only rule, front page roar of the nation cool
Turn it up, this is my attitude, take it or leave it

Chorus repeats out

Homage II

2005-08-24T11:55:00.000-07:00

I've decided to do a bunch of these Homages to those links down there on your left. This is the second.

My friend C'est is totally obsessed with salad. She may someday consider embarking a new career, that of the Salad Photographer. Serious. Here's a few exhibits gleaned from her posts:

Oh, wait -- those aren't sprouts on the bottom right, it's Phil Spector. Apologies. Also, as she pointed out, that third salad is more of an atrocity than a primer for a meal. Anyways, C'est inspired me to have a blog in the first place, as I saw her productively occupying herself during all this treacherous downtime at her ex- and my current employer. I played in a band with her as well, and spent many a drinky time with her and her special manfriend, whom she variously refers to as Hamlice, Bozomeat, and any number of public pet names. Pets -- C'est is dog obsessed. Her dog, who has licked my face, is Django, and comprises a fairly large chunk of her more biographical postings. These appear between various critiques, observations, insights, snark-isms, comedy, peculiar obsessions (salad), exciting new media endeavors, and more. For some time, I actually thought that C'est was also responsible for this site, but she says she isn't. So. A toast to C'est (and Hamlice), and a single tear for their moving away to Seattle. I will leave you with this:

Diversionary Tactics

2005-08-24T09:49:00.000-07:00

1) Open Google.
2) Go to the Image Search page.
3) Search on any word.
4) Any word can result in a ridiculous image. Oddly enough, it's more often ridiculous than pornographic.

See, look at this guy:

Norwegians vs. Yuppies: Extreme Skiing (There Goes the Neighborhood)

2005-08-23T12:42:00.000-07:00

"Icer Air 2005" will take place this weekend here in SF. This marketing stunt involves creating a ski jump on Fillmore Street using 200 tons of snow. 30 athletes will then compete for several bucks and a jeep.

Locals are unhappy, but according to this article, Norweigans are stoked.

I'm with the Norwegians. Those high-rent bastards in Pacific Heights deserve some inconvenience. The rest of the city should encourage their local sidewalk shitters to host some kind of competition there.

Broken Record

2005-08-20T10:01:00.000-07:00

Is anyone still buying this? 4 years later, he's still trying bullishly to manufacture this connection. How long can you milk it, Shrub?

Help Me Out, Art and Metal Historians

2005-08-19T15:02:00.000-07:00

Question: who painted this? I cut it out of a magazine a long time ago, and have since lost the magazine and the credit for the painting. Jesus, is it not the greatest bad-ass metal album cover ever? Or has someone already used it (I suppose that is my other question)? Please inform me.

Turk and Jim II Teaser

2005-08-19T07:54:00.000-07:00

I am nearing completion on the second episode of the animated, er, classic, Turk and Jim. Just one more scene to shoot (and all the audio). But the audio goes quickly. In preparation, I have purchased the domain turkandjim.com, where you may view the original if you are so unlucky as to not have yet seen it. It will change your life. Here are some production stills:

Homage

2005-08-18T15:08:00.000-07:00

My friend IsMateo does this whole blawg thing differently. I tend to frame just one link or image in a fountain of extranneous words, whereas he'll take sort of a rough idea, and throw down several links in the same post, following the idea through to some natural end as defined by him. Sort of a riffing, just on the edge of stream-of-consciousness but still entirely cohesive. Like he might offer the reader some idea, let's say for example the human mouth, and then throw a link at you. Jowlers! Thorough, too, he would probably also include Shakeskin. He might then tangentially arrive at the concept of crying while you eat. This would be followed perhaps by an entertaining personal reflection, or a recent biographical life event. I just ate a burrito. I'm not saying the guy is obsessed with mouths or eating. I just like his internet contribution.

Depressing Indeed

2005-08-16T20:53:00.000-07:00

Now that I've got my fart-joke quota out of the way, and have just scratched the surface of my urinating crustacean quota, I must direct you to this site, wherein you may find yourself depressed for several reasons, or at least annoyed, or at best indifferent, or at the very minimum looking at the internet:

Peeing Lobster

2005-08-16T14:57:00.000-07:00

Untitled

2005-08-16T14:55:00.000-07:00

Dancin' Fartin' Elephant

2005-08-15T22:50:00.000-07:00

Pooping Tiger

2005-08-14T14:49:00.000-07:00

Fartin' Dove

2005-08-12T11:06:00.000-07:00

(part of a series authored for and curated by a friend)

Private Dancer

2005-08-12T08:10:00.000-07:00

I'll just keep quiet and let Benjamin Walker tell you about this master of the dance.

Two Weeks in China: Bicycles

2005-08-11T16:00:00.000-07:00

~ This is the tenth installment of the Two Weeks in China stuff. I feel like it's time for some less wordy, fart-joke-inclusive posts. There's infinite subject matter, and I may tackle it soon -- the ubiquity of Howard Johnson hotels, eating Brazilian food in Xi'an, visiting a home for the developmentally disabled, riding the Magnetic Levitation train to the Pudong Airport, the sheer beauty of the gardens in Suzhuo, ATM troubles; the list goes on and on. China was amazing, and we saw only the smallest piece. I recommend people visit, and do so before the Olympics in 2008. Anyway ~

The ladyfriend and I decided to rent bicycles from our hotel in Beijing. We put it off a few days, not least because we were a bit nervous about it. As a bicyclist in Beijing, you are not alone -- thousands of bikes line the streets and sidewalks. Also obliterating any potential aloneness are thousands of rickshaws, mopeds, taxis, trucks, motorcycles and cars all sharing the same space. Left turns are a terrifying world of their own. Pedestrians hop quickly across the street, not quite protected by crosswalks, avoiding a squishing like so many Froggers. Motor vehicles appear suddenly in the strangest of places (one guy honked his moped horn in a retail store to get past). It's daunting.

Somehow the lure of covering the sprawling city so nimbly (and having wind in our faces) proved irresistable. We set aside any concerns for bodily harm, and slapped down a deposit, picking up two single-gear city bikes and pedaling off down the alley into Beijing. We instantly realized this was the best decision we had ever made. We could cover a mile in just a few minutes, and explore any sidestreet or alley that caught our eye. We visited some of the lakeside parks in town, taking breaks and just enjoying the view. We saw much that we would never have seen if we hadn't rented the bikes, and were ecstatic and inspired upon our return.

Back in San Francisco, I've just purchased a bike. I owe most of the inspiration to the Harmony Hotel, No. 59, Suzhou Hutong, Youtong Street, Dongcheng District, Beijing, China, 100005. Thanks, guys. Oh, and, you might consider cutting down on the amount of bleach used in your operation.

Bignose and Specialbeard go cycling.

Two Weeks in China: Strange Sight

2005-08-10T07:54:00.000-07:00

As we boarded the Metro in Beijing, the train left the stop. The door between cars opened and a man crawled in. He was on a wheeled board. He had a speaker hanging around his neck and was shouting into a microphone. Somewhere in the equation was an echo to his voice, though I could not see any visible effect units or anything of that nature. He carried on like a psychedelic disabled auctioneer, making his way to the next car.

The disabled are largely screwed in China, and I do not mean to make light of that or the growing problem of homelessness, but this man was so David Lynch that his effect was to inspire mindfuck rather than empathy. In my memory, it almost seems as if he was spotlit.

It's on the Internet Again

2005-08-09T13:47:00.000-07:00

Two Weeks in China: The Haggler

2005-08-09T08:20:00.000-07:00

Most things one can purchase in China are not necessarily set in price. Unless you are in a grocery or department store, mall, or the like, then prices are negotiable and often not listed to begin with. You are expected to haggle. Haggling is a an art. No. Haggling is a game. There is an etiquette to it, and classic lines of attack and defense. One could get rich selling a playbook, enabling buyers to set some kind of mental pick, lurching through the seller's defenses to a 60% discount. Playbook or not, the game is entirely predictable, with both parties finding a price they can agree on (and the foreigner still getting gouged):

B: How much is this?
S: That's 100 Kuai.
B: Hmmm... (inspecting the item)
S: Look, it's made well. It's authentic.
B: Hmmm, I don't know. It's a bit expensive.
S: I will give you a special discount, because it's very hot today. 90 Kuai.
B: Can you go any lower?
S: 85 Kuai.
B: (Silence) *
S: OK, how much do you want to pay? **
B: 10.
S: Ha! 10! You're crazy! I have to eat, you know!
B: OK, 20.
S: How about 50?
B: 20.
S: 40, best price.
B: Thanks, I'll find it somewhere else. ***
S: OK, OK, 25. ****
B: Deal.

* The continued silence and uncertainty seemed to work for awhile, depending on the ferocity of the salesperson.
** This is a crucial moment, the seller's "check mate." The price will only go up from what you state.
*** The walking away technique seemed to work quite well with some vendors also.
**** Actual value = 5.

Some days we were feisty, and had some great exchanges. I found when I spoke my limited Chinese we were more successful. Plus it was great practice. The first thing we purchased, we haggled through sheer confusion, both of us being nervous and using the point and buy technique. She stated a price, and while I tried to translate it she kept lowering it, thinking I was stalling. I got the stuff down, though, haggling like a champ at various street markets and stores.

Other days you were sick of it, and just wanted a price up front. Being sunburnt and dehydrated does not make you all that keen on haggling. It did make me solid in the face of a pushy U.S. salesperson just recently, though. It's like boot camp. Best price, my friends, best price.

(actual haggling notes)

Two Weeks in China: Bignose and Specialbeard

2005-08-05T13:14:00.000-07:00

The ladyfriend and I are tall Caucasians. I have a beard and blonde hair. Walking down the street in China, there was simply no way anyone could possibly mistake us for locals. We'd read about the stares a Westerner receives, but it didn't quite prepare you for the awkward feeling of being so conspicuous everywhere you went. It must be what a celebrity feels like, taking in stares ranging from mild interest to completely befuddled slack-jawed gazes. Children will run up and yelp "lao wai (foreigner)," pointing at you with a burst of laughter. Everywhere we walked, we'd hear the term. Although the word translates to "foreginer," in Chinese it does not carry the slight negative implication we give it. Still, it's an odd feeling hearing it everywhere you are, making you a trifle paranoid and self-conscious at first. Eventually we just got used to it and/or phased it out.

Phasing it out, however, did not leave us immune -- plenty of comic moments awaited us. To wit: upon exiting the Shanghai Museum, we met two nice girls from Xi'an (incidentally, we seemed to meet a lot of nice people from Xi'an). We chatted awhile, and then they began comparing our physical characteristics, telling the ladyfriend that her eyes were like their own, but that she had a big nose. Later that week, I ventured out on my own in Shanghai, and a woman introduced herself. She told me that my beard was very special. Well, I like it too, I guess. Bignose and specialbeard, couple of the year.

The good news is that I found a silver lining to my glaring whiteness. When I travel to places where tourists are harder to identify, I become obsessed with hiding my touristness, sneaking peeks at maps and snapping pictures with the utmost of discression, avoiding bermuda shorts and excessive gawking. In China, all bets were off. I was a tourist. Since there was no hiding it, I took enough photographs to melt your eyes, capturing everything in my path. Total tourist freedom. Reckless travel abandon.

Bignose and Specialbeard, at your service.

Two Weeks in China: Sentimental Music

2005-08-04T08:38:00.000-07:00

While China has its share of bars, rock and roll, and other youthful gathering spots, it boasts a different mode of music appreciation we seem to lack in the west.

Each morning, in any park in China, in addition to various group exercises such as Tai Chi, people gather to enjoy music.

During just one morning in Lake Behai park in Beijing, we witnessed a horde of loud singers, a large group playing harmonicas, several people tapdancing, and various couples ballroom dancing to a distorted boombox. These scenes were to repeat themselves throughout the trip -- any public park offered this evidence of community in the face of staggering population.

In Jing Shan park we found a hero, who we christened "the Rogue." Several couples were ballroom dancing, and this woman stood about 30 feet away, dancing alone -- not balroom dancing, more of weird stationary two-step. And she did it with gusto. We imagined her as a hard-living beerhound, who happened to love waltzes. We will never forget the Rogue.

The Rogue

Our good humor and Rogue fantasy were surely inspired by the group dancing in front of us. While Americans have sporting events, rock concerts, plays, movies, fireworks, parades, and any number of events to lure us from our homes, there seemed a certain intimacy to these music lovers that I don't find here in the U.S. It was really quite touching. I would feel completely embarrassed to waltz in a public park -- this is partly my own nature of course, unwilling as I am to dance in nearly any venue, but I imagine most Americans would feel a similar apprehension.

Noticeably absent from many of these gatherings were the younger people. The cutoff seemed to be somewhere around the age of 30. From my own observation, I would guess that the youth were at shopping malls, rock concerts, sporting events, movie theaters, and other Western imports, next to one another but not eye to eye, each of them diverging into their burgeoning subculture.


Ballroom Dancers	Harmonica Jammers

Two Weeks in China: Snake! Scorpion!

2005-08-02T08:09:00.000-07:00

Before leaving, I promised several of my friends and colleagues that while I was in China, I would eat a scorpion. I even boasted here for you three readers. In Beijing, if scorpion eating is your ambition, you should head to the Donghuamen night market. I would offer the same advice to those craving seahorse, grasshopper, starfish, cicada, silkworm, various organs, grilled baby sparrows, crickets -- essentially anything you can think of. We started with some of the lighter offerings, enjoying a spicy lamb kebab, making a meat-stick toast to food poisoning.

Donghuamen Night Market, Beijing

I was anxious about this whole scorpion thing, wondering if I hadn't talked too much. It was then that I felt something cold against my arm. "Cold Beer!" shouted the vendor, surely sent from the heavens. I haggled a bit, obtaining a couple beers for myself and the ladyfriend. China lacks public drinking laws, and having an ice cold beer right there on the street at a crazy night market in nearly 100 degree weather was really magnificent. That moment was some kind of cheap, cold beer Nirvana, and we stood in bliss for a moment before I remembered my mission.

We walked back down to where we had seen one of the scorpion guys. All the vendors seemed aware of my quest for eating bravado, shouting "hello" and holding up their most terrifying fare. We approached the scorpion guy and witnessed a brief food challenge. His neighbor held up a grilled snake and yelled "Snaaaaake!" from deep inside, as a pro wrestling announcer might introduce the next challenger. "Scorpion!" countered our guy, laughing and holding up a stick with three of our poisonous friends. He won. He seemed proud of me as I paid and took the scorpions. We moved out of the way, where the ladyfriend could capture the moment on film, er, memory card. I ate two of the three scorpions. Mission accomplished.

Two Weeks In China: WWMT?

2005-08-01T14:17:00.000-07:00

The line to the mausoleum moved quickly. We were hurried into the first room in groups of four, happy to be in any air-conditioned space. From here the line split two ways, down two dark hallways and into the main room. There lay Chairman Mao, representing something different to each person there. A flag covered the lower half of his body. There are claims of the body being replaced by a wax figure, but the wrinkling face smacked of authenticity, not to mention all the surrounding technology maintaining the temperature in the room and within the body's glass container.

Viewers were not permitted to loiter, rushing through the chamber and spilling into... the gift shop. The gift shop. What would Mao think? How do you reconcile these two archetypes -- charismatic leader and tourist gift shop? Is the tourist gift shop not the very thing from which communism promises to free its people? Is it not crass commercialism, upheld by cheap, exploitative labor and the desire for gaudy curios and souvenirs?

China must be the most capitalist communist country ever. I mentioned the ubiquitous "hello" in the last post. Stores and malls were everywhere. Western businesses appear to have completely infiltrated, with KFCs, McDonald's, and Starbucks as common as they are stateside (if not more) . Construction is rampant -- twenty cranes were visible from our window, barely keeping pace with the country's whirlwind economic growth. In Shanghai, the "free-trade zone" of Pudong has hundreds of skyscrapers, all of which have sprouted up in the past decade.

Basically, China will soon own the world. The country has opened its arms to global investment, and has invested globally. Their star is rising. Such prosperity should theoretically lift up each member of an (ostensibly) egalitarian society, but it hasn't. Rural citizens have been left behind. An increasing number of homeless and impoverished people contrast the new upper class, and corruption is on the upswing. (Not that these are new problems, or problems unique to China. )

Certainly things are better than they were during Mao's misguided Cultural Revolution, but one wonders what Mao would say if he rose from his long sleep, brushing the dust off his body and exiting his chamber. I think it might be "yikes!"


Soldiers going to the mall.	The Chairman.

Two Weeks in China: Hello

2005-07-31T10:05:00.000-07:00

Within a few days of our arrival in Beijing, the word "hello" took on a whole new meaning, becoming the most insidious word in the English (as a second) language. No longer a simple salutation, it opened and punctuated each street vendor's pitch the moment you rounded a corner. Opened and punctuated -- as in, "Hello, postcards, hello!" "Hello, you need water, hello!"

Sharp hellos rained from every direction, a near constant din in every city we visited, with particular volume (naturally) at more touristy sites. It seemed everything was on sale, and the two of us seemd to be everything's exclusive target market.

The special ladyfriend and I devised an early warning system, mustering our best military aviator drawl and muttering under our breath, "we got a potential bogie at 3 o'clock," or "incoming hello at 9 o'clock!"

One vendor at the Terracota Warriors site outside of Xi'an provided a much needed moment of "hello" levity, when she proclaimed "hello, cold water, hello!" and followed up with the unexpected "hello, cold postcards, hello!"

Cold postcards. Who knew such gratuitous luxury could be found outside the Western world?

Two Weeks in China: Smoke

2005-07-29T09:45:00.000-07:00

In the week approaching our departure, I checked the weather conditions in Beijing obsessively. One day the forecast was 100 degrees F and smoke. Smoke. I'd seen both fog and smog in forecasts. But jesus, smoke? What the hell is that? It seemed the intense pollution of China I'd read about was no joke.

When our flight finally began its descent into Beijing, the forecast smoke was visible. A thick gray draped itself over the outlying foothills and mountains, cutting visibility to next to nothing. It was a far more sour gray than our bay area fluff, where pollution just passes by on its way to the central valley. It was a more ominous brownish gray than anything I've witnessed in Los Angeles (in fact, from now on I will contend that L.A. is only a bit smoggy). Throughout our trip, breathtaking vistas were marred -- I cannot actually confirm that the great wall stretches on forever (although the gray mist did lend a particular psychedelia to that part of the trip). The polluted skies were accompanied by a thin film of dust covering one's skin by the end of the day. I'm not sure of the composition of the dust; some of it may have been sand (that Gobi desert is beginning to encroach on Beijing).

On the ground one might conclude that cigarettes contribute as much of the overall smoke as coal and industry. Dawn and I had "quit smoking" a few weeks before leaving. A word to all China-bound smokers: quit after your trip. It's like trying to quit drinking at a winery. Smoking is everywhere. Entering the Beijing Airport the first thing I noticed was that it smelled like cigarettes. People seem to light up in nearly any public space, even elevators. People lay in their beds on the sleeper train smoking throughout the night; I found myself awakened by the scent every few hours. We did not quit smoking (we're trying again now, though).

The smoke may have been oppressive (especially given the heat), but it didn't catch us by surprise. Its ultimate effect may only be to hasten the haziness of our memories, lending each mental image a bit of premature murkiness (and of course making another trip necessary).

Two Weeks in China: Prologue

2005-07-25T16:06:00.000-07:00

This is the first of several posts in which I offer my unsolicited account of my recent two-week trip to China.

After a week of frayed nerves and final preparations, the ladyfriend and I enjoyed one last American breakfast at our neighborhood diner. We had promised to avoid eating Western food while abroad, and could think of no better finale than the greasy spoon. Full, we approached our apartment to grab our bags and go. An elderly Chinese gentleman was walking past our door at a glacial pace. As we waited for him to pass, he summoned an enourmous loogie and spat on the sidewalk in front of us. We looked at one another and smiled. Not one of our tourbooks failed to mention the widespread spitting in China, a tradition not relegated to sidewalks or restrooms but happily indulged in publicly -- restaurants, stores, museums; even the most pristine forums were not safe. Even during the SARS epidemic, public service announcements did little to sway the saliva. This fellow may not have known it, but With this unrefined act he was essentially helping us grapple with culture shock, easing us into things. Cosmic coincidence. This was, without question, a good omen.

Spitting man: I salute you.

A Few Doctors

2005-07-21T15:16:00.000-07:00

My fellow doctors:

Dr. Doctor is an offensive online comic, a genre I can't get enough of, as you may know.

Dr. Dog is a band I've been digging quite a bit lately. Theirs is a ramshackle, rough-around-the-edges, Beatles-inspired, goofball rock and roll journey. Good stuff.

Doctor Fungus.

Cheerio.

Can We Have a Moment of Science, Please?

2005-07-20T12:35:00.000-07:00

Scotty has been beamed up. Add to the ever-growing list of depressing celebrity passings.

Waste Some Time

2005-07-19T17:07:00.000-07:00

Do it here.

Back

2005-07-18T12:59:00.000-07:00

Your host has returned from China. Sometime I'll post some impressions/photos. The short story is that it was incredible and I did indeed eat a scorpion. Two of them.

Half of our trip was a group travel thing -- if any of you are considering a tour in Asia, I would recommend Intrepid. They did quite well. It's a hands-on type trip with more free time than planned activities. Took care of some of the more nightmarish things like buying train tickets/such.

Today it's back to work. Ugh.

Gone Beijingin'

2005-07-01T09:16:00.000-07:00

See you in a few weeks, armed with more dizzying animated GIFs, no doubt.

Zàijiàn!

Christmas in July

2005-06-30T17:10:00.000-07:00