Live Active Culture

'Y'all ain't none a my kids'

2011-09-05T23:13:00.000-07:00

A MAN, WOMAN, AND three little kids -- two boys and a girl -- enter the 57th St. Metra shelter where I'm waiting for a southbound train. Here are some snippets I overheard:

Man: Sit yall asses down. Sit y'all mothafuckin' asses down. (He repeats this several times throughout the next few minutes, then switches to bemoaning the cost of taking his family to "the show.") I sho' didn't plan on spendin' no forty dollars.

Woman (to kids): Yeah, y'all fuckin' whores, that's comin outta your asses. Y'all gon hafta pay us!

Man: I need a blunt ... I sure as hell would fire up right here. (To kids) Don't piss in here. You gonna piss on tha elevator.

Woman: Don't piss on the elevator. They got cameras in there.

Woman: Y'all are some crazy-ass kids. Y'all ain't none a my kids. Y'all act like y'all come from the mothafuckin' projects. I didn't come from no projects. These mothafuckin' kids ... (Turns to three teenagers sitting nearby) Don'tch'all have no kids!

Boy: Mama, I love you.

Woman: You made me spend forty fuckin' dollars at the show and you didn't even watch it. You don't love me. I coulda got some mothafuckin' weed. When we get home you bet' not say shit to me. Y'all ain't my kids no mo'.

Rants about hipsters never get old

2011-07-30T22:13:00.000-07:00

WHET MOSER ON THE H-WORD ("hipster") in Chicago magazine.

My response:

First: Wow. That Harry Raab/Gibson video is a treat.

But now here's a news flash for the kids. Hip is just a body part. Best (for me) when female, very round, and very squeezable.

When you get around 30 or so, you stop caring about being a hipster, or hating on them. Best, though, to stop caring about it long before 30. Get concerned about something real instead. Let them do them, and you do you. Or like Hall and Oates said: Do what you want, be what you are.

In the day, some might have lumped me in with teh hipsterz, others would have just called me one of teh lozerz. Whatevs, I just think of myself as an eclectic creative guy who's always been into ideas and music and art rather than, say, cars and watching other people play sports. But I have never (literally) worn my attitude on my sleeve -- being an introvert, not a peacock, and also not having the patience to put in the shopping time to gather up all the fancy feathers and achieve that studiously-thrown-together look. (Occasionally, I hit upon it by accident; or when I have a woman around to dress me.) I'd rather be reading a book or hiking in the woods or making music or something. But I don't hold it against people who do rock all the wacky getup. It makes the world a more interesting place.

Now as a black dude, here's my rant. The fact that white folks have always dug black music is great.* The fact that so many white people came to feel so empty and alienated and deracinated that they decided they'd rather be black? That is a dubious blessing.

In particular, a lot of the hipster crowd -- like Raab -- seemed to be Jewish, perhaps not only because Jews predominated in the culture business anyway, but also because it seems a lot of them in the mid-twentieth century desperately wanted to be anything but Jewish: in light of history, totally understandable, yet still unfortunate for them and for those whom they were trying to be.

Be that as it may, the jazz generation is mostly dead, now so I'll leave it at that and move on to the group I find even more obnoxious – the ones whose cultural hegemony I grew up under: that is, the post-Sixties white hipsters who borrowed black music and created this orthodoxy and installed themselves as some sort of official Keepers of the Flame. The folks who latched onto blues as some kind of signifier of authenticity, and then became rock music critics and then basically invented rockism.

“Holy” Greil Marcus comes to mind – the guy who said that because Anita Baker makes sophisticated music, she's therefore not really black.

What? STFU.

Rockist types also were always sneering at white artists who borrowed from more sophisticated black genres, such as jazz, soul, or post-sixties R&B, rather than from blues. I.e., yacht rockers: people like Hall and Oates, Carole King, Steely Dan, the Doobies, Loggins, Rundgren, Toto, Ambrosia, Player, etc. -- phenomenal artists all. They were labeled “soft rock” -- although "blue-eyed soul" is closer, since they weren't really trying to do rock -- and it was always stated or implied that they weren't “real,” etc. Therefore, for a good long while, the hipster kids of the late '90s and '00s, who recognized the inherent goodness of the music, were forced to enjoy it through the screen of irony. Screw that. I like Zeppelin and Toto at the same time, sorry. How many of these critics are even musicians, anyway? I'd say listen to "Rosanna," pick any part and play or sing it by ear, then try telling me some shit like Toto "weren't artists." For that matter, try picking out the chords in a random Hall and Oates tune, say "Private Eyes," and play it while singing it in tune. Go ahead. Do it. Of course you can't, rock snob critics.

I'm glad the pendulum has been swinging back in recent years, and the indie generation has largely left that nonsense behind, embracing classic soul the same way the Boomer generation embraced blues and the beat generation embraced jazz. I think Amy Winehouse (where is she, anyway? Rehab? ** ) is a great talent, if not wise about her lifestyle choices. I'm loving Fritz and the Tantrums, though maybe they crib a lot from H&O and ABC. ***

Middle-class or affluent white people could afford to entertain primitivist fantasies about barefoot guitar-strumming sharecroppers in Delta shacks. Most black folks, post-Civil Rights, didn't find that lifestyle romantic, perhaps because many had only recently escaped that poverty, and a good many are still actually living it. My dad grew up poor (though not dirt-floor-shack poor) in Arkansas, went to college on scholarship, came to U of C to get his first Master's in 1965, and became happily middle-class. Mom's folks are from Alabama, which is a step up from Mississippi and Arkansas, they like to think. I've spent plenty of time down there, including on ancestral land in the country and even former plantations. So, I'm very much in touch with my roots, thanks. Lots of folks down there, and up here, are still living in the sort of rural poverty that the rockist cultural gatekeepers idealized. I bet those illiterate folks living in tin-roof shacks have no idea how hip they are.

The point is not that you're bad if you are poor, or that a simple life does not have simple joys, or that I don't like blues (I do; I just don't fetishize it). The point is I'm rejecting the cultural-Marxist notion of the inherent nobility of poverty and inevitable crassness of bourgeois life, and the primitivist notion that sophistication, education and craft are somehow less than "authentic."

The punk purist version of rebellion-against-the-man” could get kind of obnoxious too, but they don't strike me as ever having been as culturally dominant. I like punk rawk! I hate punk snobbery -- because, well, the whole point was you were supposedly rebelling against snobbery, right?

There's a reason why one of the pioneers of the lounge revival (I forget his name) called rockism "rock 'n' roll fascism." Unfortunately, the totalitarian urge permeates the human psyche. Rebels depose despots, then become despots in their own right. The whole rock generation mistook aesthetic preference for ideology, even religion. Kids are still doing, that, although I think, much less in this generation than the punks and the hippies. It's just music and fashion, kids – really. If you want to fill the hole in your soul, go find God.

* Related: My take on the Great Sharon Jones & the Dap-Kings Hipster Fans Controversy.

** RIP. Shoulda gone to rehab.
*** One of my other favorite white soul-influenced acts is now old school, but they just don't get the play they should: Swing Out Sister, a bird and bloke from Manchester, who have a lot of Motown/Sixties pop influence, particularly their two early-oughts albums.)

Cuts like a knife, but it feels so right.

2011-07-30T19:30:00.000-07:00

"EVERYBODY'S INSANE with loneliness, but that’s OK. After a while you realize that’s part of the edge.”

(One Chicago-to-NYC transplant to another, as related at gapingvoid)

Life in the suburbs: it exists

2011-07-29T07:42:00.000-07:00

THE CHICAGO READER's Steve Bogira comments on a New Yorker essay, "In Defense of the Suburbs."

(Reminding me of a similar essay I was writing -- but put on the back burner a while ago.)

Being a product of the burbs, and currently being back in the burbs, and furthermore having traveled and worked far and wide across Chicagoland, I have a lot of insights about the pros and cons. So here's what I posted to the Reader blog (with some minor edits).

I'm a suburbanite -- raised out here, returned to the burbs, maybe to stay -- and I really feel no need to defend it, as if it were a crime.

Cities are part substance, and also in part, hype. The quintessential example, of course, is NYC. I rolled through last summer with a friend, hanging out in Manhattan and Brooklyn. Several young single folks I met (one a former Winnetka-ite) implicitly or explicitly expressed that part of the virtue of living there is the feeling of being strengthened and purified by the struggle. It's that old "make it here/make it anywhere" thing. My thought is, the world is full of opportunities to fight for something. Who said you should have to spend all your energy just fighting to pay rent, and maybe have a couple bucks left over for beer? (Forget the hipster diet of coffee and cigarettes -- at $13 a pack in Manhattan? Forget it.) There is definitely something of the masochist in this thinking. The myth becomes self-fulfilling prophecy. At some point you're just going to NYC because, essentially, you responded to the advertising. "They" (i.e., media and tastemakers, many of whom, coincidentally, reside in New York) say it's the place to be. So, you conform.

I like James Kunstler and much of his critique of suburbia as far as the poor planning (and the land speculation and tax policies that actually drive the logic of it all); I even agree somewhat with the perception of cultural impoverishment. Yet he and his fellow “urban archipelago” champions also go to the opposite extreme. They get all urbo-snob on us, sneering at everybody not living on their little urban islands of enlightenment while daintily sipping their proverbial lattes. Broad-brushing like that shows them to be guilty of the very narrowness and bigotry of which they accuse the non-urban world.

Suburbia isn't any one place. There's historic architecture, and there are subdivisions of ticky-tacky just put up yesterday. Some places live under the shade of century-old trees; others were recently planted on former cornfields. Some were long ago landlocked and built fairly dense; others, located on the edges, gobble up land like there's no tomorrow (or at least, were doing so until interrupted by the real estate crash).

Some are pre-automobile trainburbs and thus walkable downtowns, mixed-use buildings, and garages behind houses; others were founded later are all about cars, their most striking feature being malls, big boxes, and parking lots.

Some burbs were built as golf getaways for Chicago's wealthy. Others are home to freight yards, industry (still) and biker clubs, and others are merely bedroom communities for professionals and U of C professors. You have suburbs that are very white, heavily Arabic, heavily Hispanic, heavily black, while others are a diverse mix. And sandwiched in between the municipalities, you still have some semirural unincorporated areas with no snob zoning, where you can live pretty much how you like. I can walk a few blocks from home and see folks who raise horses, chickens and turkeys, live in RVs, collect yard cars, etc. (Live in Pilsen and collect junk, and you're a conceptual artist; live in the boonies and collect junk, and you're "trash"!)

My hardcore urbanist friend, an artist and former bike messenger who has not owned a car for probably a couple of decades, only recently overcame her suburbophobia and began visiting the southland for the occasional art show. Yes! Shocking as it may seem, art doesn't stop at the city limits.To stereotype the burbs as some uniformly bland, sterile cultural wasteland is just as foolish as suburbanites saying "I don't go into Chicago, it's full of crime."

I've run into artists out here who are fleeing the trendy artsy hoods in the city, perhaps for lower rent, perhaps because they inherited their parents' home, whatever. Various trends forecasters have seen a growing exodus of "creative class" people to the edge cities. I suspect the recession has accelerated this. The railburbs and the standalone edge cities and villages built long ago, around rivers and rails (Lemont, Joliet, Aurora, Elgin, etc.) are hospitable to singles and creatives because of their urban downtowns, mixed housing, transit, and bike-friendliness. If people are moving to real cities on the edge (as opposed to the cornfields) this isn't sprawl, it's a shift from the mega-city to other cities, which I think is a good thing.

I could go on and on, but I'll stop here before folks start assuming I'm with the suburban chamber of commerce.

My memory having been jogged, it's time to get back to my writing about the suburbs and the developmental illness known as sprawl. I did do one post a while back about faux-New Urbanism, and got a couple of interesting comments.

By the way, k of c, City of Destiny blogger, is a consummate Chicago hipster (who'll no doubt deny the label, as any good hipster does) who loves riding the rails, with bike and camera, to various suburban locations. She's got a passel of suburban photos at her Flickr site.

* Update, Saturday 7/30: Speak of the devil: I just bumped into k of c last night at the Printer's Ball at Columbia College. For the second time. I really should keep in better touch with these people I always "happen" to bump into. I don't think it is an accident.

I caught a falling star

2011-06-17T13:56:00.000-07:00

AND NOW I'VE GOT nothing but smoking, bloody stumps where my hands used to be.

Thanks, Perry Como.

An actual personal ad

2011-01-29T12:37:00.000-08:00

From the Chicago Reader:

FEMALE BARNEY RUBBLE WANTED
I am looking for someone who is just like Barney Rubble, with female body parts. Sweet, kind, respectful, and most of all funny! Looks aren't important to me. I'm looking for someone who can see the humor in life and enjoy themselves. I am also looking for someone with half a brain. You needn't be college educated, but please watch and read the news. Ignorance is one of my deal breakers. I can deal with almost any thing as long as we laugh together. If you think you are a female Barney Rubble then we might be soul mates. ratpackfan2, 42, #135737

Does she have to have a Barney Rubble laugh, too?

In any case, the above advertiser just might be interested in this blogger's co-worker.

Church of nude protest

2010-12-28T13:20:00.001-08:00

THE DOUKHOBORS, OR “spirit wrestlers,” were a semi-mystical Christian sect founded in the late 18^th century in Russia. (They later emigrated to Canada.) According to “Man, Myth & Magic: the Illustrated Encyclopedia of Mythology, Religion and the Unknown,” one of the Doukhobors’ favorite means of political protest against military conscription was “stripping off their clothes” at political meetings.

“Despite their professed pacifism, the sect has resorted to acts of sabotage, including mass protests in the nude when their beliefs bring them into open conflict with the government; on occasion the Royal Canadian Mounted Police has successfully dealt with the latter form of protest by the use of itching powder.”

Could it be they inspired the 77's song "Pray Naked"?

Who-oa, here they come

2010-12-16T18:00:00.000-08:00

These were my sister's kittens.

I'll never go back to Georgia

2010-12-14T11:26:00.000-08:00

IT JUST OCCURRED to me that despite the recent passage of the ten-year anniversary, I have never shared the story in writing. That is, the story of my adventures in the City of Dublin, County of Laurens, State of Georgia, and on the way home to Chicago. Including: being jailed, having to scare up bail, fearing I'd never get my car back, wondering how I'd get home, being served pancakes at Denny's by a convicted manslaughterer, praying like the dickens, setting up a temporary operations center in a Motel Six, making dozens of phone calls via calling card, getting my lawyer sister to intervene, hiking several miles to the pound in hopes of getting the vehicle (with scant time left for plan B -- catching a Greyhound bus), hitching a ride on a farmer's tractor, securing return of my vehicle (and thanking God), feeling like the Dukes of Hazzard hightailing it out of the county, getting unmistakable winks from up above just to let me know Who had my back, desperately borrowing gas money from my Atlanta cousin, losing precious gas money somewhere around Nashville, running out of gas in southern IL, and having to beg at eating establishments until a kindly trucker supplied me with enough to get home.

Fun three days.

BTW, I'm being tongue-in-cheek about never going back. Everybody I met -- including police, jail staff, the manslaughterer, and indeed most of my fellow detainees -- were in fact very kind to me. I just really like this song.

Bambi McMillion will make you rich

2010-11-12T11:43:00.000-08:00

I RECENTLY SAW "Prophetess" Bambi McMillion's evango-mercial for the first time on local cable TV and was--well, the only word for it is astonished.

My first thought: McMillion? Is that real? Or is she trying to one-up Creflo Dollar in having a gospel-of-wealth-worthy name?

My second thought: Bambi? That's not right, unless you are a deer, or an adult entertainer.

My third thought was to search this woman and find out about her background. Turns out it's -- surprise! -- kinda trashy.

But she's entertaining. Check out Bambi McMillion, the Speak'n' Spell remix, done by the brilliant -- and prosperously named -- Steven Buck.

Not Found (Bambi McMillion Extended Remix) from (steven) Buck on Vimeo.

Oh all right

2010-11-07T19:07:00.000-08:00

SO I'M NOT keeping this blog up as well as I'd like to. I've been working on my political blogging, which frankly is the somewhat more serious priority for me right now. Introducing Just Liberty. Should have a brand new post up tonight or tomorrow a.m.

I think I'm also going to fix up and publish my older blog, the semi-private one I've never really publicized. So much good writing that nobody's ever read ....... I will be adding more of that stuff, and new stuff too, to this blog as time permits.

What I don't get about NYC

2010-08-19T19:06:00.000-07:00

IS WHY THE OTHER four cities cities under its grip (Brooklyn, Bronx, Queens & Staten) consent to being satellites/colonies of Manhattan. After rolling through Manhattan and then Brooklyn last month (got some good street art pics, but sorry no USB cable for my phone right now, so can't upload) I searched the term “Brooklyn Hipster” just for fun, and dialed up this Myspace with its presumably tongue-in-cheek nod to “Brooklyn Secession Movement.” (Which, when you look it up, apparently is just the name of an edgy art space -- not an actualy movement.)

But why not? Think about it, Brooklyn. Manhattan needs you more than you need it.

Celebronicity

2010-06-22T20:37:00.000-07:00

SO THE OTHER NIGHT I was watching "The Soup" with Joel McHale, who kinda reminded me of Craig Kilborn. So I sez "hey where the HELL is Craiggers, anyway? Is he ever coming back to TV?" So I hop on the Nets and find that, lo and behold, he is coming back, with a new show on Fox -- in less than one week. Sweet!

"The Daily Show" was way better in the Kilborn days. I've heard people say he was "smug" and "smarmy," but they don't get that it's a shtick, a joke. He's playing a character. Unlike Jon Stewart, whose smugness is deadly serious (and totally unfunny IMO). His audience are the type who think they're the smartest people in the room. Ehh...

And I find that other Craig, the Scottish dude, about as funny as a steaming bowl of haggis. You do know what haggis is, right? I have never managed to get through a full episode of that guy. Kilborn should've stayed.

AND THEN TODAY, when I get on line, something -- I dunno what -- says: I wonder what’s up with my girl Samantha James?

So I go to SammyJ's Myspace. Whaddya know! Her new album just came out.

Today!

Now if only I can just put these psychic skills to more lucrative use.

2010-05-28T22:38:00.000-07:00

SOME FOLKS HAVE A PROBLEM, apparently, with the fact that young white hipsters are such a large portion of retro soul act Sharon Jones and the Dap-Kings' audience.

My reply to the Chicago Reader piece went like this:

White people, it is OKAY to be white and like black musicians. It really is! It is even okay to be young and white and like older black musicians. Whether enjoyed as a "hipster" or not, by age 30 none of that will matter yet they will likely have a lasting respect for the music, and that's all that matters.

I'm sure SJATDK appreciate people of all ages and ethnicities who buy their records and come to their shows, as long as they're paying customers.

By the way, I am a black dude who grew up in the late '70s and '80s and I hated Motown music. It was my parents’ music. The records sounded ancient and tinny, and they weren’t even in stereo.

But I was a huge fan of Hall & Oates. I started building a Hall & Oates record collection in high school. Little did I know I was listening to two white guys channeling doo-wop and Philly and Motown through New Wave. So now, I can appreciate Motown music. (I never really disliked Philly, I guess because the style was still in during my formative years and I heard it often: see Spinners, O’Jays, Frankie Valli in Theme from Grease…)

In similar fashion, I got into the British group Swing Out Sister, who do jazzy loungy pop. They in turn got me into -- or reintroduced me to -- SOS influences such as Fifth Dimension, Laura Nyro, Astrud Gilberto, Ennio Morricone, Burt Bacharach, etc. *

And how many soul or funk or jazz records would people have never heard if it wasn't for hip-hop samples?

People like Sharon & the Daps deserve to get this kind of love, finally. If they can't get it from black kids because they're too busy listening to Young Money or Trey Songz or whatever, let them get it from white kids.

* Ed. note 2/5/11: Add to that illustrious list the great John Barry, who died just this week.

still peeved at this r & b

2010-05-21T14:35:00.000-07:00

IN AN OLDER POST I shared why I was peeved with contemporary rhythm and snooze. In that post I blamed Sean P. "Puffy Pops/Diddly Squat" Combs for helping kill off hip hop. I have now received confirmation of this fact, from no less an authority than Pu$$ycow.

Slop culture update

2010-01-30T23:05:00.000-08:00

IF YOU HAVEN'T HEARD, there's this fascinating new nature show called "Jersey Shore." It's quite educational.

I have watched several episodes so far. Fascinating! Watch the little round one right there. See it constantly displaying its hindparts? That must be a female in heat, looking for a mate. And look, there's a male showing off its mating colors, puffing up its chest, and utilizing "product" to make its fur stand on end in a bid to attract and penetrate more females. Wow! There go two of them, fighting for supremacy!

The best thing about these critters is, they look just like people and they're really quite clever. They even have rudimentary speech skills.

TOO BAD LADY GAGA's actual songs are as boring as her video concepts, costumery, choreogaphy and set design are creative. But wait -- that describes 95% of major-label music.

New Flash: J.D. Salinger Has Died

2010-01-28T14:13:00.000-08:00

Again?

How companies are going green

2009-08-30T21:32:00.000-07:00

GREEN IS ALL THE RAGE. With mounting fears of global warming and the heightened popularity of planet-friendly products, even the biggest companies are racing to jump on the bandwagon. Here's how some businesses are "greening up" their products and images.

STARBUCKS: coffee now grown with solar energy

MOTOROLA: : Employing only Third World workers, who consume vastly fewer resources than Americans

CHARMIN: Toilet paper 100% recycled

COCA-COLA: Now with real, natural cocaine

YOUR LOCAL USED CAR DEALER: Selling 100% used vehicles

PROCTER & GAMBLE: Removing up to 10% of the toxic, caustic chemicals from its personal-care products

POTBELLY SANDWICH WORKS: All employees crazy baked

Introducing the "New Urbanist" shopping mall

2009-07-29T11:56:00.000-07:00

JUST FOUND THIS while Ixquicking (that's my new term for Googling) "Faux New Urbanism."

In a misguided attempt to inject some classical urban charm into the North Conway, New Hampshire location of Lowe’s, someone thought is would be a good idea to build-in a pretty hilarious row of fake second-story windows on their otherwise completely suburban box-store.

But how about the "New Urbanist" suburban shopping mall? This one in Burr Ridge, Ill. (not far from where I live) is the reason I was Ixquicking "Faux New Urbanism" to begin with.

The nostalgically named Burr Ridge Village Center boasts a "vibrant main-street setting." (They don't mention it's built right next to an interstate highway.) And yes, the buildings do attempt to mimic the homes-over-storefront look of real classic town centers. But instead of the variety of a real town (like Homewood, IL* , a rail-centered south suburb of Chicago), where on a typical block you might have a gas station, a corner grocery store, local mom-and-pop coffee shops, taverns, pizzerias and ice cream parlors, local banks, civic buildings, and locally owned hardware stores, every store in these fake company towns is a shiny clone of a national chain.

Rather than living quarters for shopkeepers and other normal people, the "apartments" above the Banana Republic and Starbucks in the Burr Ridge Village Center are high-end condos. In short, it's a mall disguised as a small town.

No doubt a candidate for "localwashing": "Shop Local! All your favorite hometown shops here — from Starbucks to The Gap!"

*I couldn't find any good photos of downtown Homewood, but thanks to Google and the U.S. government's scary satellite technology, you can just go to Google Maps punch in "Ridge and Dixie, Homewood, IL" into the address bar, zoom all the way in, and you'll get the street view in downtown Homewood. You can zip up and down the streets to your heart''s delight.

Or try Hinsdale, Burr Ridge's neighbor to the south, also with the advantage of commuter rail. For Hinsdale, punch in "Garfield and Chicago, Hinsdale, IL."

Michael Jackson died for our sins

2009-07-01T04:14:00.000-07:00

WAS I A FAN of Michael Jackson? For a child of the late '70s and '80s -- and an African-American to boot -- that's like asking: "Are you a fan of the sun?" "Are you a fan of the earth's rotation?" C'mon. But some distinctions are in order.

There was Michael Jackson the man: flawed, weak, vulnerable -- the one who danced with death, and stumbled.

Then there was Michael Jackson the natural talent, the consummate professional, the phenomenal songwriter, singer, dancer and all-round flawless perfomer.

And there was Michael Jackson the public persona, the mystery, the symbol, the "icon" -- the idol.

I felt for the first MJ and I hugely respected and enjoyed the work of the second. I don't care much for the third MJ since, as a believer in God, I don't really do idols.

Folks who don't worship a higher power, find lower powers to venerate instead. It's unavoidable, part of our makeup. In practical reality this makes for messy situations. A god here, a god there, a god everywhere. Thousands of gods, endless ladders and hierarchies and taxonomies of deities, often in conflict -- is it any wonder their worshipers are forever in conflict, with each other, with themselves? For example, people whose God or ultimate authority is the state are have maimed and killed others in the hundreds of millions in the last century, simply because their respective state-gods commanded them to do so. It's the same mechanism that leads people to believe Michael Jackson was superhuman.

But it's evident that like many idols, Jackson himself had a complex, tortured relationship with his status. Arguably, it's the idolatry that killed him.

The ancient Incas had a tradition of taking a servant and elevating him to deity for one day.

Then they sacrificed him.

In exchange for his a brief time as a god, Michael Jackson went to his Maker long before his proper time. Yet like the slave-king -- or perhaps, like most kings down through history -- he wasn't really in charge. His status as god-for-a-day was cynically milked by those who surrounded him: the industry, white-coated drug pushers and other assorted hangers-on and enablers who profited from him as long as they were able. They rode him until finally the ride was over.

What a tragedy for the man sacrificed to provide others not only with entertainment, but for meaning for their otherwise hollow existences. What a tragedy for a family. And what a trauma for a culture. Will this serve to jar us awake, close a chapter in American history, break the spell of celebrity silliness and allow us to be grown-ups again? Will it help us shut down this out-of-control star machine that chews people up and spits them out -- often, into a grave?

Will it help nail shut the coffin of celebrolatry, at least for a few of us-- allow us to go back to letting God do his job, and entertainers theirs?

Or will we remain a Michael Jackson nation, alternately stroked and traumatized, so at the mercy of forces beyond our control we feel the need to retreat into a cocoon of magic kingdom make-believe?

LEFTOVER THOUGHTS: About the pedophilia rap, I still don't know what to think. We know the guy was warped. We know he had quite a strange porn collection. And we know he loved children. Part of me wants to believe that his thinb about children owed to the fact he was a child, and in that sense was only preferring the company of his peers.

I HOPE ALL aspiring and working young singers will avail themselves of the selection of live Jackson footage going back to the Jackson Five, and watch their flawless, professional performances. That's what performers are supposed to do.

Indeed.

2009-06-20T14:38:00.000-07:00

Google + ADD = ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ?

2009-04-01T20:51:00.000-07:00

THIS IS HOW IT WORKS. You start out searching for info on the heart chakra -- which takes you to someone's MySpace, which triggers another Google search, and you end up watching "Young Cheezy: The Fred Fredburger Remix."

THE CINNAMON BEAR (that's a link)

2008-12-21T19:16:00.000-08:00

YOU WILL GET hooked on this Wizard-of-Oz-like, wonderfully whacked-out Christmas-themed radio series from 1937. Enjoy the acid-trip-like adventures of Paddy O'Cinnamon and his foes such as Crazy Quilt Dragon, the Candy Pirates, the Wintergreen Witch, the Ikaboos, the Scissor Soldiers, and the Bad Dolls. And, oh yeah, Santa is involved somehow, too. I happened to hear a part of one episode when I stumbled upon WCSF 88.7 FM (St. Francis College of Joliet) while dial-surfing as I sat in my car, warming up my freezing feet during a break from work. Take a listen.

America's Circus Maximus

2008-10-22T21:57:00.000-07:00

THIS MORNING I HEARD sportswriter Sal Paolantonio on the Dennis Miller show (yeah, I know, I listen to that glib, snickering-at-his-own--jokes Republican shill so you people won't have to) plugging his book How Football Explains America. The biggest revelations in that interview are no secrets to any thinking person conversant with history and with the ways of the power elite; but what knocked off my socks was that they exposed it on national radio for the masses to hear: America's preeminent national sport, football, is the "Circus Maximus" (Miller's words) of the American Empire; according to Paolantonio, it is about "violence," about "religion," about "manifest destiny," about war and conquest.

American elites wanted to form a national sport to replace the European sports of soccer and rugby, which most Americans hated. The "Founding Fathers of American sport" got together in two meetings in 1880 and 1882, at Harvard and Penn State respectively, to "fix" the game of soccer. Their first innovation was to add the first down, which enables the team to "capture territory, hold it and defend it" -- an allegory for the doctrine of Manifest Destiny. The next innovation was to add a general called the quarterback, the "cowboy outlaw figure" and "main protagonist" who "tells the story of the game as it marches across the field, just as we marched across the continent."

$tarbucks: Your Community Coffee Store!

2008-09-25T00:25:00.000-07:00

STARBUCKS HAS CHUTZPAH. Fashioning a warm-and-cozy, earth-toned, earth-friendly, feel-good glow around itself is a Starbucks specialty. Its use of art is a case in point. You go into one of their stores and you see art on the walls that fits in with the rootsy, funky, artsy vibe they fervently try to create (and then replicate exactly across nine kajillion locations). You look at it, or perhaps just unconsciously take it in via peripheral vision, and it feels nice, it feels warm, it feels soothing.

It's also glibly self-promoting. As it turns out, the art is actually a subtle image ad for Starbucks itself. Take, for instance, the piece that pictures a tree of words -- words such as "coffee," "love," "passion," "place," "community," "people." And various inspirational sayings, or presumable comments from satisfied Starbucks customers. The piece is captioned: "The Deeper the ROOTS, the Higher the Reach." What is that supposed to mean? Nothing, really. Like an Obama campaign speech, it has no meaning; it's about how they'd like you to feel about the brand.

Generally, the faker and more uncaring and more remote a huge corporate business is, the more it has to advertise to us about how real and caring and community-focused it really is. While I don't know the hearts of the folks behind Starbucks, it's not really about their conscious intent; it's about the system, and system logic inevitably drives out diversity and individuality.

The irony is that one block away from the local Starbucks store where I first saw the "tree" piece was the former location of an actual community coffeehouse -- founded by a guy I went to high school with -- that this Starbucks had helped kill off. In a Starbucks world, "community" is marketing copy and corporate art emanating from a headquarters hundreds of miles away. The people you live with? Ha, screw 'em -- they're just a revenue stream.

New old posts!

2008-09-21T20:23:00.000-07:00

THESE ARE POSTS I meant to finish up and add long ago but just recently got around to doing so.

Actually, I prefer nonduality : (skeptical take on Eastern mysticism and "enlightenment")

"When we're not on, we're not watching either": not-really-that-juicy gossip on local TV news folk

Bringing stars back down to earth: the one redeeming thing about celebreality TV

Siamese Band Names: I've added some new ones.

Jen, Jane -- whatever: A synchronicitous meetup with a onetime date who actually may be my cousin.

Bright, happy, and deadly : selling birth control pills like candy

Top 10 worst pop music trends of the last 10 years

2008-09-21T16:45:00.000-07:00

LAST TIME I POSTED about the MTV Video Music Awards. More than any other force, the music video is responsible for shrinking pop music from an art in its own right, into mere background material for dazzling imagery and fancy filmwork. Accordingly, the VMAs provide an annual snapshot of the decline of pop music, largely since the late '90s. Some of the worst trends in our video-driven pop culture, in my book:

10) Timbaland, Neptunes, and Lil Jon producing everything

9) Reggaeton

8) Simpering whiny-boy vocals in R & B

7) Female artists obliged to sing angry-bitch man-dissing songs

6) Every R &B single using the same drum sounds and synths borrowed from trance music

5) Hip-hop replaced by snap rap

4) Abandonment of chords and chord progressions (this was actually deteriorating in the mid-90s but has really hit rock bottom in the last 10 years)

3) Abandonment of melody (Covering a 2-or 3-note range in an entire song barely qualifies as melody.)

2) The loudness wars, -- leading to fatiguing all-loud-all-the-time recordings, lacking space and dynamic and emotional range. *

1) Autotune

* I mean, have you listened to anything on vinyl lately? Check out anything from the '60s, '70s, '80s, even '90s, and compare with stuff released in the last decade. This digitally laser-polished, glossy-finished, over-compressed, up-in-your face, all-loud-all-the-way-through sound that's been going on in pop and rock music for the last several years is nice as an occasional effect to signal "this is some extreme shit -- check it out." But any extreme effect used all the time becomes fatiguing. Especially when it's on every fricking song.

The other day I was listening to Frankie Valli's "Grease" and some '70s Hall & Oates stuff, like "Bigger Than Both of Us." What a reminder of how refreshing it was when recordings allowed space -- space for loud and quiet, for surprises. You remember how good the sizzle of a high hat sounds against a mellow background that's not all up in your face. You know. Percussion? Remember that?

VMAs: Very Much Annoying

2008-09-08T21:38:00.000-07:00

WHAT CAN YOU SAY about the MTV Video Music Awards? It is what it is, and everybody (except, perhaps, its key target audience) knows what it is: a big-production parade of factory-made corporate music performed and produced by hard-working, expert performerbots and crack technical crews, with absolutely no soul or feeling. (Every once in a while, however, a genuine performance manages to slip in unnoticed.) Generally the VMAs induce a sense of despair and malaise in me -- I skipped the show last year -- but I watched it this year, figuring it'd at least be fun to ridicule.

* The only thing more disgusting than the Bush administration is some prancing, preening Brit mincing in on a high horse and telling Americans how they ought to feel about the Bush administration. We'll figure that out ourselves, thank you very much, Mr. Russell Brand. Also pretty disgusting: tasteless jokes about deflowering the Jonas Bros. and slamming them for their chastity pledges.

* The best way to view Rihanna doing "Disturbia" -- her zombies-with-lightsticks-"Thriller 2008"-filtered-through-"Dirty"-era-Christina-Aguilera number -- was with the volume down and, preferably, to avoid viewing her face. (She made that part easy, though, what with the thigh-high boots and fishnets.)

* Katy-come-lately Perry: "I Kissed a Girl"? Hey, nice original song title! And what a refreshingly subversive, "dangerous" concept: lite bisexual experimentation! Wow, we're really shocking the bourgiousie now.

* Pink is hard to categorize. She's clearly kinda punk in her origins and attitudes, so I wanna like her. Yet the vehicle she's chosen to ride to the top is pure glossy, gimmicky pop in the worst way. She lets just enough of her punky persona shine through -- in fact, she has to dial it up to overdrive just to overcome the sheer shiny plasticness of the music underneath it all. I've heard just about all of her hit singles, but I can't remember a single one, except the one that's out now -- again, disturbingly slick in its production, disturbingly like everything else out there, but at least I like the galloping beat (cribbed from Gary Glitter) and the Irish-jig "na na na" hook -- that's a little different.

* Kanye? Kanye, you out there? Look, you're from my hometown, I got mad respect for your story and your achievements an all ... but come on. Does the world really need another rapper trying to Auto-Tune himself into a singer?

For all you rappers who wants to sing, do like Kid Rock did and actually learn how. Drop some of that cash you're stackin' and get a respectable voice teacher. L.A. is crawling with them.

* Speaking of Kid Rock, he provided one of the best and realest performances of the night. (The rap by Lil Wayne: totally superfluous. And speaking of Lil Wayne: will someone please kill him already?)

* And last but not least: I think I have watched about one episode of American Idol, total. So I had no idea who Jordin Sparks was until I saw her on Larry King Live a couple years ago. And I thought: Wow, she's an amazing singer (though she deserves better material) and she's gorgeous and she's intelligent. What? Seventeen?

She carried herself and spoke with a maturity and charisma far beyond most 17-year-old girls. I mean, I don't go ga-ga over stars and I generally haven't been attracted to teen-agers since I was one, okay? Yet I found myself getting a mini-crush on this girl. But then, "girl" is not the word. As I watched and listened to her, the only comparison I could make was to some Christian homeschooled young adults I've known: they stick out like neon signs, since they tend to act and speak more like, well, adults than like the typical silly kids their age. As it turns out, Sparks actually was homeschooled, for a few years at least. And from K-8 she attended a Christian school.

So it's no surprise she showed the courage to slap back at VMA host Brand for his desperate, leering jokes about sex with the Jonas Bros. and crude putdowns of their chastity pledges. Sparks, who has pledged herself to premarital chastity as well, stepped up and reminded the world that "not everybody ... wants to be a slut." Good for you, Jordin. Keep being beautiful and talented and mature beyond your years and non-slutty.

Hey, guess what

2008-07-27T18:41:00.000-07:00

CHICKEN BUTT!

It's my longtime friend from the Internets - Heather Bradley. This chick is wacky crazy talented -- I think the name of her production company, "Country Breakdance Inc," says it all.

UPDATE JUNE '09: Aw, she's taken all but three of her songs down, as well as her "Chicken Butt" skits. I hear she's preparing some new stuff to put up, though.

How to lie without lying

2008-07-27T18:39:00.000-07:00

IN THE WORLD OF ADVERTISING free speech and artistic license allow the wolf to dress as a sheep, and no law will stop him. It’s bad enough advertisers lie with words and are rarely caught, and by omission, and nobody notices; but the worst lies are implied lies told by cartoon mascots and actors playing fictitious characters acting out fantasy situations which, we are led to believe, are somehow connected to the how the advertised product actually works in the real world. These fictions transmit impressions intended to be received as fact – and yet more insidiously, to bypass our rationality by evoking desired emotions and linking them to the product, company or belief being sold. How do you accuse a fictitious character of lying?

This is not America

2008-07-04T18:23:00.000-07:00

SINCE IT'S INDEPENDENCE DAY, I think it behooves me to wax political, something I don't usually do here. What I've been wondering is: Does anybody read the writings of the Founding Fathers any more? Common Sense? The Declaration of Independence? The Constitution for the united States of America, even? (I know lawyers and federal judges don’t read the Constitution, but what about the rest of us?)

Does anyone take seriously anymore the founding documents of the uSA and the antecedent philosophical manifestos, except as a source of empty slogans and selective prooftexts in support of a few “approved” causes here and there?

I guess not. If Americans were familiar with this country’s history we’d realize we have already become the tyrannical empire that we rebelled against in 1776. The difference is it’s not London, but Washington -– followed by its once-proud creators-turned-subsidiaries, the states – who crush us with taxes, regulations and indignities small and large. And they do this with an intensity the British Empire never could have imagined. Rather than redcoats, it’s black-pajama-clad, masked, body-armored FBI, BATF and SWAT teams and local cops stomping around like imperial stormtroopers, grabbing people left and right, demanding our papers, surveilling us everywhere we go, trampling our rights and our lives. Shooting first and asking questions later.

Rather than a King George overseas, we now have a would-be King George ensconced right here at home. Of course, the overgrowth of Washington government didn’t begin with Ridiculous George; the disease has been growing for decades.

I indict the so-called education system, particularly the government schools, which simply don’t teach American history, don’t teach civics, don’t teach us the meaning of those vague terms like “freedom” and “liberty.” As Orwell prophesied, such words have become Newspeak – their meaning surreptitiously replaced with meanings almost diametrically opposite. When George W. Bush talks about “freedom” today he means something very different from what George Washington meant.

Whereas freedom used to mean the right to pursue happiness unrestricted by coercion of any kind – above all, government coercion – now it means the right to a feeling of security. Whereas freedom once was understood to be a right inherent in man, now it is a privilege meted out by government as it pleases. Whereas freedom once was understood in explicitly political terms -- as noted above, it meant freedom from government coercion -- now it’s been conflated with consumer choice: since you can choose from millions of products to buy, you are therefore free. Where once upon a time everyone understood freedom could not be imposed and foreign militarism could not achieve it, now we drop it on other countries from B-52 bombers. Why don't we just drop all the pretenses and call ourselves the New British Empire?

Bright, happy, and maybe even deadly

2008-06-25T00:10:00.000-07:00

LOTS OF ADS ARE SILLY. Those aimed at young women in particular tend to be the silliest. I don't mean funny: I mean dumbed-down and mindless, heavy on manipulation and light on information. Especially with regard to nationally branded drugs and other personal products aimed at young women, the trend is to bathe the senses in bright, happy, sappy, silly fantasy imagery having nothing to do with the products. There's a lot of bright colors, a lot of young pretty women laughing and cavorting, a lot of surreal imagery seemingly intended more to delight and distract than to deliver information.

I'm thinking of that one for YAZ birth control pills. ("Yaz"? They did that song back in '83, "Move Out," right?) A bunch of girls being ebullient and smiley and happy, skipping around, having great times together, while all around them colored balloons are floating up into the sky. Apparently market research says the way to manipulate young women is not to talk sense -- show them smiles and balloons. Over all this, the bouncy rejection anthem "Goodbye to You" plays. It's just a big party! As oval balloons (eggs?) float away into the distance and these girls say goodbye to them, meanwhile some fine print flashes on the screen -- I didn't quite get what it said. Of course, that's what they want. Remember beautiful bouncy girls, smiles, carefree defiance; forget that it's a fricking synthetic hormone that screws with your every physiological process, may increase risk of breast cancer, and can even give you a stroke -- which happened to a friend of mine in her 20s. But that's the price of "liberation," I guess.

Rhythm & Snooze

2008-04-09T18:28:00.000-07:00

I get peeved at this R & B
With its musical illiteracy
Just packed full of gimmicry
No originality
I'm goin' outta my mind ...

(To be sung to the tune of "Suffocate" by J. Holiday)

THERE'S THIS HORRIBLE R & B song, currently seeing endless radio rotation, that's emblematic of what's so wrong with the genre these days -- and its listening audience, assuming that this is the stuff they actually prefer. This purported love song, "Suffocate," suffers from many of the problems that plague most of its recent counterparts: the copycat beat and sound, the four-chord monotony, the plodding dreariness, the constricted melodic range. Most of the melody consists of a single note; in its more adventurous phrases the singer might actually cover three or even four notes).

The vocals present the annoying whiny-boy persona that has become cliche. And then, on top of the insipid tone are the inane lyrics:

I can’t breathe when you talk to me
I can’t breathe when you’re touching me
I suffocate when you’re away from me
So much love you take from me
I’m going outta my mind ...

I don't care how caught up you may be in the throes of teenage infatuation: If you are literally having problems breathing when your crush talks to you, you'd better either get yourself checked for asthma or allergies -- or give her a mint and tell her to get that halitosis looked at.
More than ever, R & B is dumbed down -- even if one accounts for the fact that its audience has been dumbed down as well. The bright spots, such as Keiysha Cole and old-timers like R. Kelly, are the exception to the rule. When I grew up in the '80s and '90s music was performed not always by adults, but at an adult level, in the sense that it was mature and well-crafted.

While cleaning and trying to organize my stuff recently, I rediscovered my cache of old music tapes. You know, the mix tapes of your favorite songs that you taped off the radio or from library-borrowed LPs back in the day. With the rare exception -- including some dance mixes from Q101 -- I stopped caring enough to tape stuff off the radio around 1998. Going through my eclectic collection (Tears for Fears here, the Gap Band there, Common, SOS Band, Led Zeppelin, and here's a little Mos Def!) was like a trip back in time. How strange and different were the radio stations of then and now, especially the urban formats such as WCGI. In just over 10 years, it's as if someone pulled a plug and let out all the soul -- not to mention the music -- out of the stuff that we still call rhythm and blues.

Listening to this stuff, I found myself wondering: Where have they locked up all the real artists, writers, arrangers, producers? The ones who came up in the '70s and '80s, even early '90s -- who knew their way around an instrument or two, maybe more? (In addition to singing, Stevie Wonder and Prince often played all of the parts on their records.) How did commercial R & B go, within the space of just a few years, from the sophisticated sounds of Angela Winbush, Quincy Jones, Jam & Lewis, Teddy Riley, Tony! Toni! Tone!, Bell Biv Devoe, Al B. Sure, early Puffy, early R. Kelly, to the faux-soul whining and hollow vocal acrobatics that dominate today?

How did we go from masterfully melded rhythm and skillfully crafted, intricate melodies and harmonies, to hollow, mindless chants where entire songs get by on barely five notes and three, two or no chords? To high digital sheen but no emotional content? To subsonic bass, yet in every other respect, complete shallowness?

Why have even those who used to produce good music -- hello, Diddy? -- now selling bottom-of-the-barrel shlock? (Well I know the answer in P. Diddy's case -- "because he can" and because the music marketing machine as it exists today rewards image, hype and payola, not art.)

And I'm not even getting into the lyrics yet.

Nowadays, "producers" (are there any songwriters still working, let alone arrangers?) seem to think technology can do everything. Computers can do a lot, but they can't compose or arrange or emote; they can only help those who have those skills. There's more processing power and speed, more features, more plug-ins, more effects, vaster digital sound libraries than ever in the history of man; and less artistry.

Yeah, I'm getting old, but what's that got to do with it? I also like new music that's good and creative. It's just that you can't find it that easily any more.

it's not just a job, it's an adventure

2008-03-25T20:03:00.001-07:00

IN THE JOB I'VE held the last six months I've had to work through rain, sleet, snow and below-zero temps. I've worked in the edge of the country and in the suburbs and in the city. I've been falsely arrested once, had the police called on me countless other times, and been treated as an idiot or (worse yet) a total nonentity countless other times. I've been berated, had doors slammed in my face, been pushed around and been called a nigger. I've been in mansions, million-dollar condos, mobile homes, houses of squalor and the more charming and picturesque "white trash houses." I've met butchers, bakers, guitar makers, executives, and one ex-powerful-congressman-turned-convict-turned-regular-citizen. I've met a guy who from all appearances was one of the original "Goodfellas" and I've met good ole boys with deer heads on their wall (or a skinned deer hangin' from the garage rafters) and yuppie traders who've got the world by the balls. I've met immigrants from all parts, including perhaps every country in Latin America as well as the Carribbean, Africa, England and Scotland. I've had a biker chick invite me to ride with her and met countless other customers I didn't feel at liberty to flirt with. I've had an old man ask me whether I had a girlfriend and I've had an eighty-some-year-old woman invite me into her bedroom. (To see her expensive Persian rugs and tapestries -- and her circular bed!) I've been ripped off by a gypsy woman and I've seen a dude with falling-down pants and only a thong underneath run repeatedly past my car, like he ... wanted me to notice him or something. And those are only the things I can recall off the top of my head right now. I have made some of the smallest -- and the biggest -- paychecks I have ever seen before or am ever likely to see in any other job. Provided I keep producing more of the latter kind of checks than the former, this blue-collar job, which does not even require a high school diploma, will the first one I've had that would actually enable me to pay off my college loans.

A dirty boy and dirty girl

2008-01-29T19:39:00.000-08:00

I THOUGHT I MIGHT LITERALLY DIE laughing. Laughing hard for three minutes straight is painful. And what if you break a rib, or your sternum or something? That could puncture your heart, so yeah -- you actually could die laughing. I had to get up and remove myself from the room so I might have a chance to stop laughing, or at least, reduce the laughter intensity level by at least 40%. I mean, it really seemed, at the time, like a medical emergency.

What brought on this admixture of uncontrolled laughing and paranoia? Well I was sitting there with Brian Wharton, a.k.a. Sharkula, and his sidekick Kick Ass Alyssia, a.k.a. The Drunk Odd Kid, in her living room, for my first screening of their surreal YouTube video "Dirty Boys and Dirty Girls."

Yes, admittedly, my paroxysms were in part fueled by some kind of herbal product we were enjoying, as well as by some beer (and possibly, some weird chemical in the Chinese take-out). It elevated every Sharkula belch, every shot of him gesturing maniacally while sporting a Burger King crown, every shot of Alyssia on an exercise bike tossin' back Old Style -- to outer-space hilarity. Even the lurching beat and burping bassline made me laugh. Or:

Rhymes like these are straight breezy, easy for me
To think, I'm the opposite of Young Jeezy
Please me, my style's sick
I'm a flea in your D-O-G
I'm in the place to get b-b-BUSY

(The "b-b-BUSY" made me bust out laughing even harder; so did typical Shark lines like "Solar polar bear stopped on a staircase"...)

But even without herbal assistance, this is some off-the-planet stuff. I am proud to know such talented and crazy people -- even if their humor is kind of raunchy, at least they are so cartoonish about it that no one could take it seriously. Brian is just a tremendously talented guy blessed and cursed with mental and physical hyperactivity, who I think really just wants everybody to like him. In the meantime, he boasts a virtually random freestyling skill -- he just grabs words and pictures out of the ether and strings them together, often to hilarious effect.

Alyssia is also multitalented, sweet, and smart, and one of the first things she said after we met was that I reminded her of her high school boyfriend, who even had the same name as me. The more we hung out, the more it became evident that we think alike. Well, except nowadays she likes people of the same sex and I like people of the opposite sex. That's a pretty major difference.Anyway, the video. Here you go. (Warning: these lyrics may offend sensitive listeners...)

The fame of Hall

2008-01-29T19:22:00.000-08:00

LIVE FROM DARYL'S HOUSE?

This is too good to be true. This is the online TV show starring one of my musical heroes doing music from his solo albums and, of course, from his thirty-odd-year partnership with John Oates. The latest episode co-stars KT Tunstall, a capable guitarist and singer who makes some beautiful harmonies with Daryl, and is not so shabby solo either. But best of all, Episode 1 (in the archives) kicks off with "Everything Your Heart Desires," a song I've never seen Hall and Oates do live -- not in the two H & O shows I've attended, not in hundreds of online videos. After that comes a acoustic-guitar-touched version of "Cab Driver," from Hall's solo album, which captures even more of the dark, misty mood of the original single, then expands into an acid-jazz jam. Then, out of left field, comes the forgotten "It's a Laugh," a late '70s single that had only modest chart success but was nonetheless a good song.

If all you know about Hall and/or Hall and Oates is their jingle-slick, radio-ready hits, you don't know the half. They're one of those acts who continually remake their songs: the live version is always new and improved, and usually extended. In episode 1 Hall's voice is in relatively good shape (not always the case anymore as he approaches 60). Do the brief registration and log in and see for yourself. The man's still got it.

The award for Worldwide Worst Song and Video of the '80s

2008-01-23T18:22:00.000-08:00

GOES TO ... TRACY SPENCER for "Take Me Back."

No, not Tracie Spencer, the "Star Search" -winning songbird who first hit in '88 at the tender age of 12, with the beautiful ballad "Hide and Seek" and the uptempo number "Symptoms of True Love." These were smart, well-put-together R&B songs and, sung in Tracie's breathy teen-age soprano, were pretty hard not to like. Ditto for Tracie -- which was why I was convinced that one day, when I got my own huge recording career off the ground, I was gonna meet Tracie, and eventually, give her beautiful, musically talented children.

In '90 Tracie had sophomore success with "Tender Kisses" and the socially conscious dance cut "This House." And more recently (okay, it was actually in 1999) she dropped an even better, even more mature album with cuts like "It's All About You" and "Still In My Heart," before dropping off the music map. Which is a shame, because the world of R&B deserves better than vocalbots like Beyonce and -- gag -- I can barely bring myself to type this! -- Rihanna.

This brings us to Tracy Spencer, who is some sort of Euro-disco bootleg knockoff of Tracie Spencer. Thanks to YouTube, we now have access to the other Spencer's oeuvre. And that ouevre is pretty awful. In particular, "Take Me Back": absolute cut-rate crap material seemingly cranked out by some committee of music industry hacks trying to make a quick buck. To accompany the horrid, tone-deaf, synthesized, reverb-drenched* record, an appropriately corny video was produced. With the look of a bad film-school project, it contains a bunch of late-'80s cliches: deconstructed art-gallery set -- check; lots of zooming in and out -- check; dance moves centered on machinelike thrusting, humping, shoulder-jiggling and stalking -- check. There are hints at sexual ambiguity and recurring shots of a mysterious male figure on a black-and-white television who looks something like a young George W. Bush. The results you can see for yourself. Tracy Spencer handily takes the worldwide prize for Worst Song and Video of the '80s.

* I'm convinced the fan who posted this video to the Italian website did something weird to the audio. The amount and heavy emphasis of reverb on this record is just unreal -- even for an '80s record.

"Actually, I prefer nonduality,"

2008-01-05T18:46:00.000-08:00

SAID PRASAD, ALOUD, in response to -- nothing. We were in the midst of a silent meditation, and he just suddenly decided to say that. The other yoga students sitting cross-legged in the room, including my brother, laughed good-naturedly, as if they understood. To whom was he responding? No one had said anything. At least, I hadn’t said anything aloud -- I had only thought it. Mind-reading? Perhaps. Are psychic powers proof of enlightenment? Not necessarily.

See, I was there at the meditation/worship session, let’s say, less than willingly. My brother, a member of the group, had invited me to what I thought would be a New Year’s party. A “celebration,” he'd called it. It wasn’t at all what I had envisioned. I had told him I might come to a party but I wouldn’t get involved in the religion stuff. However, as it turned out, it was all religion stuff: meditating, chanting prayers to various deities I don’t believe in, venerating statues and pictures. It all made me very uneasy: I didn’t like the spirit in that place and I consider the statures and pictures to be idols. And because of that, I was silently praying: for protection, and also for the protection of my brother’s two little boys who were also there and did not understand what they were doing. Because, you know, you have to test the spirits. Many of them are up to no good at all.

Did Prasad sense that I was silently praying about all this? In Eastern thought praying to a separate, personal, transcendent God would be “dualistic” -- i.e., backward and unenlightened.

Except, curiously enough, for certain dualistic practices they favor, such as arranging dozens of idols, vessels, censers, pictures of their guru, and other items of worship or ceremony on the altar. And bowing down to those idols (or as I like to call them, “non-action figures” – from the biblical observation that they have eyes but cannot see; ears, but cannot hear; and mouths, but cannot speak). It's puzzling that these enlightened ones who are going to teach me and other benighted Christians to transcend the evils of dualism, the attachment to material reality, are here literally worshiping material things.

Religions that worship statues and relics nowadays tend to deny that they do so. Each one has some rhetorical way to finesse the fact they are bowing down to and praising manmade material things. Roman Catholics have long said they don’t worship statues and relics of saints. They only bow to them, pray to them, and petition them for supernatural intervention. But relax: this is not worship, it's mere "veneration." (Orthodox folk would say the same thing, plus add that they are better since they venerate icons but not statues; but if "veneration" is not worship, then what's it matter whether they are statures or icons? They could've saved themselves a schism, seems to me.)

According to my brother, he and his fellow believers do not view the statues as gods; they are “deities.” They merely “represent various aspects of the divine.” For the time being I'll lay aside the parsing and ask one question: why do people need a visual representation of the divine? How enlightened are you, really, if you need pictures? When you grow up, you are expected to be able to read books without pictures. How much more should that be true in spirituality? And wasn’t it exactly that which Yahweh was driving at when he commanded the Israelites not to create images to bow to?

If we’re striving for complete unity and devotion to the Source of all things alone, why then would we fragment our attention upon things, the creation – and some of the lowest, crudest things at that : mere pictures and representations that we ourselves created? It’s a great example of how a very lofty-sounding principle is contradicted in practice.

Don't make "statements." Make art.

2007-12-01T18:32:00.000-08:00

AS FOR NEW YORKER critic Peter Schjeldahl's characterization of Chicago as a "receptor city" (Chicago Reader, November 29), what else is new? It was a New Yorker essayist, A.J. Liebling, who in the '50s penned a famously snotty work titled "Chicago: The Second City," painting this city as a dull, boorish backwater forever doomed to orbit the Sun of culture situated on the Hudson. I put it down to the usual coastal egomania -- the malady of NYCers and LAngelinos who think everybody must want to be them. If Chicago's greatest export is talent, surely New York's greatest export is hype about New York. Maybe we should cede the "Windy City" moniker to them?

But Schjeldahl was right about this: "The major product coming out of art schools is artists' statements." After seeing one conceptual installation show several months ago I was moved to blog that "art needing lengthy explanation probably isn’t good art. ...Perhaps some of these folks should focus on writing statements full-time."

I say this from the perspective of a self-schooled artist (now "retired") and musician who taught myself drawing and piano and singing and composition because I loved doing those things and I wanted to be really good at them. Back when I was really into drawing, I did it purely from the love of creating. Want to make "statements"? Start a blog. Write letters to the editor.

Too much emphasis on theory, "concepts," and self-referential-statement-making at the expense of actual craft or substance, threatens to turn art into onanistic self-parody and the Art World into the butt of jokes. Kudos to Schjeldahl for reminding the emperor to cover up before he catches cold.

Dead beats, or the death of melodies and chords

2007-11-09T20:01:00.001-08:00

ON A RECENT NIGHT I pulled into a Borders parking lot and the radio was playing that classic house anthem "The Music's Got Me," with that "ooh ooh ooh ooh ooh" refrain, and it reminded me of how I once hated house music.

It was the late '80s, my freshman or sophomore year in high school, when house exploded. While I grew up appreciating lots of different types of music (pop, classic rock, hip-hop, R & B, easy listening, classical, and on it goes), I didn't like this house stuff for several reasons:

1. I was on the tail end of my Beatles/Zeppelin phase.

2. It was also a clique/conformity thing: You see, I was a bougie. My family were like the Huxtables, okay? I was well-educated and "proper"-speaking and spent most of my life around white and Asian kids. I was also kind of Urkel-esque to boot. I didn't fit in with the "real black people." And as they were all into house, I had to be against it.

3. At our football games, the househeads would bring out a big-ass boom box on the sidelines and form a dance circle and start jackin' all over the place. At the time, I thought that was ghetto. It embarrassed me.

4. I couldn't dance. Since house is made for the express purpose of dancing, I didn't see the point.

5. Frankly -- especially when it came to the less melodic stuff -- I thought it sounded like jungle music.

Now eventually, in a couple years' time, I got into the house. I made more black friends. I got in with the clique a little more. I started learning some dance moves. Hey, this is fun! I came to be a househead too.

But back to Borders. After "The Music Got Me" goes off, I head into the store. Lo and behold, there's a book on pop songwriting by one of the masters, Jimmy Webb. (Title: Tunesmith.) And in that book Webb quotes Dick Bradley on the black influence in rock music, and practices that served to create "the abandoning of the tradition of melody which had characterized earlier light and popular musics in Europe and America."

Bradley, sadly, is right to some extent. It's not that the African-American tradition didn't add lots of value to American music at the same time: where would we be without syncopated rhythm, without funk, without crunk, without call-and-response, without blues, without soul, without hip-hop, without house? But just as European music was in a way incomplete without the African input, music from the other extreme -- all rhythm, no melody or harmony -- is equally incomplete. And that's what we are approaching in pop, R&B and hip-hop today (save for those songs which sample the melodies composed by better musicians in a better age such as the '80s or '70s). It's time for notes to stage a return and share the stage with beats. Unfortunately, using notes intelligently and effectively isn't nearly as easy or cheap as making a drum loop on a computer.

Awesomely bad music

2007-10-28T17:05:00.000-07:00

ALL THE BAD '80s ballads VH1 can muster up have got nothing on this Aussie, a member of a songwriters message board I belong to. He's an awesomely bad music factory. Although not totally lacking in melodic flair, he tends to blur the line between "artistic" and "autistic," bringing to mind a geriatric Australian Wesley Willis with a fetish for blues, overdramatic vocals and 19th-century poetry. Some of his latest hits: "Thanks to Bagpipes and Poverty," "Death Watch Cat Blues" (about the nursing home cat that knows which patients will die), and of course, "Prostate Blues."

You gotta hear it to believe it.

Max von Bush: New World Order

2007-10-05T20:13:00.000-07:00

ANOTHER INGENIOUS VIDEO mashup from Tim Jones, loaded with subversive truths. Check it out.

(DISCLAIMER: THIS VIDEO CONTAINS CERTAIN "911 TRUTH" MEMES I DO NOT NECESSARILY SUBSCRIBE TO, SUCH AS THE NOTION -- VERY CONTROVERSIAL WITHIN THE MOVEMENT -- THAT WORLD TRADE CENTER LARRY SILVERSTEIN WAS "IN ON THE PLOT" AND EVEN WENT SO FAR AS TO ADMIT I T ON NATIONAL TELEVISION. I, FOR ONE, DON'T THINK THAT THAT'S WHAT SILVERSTEIN MEANT WHEN HE SAID HE GAVE ORDERS TO "PULL" BUILDING 7. I DO, HOWEVER, THINK IT'S QUITE OBVIOUS THAT MODERN STEEL SKYSCRAPERS, SUCH AS BUILDING 7, DON'T JUST FALL DOWN -- AND THAT WE ARE STILL OWED A REAL EXPLANATION OF WHAT REALLY HAPPENED ON THAT DAY.)

"Live"? "Active"?

2007-10-05T18:56:00.000-07:00

YEAH, DUH -- I REALIZE the name "Live Active Culture" doesn't fit this blog. Originally I'd intended this blog to preview/review events happening around the city that I'd been to, or planned to go to. Of course, I strayed from that purpose very early on, finding it easier to just do pop-culture commentary. I've been looking for a new name, but so far on Blogger, all the names I want are taken by do-nothing blog-squatters. (Yeah, I know that sounds like a fictional Roald Dahl creature...) I'd rather stay here on Blogger than pull up stakes altogether. I'll come up with something soon.

Party like a mock star

2007-10-04T20:05:00.000-07:00

WHO'D'VE THUNK THAT a stupid rap song would engender such controversy -- and not about promotion of drugs, or violence, or sex, but because it transgresses some imagined boundary between the "real" and the "poseurs"?

On message boards like this and blogs like this a lot of black punk-rock kids vented their indignation that a bunch of crunk-rappers would dare rip off, and thus cheapen, their social signifiers and costumes without understanding the profound meaning behind it all!

On a blog at "Unofficially Afropunk," Chachalila gripes:

"I just hate the fact that the same style that I really love is now being viewed as some crappy fashion fad."

Cinnamon_girl complains that because of this trend:

"What's the noticible difference between me and the average 'rockstar partying' hoodrat these days? Pretty much just my double 0s til I open my mouth."

BLACK*STAR*LINE says:

"F@$K posers and the Hot topic they came out of!"

It's amusing how 20-year-old kids are yelling about how “the mainstream” is going to “destroy our culture”! To a Gen-X-cusper like myself, this is the same hair-tearing that was going on back in the early ‘90s over the mainstream "taking over" “alternative culture.”

The funny thing (to an ancient 33-year-old such as myself) is the tremendous importance youngsters put on music and fashion choices: for all intents and purposes it takes on religious significance. Might I suggest that these folks are lacking something that bands and costumery can’t supply?

This is not to denigrate rock, or punk rock, or the afropunk community -- heck, I'm at least an associate member: I listen to punk rock, I've been to an Afropunk party, I joined the Afropunk message board. That's why I know about these sites to begin with. But this highlights the difference between people who view music as entertainment, and those who view it as identity.

BY THE WAY. As for the actual song "Party Like a Rock Star," well, I know one shouldn't expect too much artistically from crunk rap. But still, I can't be the only one to notice the half-assed way they try to signify "okay, now we're doing rock" by pasting a single looping electric guitar riff over an otherwise standard crunk beat. But the riff is one of those minor key, faux-classical things that have been R&B/rap cliche for the last ten years. In other words: the kids making this music are all mixed up; as one might expect in this subgenre, their musical vocabulary is trapped around preschool level; and they don't even know what rock 'n' roll sounds like -- they're just aping the sound everyone else in the rap game is putting out. They wouldn't know a blues scale from a coke scale. (Which might be appropriate, actually.) If you asked them, they'd probably tell you rock 'n' roll is a white music form and always has been.

If "shiftless" is bad,

2007-09-17T20:07:00.000-07:00

The n"shifty" must be good. Right?
And how come you never describe a really kind, altruistic person as ruthful? Or a really responsible person as feckful? How come you never hear of someone getting in low dudgeon?

Name every guy would love to have:

2007-09-17T19:26:00.000-07:00

Dick Bangham

And as far as faux-bluesman stage names go, Root Boy Slim ain't bad. Neither is his music. ("Dare to Be Fat"?)

siamese band names

2007-09-04T19:55:00.000-07:00

YOU KNOW -- TAKE names of famous bands or musicians and combine them for hours of fun! A few examples I came up with (most are doubles but some are triples -- and one of these I managed to cram together five artists):

Kool Keith & the Gang

Little Cliff Richard

Johnny Cash & Eddie Money

Mos Def Leppard

Notorious B.I.G. & Rich

Ice-T. Rex

Teena Marie Turner

Vanilla Ice Cube

Johann Sebastian Bacharach

Hal David Hasselhoff

Olivia Elton-John Oates

Ziggy Stardusty Springfield

The White Stryper

Ne-Yo Yo Ma

Danzig Sig Sputnik

New Mint Condition Edition

Diana VandRoss

Rick James Taylor

Widespread Panic! At the Disco

Modest Mouse on Mars Volta

Stray Cat Stevens

Boy George Michael W. Jackson Browne

B.B. King Crimson

Pink Pink Floyd

MCJanHammer5

Lil Wayne Kramer

Gang of Four Tops

Right Said Freddie Jackson

ABC/DC

Master P.eabo Bryson

Clap Your Hands Say Yeah Yeah Yeah

TV on the Radiohead

Smokey Robinson & the Miracle Cure

Living Colour Me Badd

Henry & Sonny Rollins Band

Talib Kweller

Broken Social Distortion

Roger "Muddy Crystal" Waters

Velvet Underground Revolver

The English Beatles

The OK Go! Team

Loretta Lenny Kravitz

Right Said Freddie Mercury

New York Dolly Parton

LL DeBarge J

AC/dc Talk

Madonna Summer

Swing Out Sister Sledge

Blood, Sweat & Tears For Fears

Weird Al Jarreau

Kill Hannah Montana

Go ahead ... Create your own!

Screwed up people make great art

2007-08-05T18:14:00.000-07:00

If that's true -- and I don't doubt it is -- the members of Groovelily must be real screwed up. The name might conjure up the girl in the peasant dress doing the twirl dance in the parking lot at the Phish show, but they’re anything but that. They are just a high-quality pop band fronted by a girl who's a great singer/violinist (and who also happens to be a hot redhead), who make incredibly musical music without a lot of artifice, without trying to be arty. They take their art seriously, but not so much so that they forget that it's also fun. I discovered their site a few years ago while searching, I think, for the name of a long-lost friend. I don't know why I've not written about them until now.

While we're at it, here's some more violin rock to piss off rock purists.

Damn, that's cold

2007-08-05T16:33:00.000-07:00

FOR SOMEONE WHO hails from such icy climes, Inuit throat-singer Tanya Tagaq is pretty hot. She has the "exotic"-culture thing going for her too, which in the abstract, seems like an irresistible combination. But her actual singing, as presented at her website, leaves me cold. It reminds me of a collision between a pack of wild dogs and an army of angry dwarves on a really hot day. What a shame. I really wanted to like her.

"I don't know why we make art"

2007-07-27T19:24:00.000-07:00

AYA IS THE beautiful, fragile, lost soul who writes the column "Home Far Away" for Lumpen Magazine. She's actually living in the Netherlands now. Back when she was still around town, I met her at a Lumpen shindig, but I had to leave early so we never really got to know each other. Anyway, her diary-style column in the mag sometimes contain unexpected gems of existential insight.

Late afternoon, after all the students tucked their black portfolio folders away, their chins pointed this way, curious to see what this big-mouthed Asian girl with an American accent has to show. I looked at my hands. "...I don't mean to be difficult." Then continued, "but I have nothing to show you. I left my works." And went on, "I am not an artist, and I don't know why we make art. For decoration? To sell? For the class? To make ourselves happy? To change the world? What does it mean?"

After a brief pause, someone asked, "Then why are you at an art academy?"

An accident no longer waiting to happen

2007-07-27T17:02:00.002-07:00

GOD, I HATE to sound like I’m ghoulishly gleeful about this, because I’m not – but wasn’t it inevitable that stupid news coverage of a stupid police chase would lead to a tragic news chopper crash? It was just a matter of time.

Beautiful music matters -- beautiful singers don't

2007-07-26T20:04:00.001-07:00

POP MUSIC, POPTIMISM, and finding a way to enjoy and champion good music without getting wrapped up in overwrought politics and class warfare -- those things have been on my mind a lot lately. (There could even be a book in there somewhere?) Thus, my recent comment to this blog post in which Las Vegas Weekly columnist Frank Kogan sticks up for vapid pop music by pretty people.

I agree with you that the Backstreet Boys shouldn’t be ruled out because they’re good-looking or mainstream. But they’ve “got a better beat”? Than who? Than Axwell? J Dilla? Kennedy even?

Musically, I’m about as as poptimistic a populist as there can be, but by that I don't mean jettisoning standards; I mean the standard should be "is the music well-crafted, creative and enjoyable?" rather than getting all sidetracked in image and social signifying. So I dislike the Backstreet Boys and the like, not because of their image but because the quality of their music is closer to recycled plastic than platinum.

I’m the most passionate defender of “beautiful” music there is – whether it’s Debussy, or Bacharach/David and their contemporary disciples, show tunes, phenomenal R & B and disco and soulful pop by white boys, whatever. Body-moving polyrhythmic beats -- certainly beautiful. But the plink-plunk Backstreet Boys crap, and most of the other product of the Swedish assembly line that could be produced by any five-year-old in possession of a Casio keyboard, or the hot “minimalist” (i.e. lazy) producers of the moment -- the Timbalands, the crunkists -- I just find irritatingly vapid.

Pretty does not automatically mean dumb. Jewel is a pretty girl, I think we’ll all agree, but also possesses astronomical talent and integrity and writes her own stuff. Feist is another pretty girl who makes beautiful music, including covering the Bee Gees. Miho Hatori, okay, she's a bit more of an acquired taste, but she's pretty but also fun and – how often do we hear this quality in mainstream pop? -- unpredictable.

Britney, in contrast, makes crap and thus has to give us a million dancers and pyro and fog and peekaboos of her junk in order to make up for her lack of – perhaps not talent, but judgment as to how to use it.

As for Kelly Clarkson, she's not only hot (though I liked her better when she was a little chubby), but vocalwise she can blow away most female pop singers. If she keeps on honing her writing chops she'll have my respect 100%.

What not to watch

2007-06-21T09:55:00.000-07:00

EVER SEEN THAT TLC show “What Not to Wear”? I have had the misfortune to view it a few times. Yeah, I know, I’m sorry. I’ve been between jobs (again) lately and I’ve had time to kill. Anyway, it’s one of those shows I love to hate. In addition to being fashionazis, style snobs, champions of narcissism and unrelenting cheerleaders for craven conformity and needless consumption, the Jewish-American Princess and
fashion-queen co-hosts of this show are woman-hating, slash-happy hair vampires. All they ever want to do to women with long, beautiful hair is lop it off. What is it with the “Fashion” universe's fear of feminine women?

Long hair is one of a woman’s most beautiful attributes -- especially for those not especially gifted of face or figure. They are proud of their flowing locks. You'd be hard pressed to find a heterosexual male, at least, who doesn’t like long hair on a woman -- even long and plain.

And then they have to ruin your face. Even for women whose real faces are beautiful, the show’s default position is that every woman must be painted up to look like a generic store
mannequin rather than just be their naturally beautiful selves. The one redeeming fact about Stacey and Clinton is they are not sizeists; even they have the sense to not totally alienate their audience, which is composed of real women (and men who like real women).

Today’s victim, Lynn, got nicely dressed up (although all the Paris Hilton-worthy gear was totally inappropriate for her job, which is nannying) but the foundation they slapped on washed out her face. Happily, she had the cojones to say no, firmly and repeatedly, to the hairslasher.

“I took a stand,” she told the camera proudly. “I’ve always considered myself to be a unique individual ... at the end of the day, this is who I am.”

Well you go girl. Who knows. One day this being-who-you-are thing might actually become ... fashionable?

And the crunkest!

2007-06-02T17:06:00.000-07:00

AROUND MIDNIGHT ON SATURDAY, and I've just left this opening at the Flat Iron Building, where I've been hanging out with the phenomarific painter and musician * Kevin Moeller and co. Before heading home, I stop to roll up a cig with some of the street guys outside the quickie mart. Then I go to my car and just sit there awhile listening to the radio and smoking and people-watching. I'm on North just east of Milwaukee, and of course, the traffic is jacked up like crazy since drunk pedestrians are spilling out of clubs and restaurants and everyone's hailing cabs and whatnot.

And on the other side of the street creepin' my way is this black Toyota something-or-other, and inside is this white chick with ghetto-braided hair and those oversized bug-eye sunglasses -- you know, the ones that make you look like a giant fly.

And she's got her system boomin' away to some Unk or something like that, and she's jukin' like crazy in her seat. And she sees me lookin at her and she hollers at me: "I'm the illest white girl you eva seen!"

I just smile.

"The illest!" she shouts again. "And the crunkest!"

The light turns green and she drives away and I laugh like a maniac.

* See 1:04 on Kevin's video ... hilarious.

Garry's back

2007-06-02T16:05:00.000-07:00

GARRY MEIER'S RETURNED to the Chicago airwaves recently, and after listening to him on and off the last couple months, I think he's still got the mojo. With more time to do his own thing in his own style (rather than play second banana to Roe Conn), you can see what this town has been missing for the last three years. His cohost, though -- well, I'm sure he'll grow on me, but right now he just sounds like a slightly smarter version of former Mancow sidekick Turd.

2010 UPDATE: Garry's new home is WGN, weekdays from 3-7 (when not pre-empted by a Cubs game). Still smart as a whip. Check him out.

Sweet Wonderful wha - ?

2007-05-28T22:28:00.000-07:00

WHOSE SICK JOKE was it to make panties for barely-teenage girls with a picture of a cute feline on the, er, bottom front panel, with the caption:

Found:

Sweet Wonderful Kitty

This is not being sold to grown women. This is all done in kid style, all cute in bright colors. Apparently some designer thought this would be funny. I'm not laughing, because my 12-year-old niece is wearing these. (Reason I would know: she visited and used my washing machine.)

Bring the noise

2007-05-13T18:45:00.000-07:00

ALTHOUGH SIMON REYNOLDS has been doing pop music criticism for almost as long as I've been living, I only discovered his writing late last year via this blog -- (I think while I was Googling Style Council or one of those groups, or perhaps the term "postpunk.") He has not only encyclopedic knowledge, but lots of profound insights about music and pop culture. And he has a new book out too.

For all artsy homo sapiens, it’s a pleasure to introduce you to

2007-05-10T17:55:00.003-07:00

MULLIGAN STEW.
I have never laughed so hard at a rap song. (The link is to the mp3.)

This is not new stuff, but SoCal's Soup The Chemist is still an atypical cat, still unknown and still deserving of his due. Probably because for much of his career he was rockin' the mic at churches instead of clubs. But as a true artist and a seminal figure in Christian rap, he raised the bar of a formerly very wack genre to a whole new level.

Born Chris Cooper, his original rap name as the frontman of SFC was "Super C." That mutated into "Sup the Chemist" and then its present form. The last several years of his career (he's "retired" from the rap game now, and I think started a catering business), he moved more toward positive hip-hop on a backpack tip. A lot of underground cats West and East peeped his style and I’m sure it has influenced some of the guys out there whom you’d least expect.

Soup's old website is down, but he just got a Myspace going, with only a couple of tracks so far. Check back for more. Meanwhile, there are some Soup gems hidden all over the Web.

Here. (I like the THC reference in this one)

This is by an artist named Immortal, where Soup guested

Also one here

This is Soup guesting on a Future Shock cut “Waxing Philosophical”

This is a guest appearance on Mark J “Headbobbers”

Wewetalktalkininechoesechoes. Soup guests on a Peace 586 joint from a few years back.

More samples with Soup guesting on this page (if they move for any reason you can go to Soundclick main and search “Soup the Chemist”).

But corny, simpleminded people will never have a clue on how to enjoy this cat's flow.

* 2010 UPDATE: Full Soup album downloads, 100 percent free:

Eargasmic Arrangements

Dust (2000)

Microphone Theology (1994: one Soup track)

Phase III (with SFC, 1992)
and Illumination (1994)

Thanks to Po'Safe!

Sad bastard songs

2007-05-07T20:04:00.000-07:00

AS JOHN CUSACK'S character Rob Gordon muses, pop music really has screwed up entire generations with its pictures of "heartbreak, rejection, pain, misery and loss."

As I listened to a local oldies station recently, I realized even the "innocent," saccharine teen love songs of yesteryear were completely disempowering to boys trying to become men. Just when they need to be developing confidence and strength in themselves and toward women, what did popular music give them? Emotionalism, heartbreak, desperation. Begging, pining, weeping, whining. Promises to do anything to win her heart or get her back, up to and including cutting off their genitals and handing them to her on a silver platter. The message to would-be men: you get the girl by acting like a girl.

But of course, as most of us discover sooner or later -- usually way later than we'd have wished -- acting like a girl does not get the girl. (Well, okay, some are into role reversal, but I'm not talking about those.) Nor do pop stars practice what they sing. In real life, they're nothing like the sad-sack, pitiful, whining, pleading protagonists of their songs: they're straight pimps, charismatic and self-assured to the point of absolute arrogance, because they know they may see more drawers come off in one night than many guys will in a lifetime.

Then they get on the mic and whine again. And because these singers are cute (and they're performing for teenage girls -- who, let's face it, are not hard to impress), they can pull it off. And because the teenage girls are going nuts over it, teenage boys listen to it and take it seriously. And that all makes me one sad bastard.

Spoiled brats, all

2007-05-07T18:56:00.000-07:00

PARIS AND NICOLE: Non-producing rich brats coasting on family wealth.

Paris-and-Nicole-hyping media: Non-producers coasting on footage of non-producing rich brats coasting on family wealth.

Jen, Jane, whatever

2007-05-06T19:09:00.000-07:00

THURSDAY NIGHT/FRIDAY: I have this dream about a beautiful artist/writer named Jenny or Jen, who is a white girl, with red hair. I pick her up on the street and take her for a spin in my car. Sadly, just as I get her back to my dream home, something wakes me up. (Damn!)

Friday morning, I feel moved to scour out the interior of my car, including the edges around the door frame, dirtied up by countless muddy shoes. I have a strong feeling that some new lady will be gracing my passenger seat tonight. (Not old friend Annabelle – as she will tell you, I don’t clean for her.) Who could it be? I had emailed Laura the schoolteacher, inviting her to tonight's Pilsen gallery walk; maybe her? In any case, I'm sick of the filthy car, so I clean it up and take it for an oil change.

So that evening, I leave work in the South Loop. I'm all set to head for Pilsen to the gallery district. But first, I figure, I may as well stop by the Fine Arts Building -- which itself has a formidable list of galleries and studios of all kinds, and is only two blocks away from my office.

At the FAB, I first visit Anita Miller, and then Barton Faist, whom I engage in some convo because I really like his art. He’s really into the Great Masters, which is obvious in his work. He goes on and on and on and on and on about light and color theory and how he obsessively layers colors to create translucent, vivid verisimilitude. Also he lectures me about the color wheel, color opposites, how he sees shades in what the normal person would label a plain white wall, how colors change according to the light level, how even the glow cast from a light bulb lights the air around it; how to make blacks look blacker and whites whiter.

Feeling like I’ve just earned an art degree, I go downstairs and pass by the studio of Barlow, a brotha I visited last time I was here. I remember that his pop-art collage style was not exactly my cup of tea, but still I peep in hesitantly to see what’s new. He sees me and waves me on in. And who’s sitting there but two ladies I know. The first one’s name I can’t even recall – I know her from Columbia College. But the second – who’d’ve thunk! –

Jane!

Jane is a striking, high-cheekboned, chocolate-skinned beauty. She's been a model, dancer, and entertainment editor for a Hollywood publication, but also taught at some of Chicago's toughest schools. She was named one of Ebony’s “25 Most Alluring Bachelorettes” back in the early ‘90s. A Chicago political blogger posting her pic described her as a “stone cold fox” -- one of few such individuals who ran for public office in Illinois last year. Of course, she didn’t stand a chance, being a Republican in Chicago.

I met her nearly ten years ago now, at the youthful age of 23, while working as a public relations assistant. I was helping produce an awards dinner where she was one of the awardees. Afterward, a bunch of us went out to a Hyde Park lounge. A lot of cute flirting ensued: she told me I was "young and adorable" and "cute as a button" but I just needed "a little more experience." I was intrigued. What ever could she mean by that?

"I'll train you very well," she promised, a mischievous twinkle in her eye.

But she waited for me to make the move. When I could afford it, I finally invited her out. Our wide-ranging conversation included her claim to have psychic powers inherited from Hopi shamans on her mother's side. I imagined a pineapple, and I challenged her to guess what I was picturing.

"Well," she said, "it's more like I can read feelings, intentions. Not that you could think about, for example, a banana and I could guess it exactly."

"Close," I said. "It was a tropical fruit."

I drove her home, and she invited me in for a drink. By and by, I announced it was time to go, said good night, exited the house and went to my car. But my keys were missing.

I turned back and went up the steps to find Jane standing in the door, wearing a Cheshire cat grin --with my keys in her palm.

"Hey, how --"

“I told you,” she purred. “I'm a magician.”

You don't need to know what happened next. Let's just say I ended up staying a bit later than I'd planned.

Tonight, however, Jane does not recognize me. I am wearing glasses and I don’t have the goatee I sported ten years ago. Maybe she wouldn’t have remembered me anyway. After at least three drinks for Jane and one for me, the two of us end up walking down Michigan Avenue. Taking advantage of her memory lapse, I manage to fool her into thinking I’m psychic by pulling out little facts about her that she had told me years ago: the fact her father had been a jazz bandleader and producer, or that she had lived in Hollywood and danced on "Soul Train" and "American Bandstand." She seems mystified and even a little spooked.

She is thirteen years my senior, but she’s not boring in the least. Between cracking on me about my supposedly boyish appearance ("How did you get here, on a tricycle?") and me crackin’ back about what a great job they did on her dentures, we crack each other up quite a few times.

Well. Jane ends up in my car – the car I took such great pains to clean just for her. Or for "Jen," if you will.

p.s.: I take her to Lobster King in Chinatown. She has another drink and by this time, her already goofy, dramatic personality plus the alcohol has her acting silly like a thirteen-year-old girl, cracking more jokes at my expense.

I end up dropping her off at her home. Unlike our first date 10 years ago, she does not invite me in, nor would I have accepted. It’s 1 a.m., and I have to be up at 8:30 for work.

p.s.: One reason why we had only one date way back 10 years ago was that I strongly suspected, based on her family background -- and family research I was doing in advance of a family reunion that year -- that she and I were probably distant cousins. She got a little bit freaked out about that. I thought it was cool, but she thought it was somehow perverted.

Continuing with the breast theme

2007-04-29T17:39:00.000-07:00

Don't ask why, but today I Googled the term "breast milk ice cream." This took me to a page of a breastfeeding forum where they were talking about how wholesome mommy milk is the cure for many ailments. And there was a link to an article at boingboing. net about a recent Bay Area Craiglist post that starts this way:

"We are offering a free room for a woman who is willing to provide breast milk for consumption to the household...."

You gotta read it.

Shark attacks and schizo voices

2007-04-15T18:12:00.000-07:00

YESTERDAY WAS AN INTERESTING DAY. First, in the morning I had to think about what snacks to buy for the kids. (I work at a youth media nonprofit.) I kept thinking about hummus, but I didn't have enough money to buy some.

Later, after work, I scrape together the dough to go to the Schizowave show. I somehow got onto this chick's email list, and liked her style and have been meaning to go see her for the longest time.

I go to Reckless on Milwaukee and thumb through CDs looking for some bargains. I go to the listening station and check out Shock G, and then grab a Sharkula disc -- but then upon popping it in I realize this is the same one I just bought from him at his show two weeks ago.

I'm thinking of asking one of the clerks whether he's been by the store today, since he's a fixture up and down Milwaukee. But I put that thought away and keep listening to Shock -- and then who should stroll up in the place but Shark?

We say what up -- and then, on the down low, he tries to sell me another CD. (Because Shark is just a CD-selling machine -- you know that.) But I don't have cash; I can barely make this Schizowave show, I tell him. He wants to go with me. So we leave the place.

Along the way, Brian (that's his Christian name) tries to holler at a cute girl also leaving the record store, named Carmen. But as he tends to do, he tries way too hard and scares her away -- and ruins what could've been a chance for me.

Since the show's BYOB, we grab a six-pack and then head up to Elastic Arts, where we check out the Schizo show. (This lady is different -- check her out.) Lena's performing in nothing more than a little nightie, which makes things even more fun. Beer is drunk, Mexican food is scarfed, maybe even a blunt smoked. And at one point -- sans any prompting by myself -- Brian goes: "Man, I wouldn't mind having some hummus."

You and me both, brah!

The real simple life

2007-04-15T15:47:00.000-07:00

YOU KNOW YOU'RE A REDNECK WHEN ....

... your lawn is your garage and your bathroom.

The owner of the car and tub, Sarah, (aka Stormy), calls herself a redneck -- and in her Jeff Foxworthy-worthy way, she takes pride in it. And ain't nothin' wrong with it. I love rednecks, as long as they don't have a problem with me. I'd much rather hang out with somebody with a bathtub (or other assorted appliances, furniture or vehicles) parked in the yard than with folks so uncreative as to think that a yard is just a place to park a bunch of grass.

Sarah is a fascinating lady. One of nine children, she lives in the Ozark hills of Arkansas. She buys and resells both horses and cars. She's also pretty crafty. A few years ago, when she was 18 or so, she and her brothers and brothers-in-law built a one-room log cabin for her, and she took to living off the grid. Two of her friends are named Amoz and Jed. I know her through an MSN group for Messianic Christians that I joined several years ago but have not really participated in. (Long story.)

twin

2007-04-12T19:45:00.000-07:00

sometimes you meet your twin
it’s like looking in a mirror
but just like your reflection and you
maybe twins aren’t meant to come together

drinking Earl Grey warms my body
thinking you, warms my soul
your body, a thin cup of tea
that, well, grew on me --
but your mind, spirit, soul
had my attention from Go

you coming through these doors
would be like cold lemonade
or cool sprinkler spray
on a hundred-degree day
i would hug you tight like a sister
--though you belong not to me,
but to my brother

we would sit
and share strong-as-mud coffee
mountain grown
in your island home
connecting
understanding
being understood
knowing, being known
glowing like a light on a darkened path
soulmates in a city of strangers

gestures synchronized
speaking and laughing
in perfect unison
a soul duo following invisible cues
and you'd grin your goofy grin and exclaim:

"twin"

i wish for the crowd as for me
that they could see the synergy
energy
stereophonic symphony

between us
and wonder

That they could feel these ties hidden from human eyes
we could discuss so much more than the weather
yet we find ourselves separated by 500 miles of it
and—oh yeah—

a little thing called

a wedding ring

Sometimes you meet your twin
It’s like looking in a mirror
But just like your reflection and you
Maybe twins aren’t meant to come together

Just like Buddy Holly

2007-04-04T13:54:00.000-07:00

YOU HAVE TO LOVE synchronicity.

Friday, 10:33 a.m: I’m watching The Buddy Holly Story on VH-1. Buddy’s mom is telling him over dinner, “we let you sow your wild oats, playin’ your rock ‘n’ roll …”

A moment later I flip to MTV, where on “The Real World” the black brotha’s in the health food store looking at Wild Oats products.

One hour and one minute later, in the movie: Brash, bold Buddy corners the beautiful dark-haired Puerto Rican girl, surnamed Santiago, and says to her: “If you won’t go out with me I wanna know why.”

My mind flashes instantly back to 2000 -- seven years and a few weeks ago --to a phone conversation with a beautiful dark-haired Puerto Rican girl, surnamed Santiago.

The real-life Buddy Holly met Srta. Santiago and had to negotiate with her mom just to get that first date. Five hours into the date he asked her to marry him.

In my case, I met Srta. Santiago's mom first and the situation was such that much of the time when we were together, her mother was present. However, we did get our times alone -- and after five days of knowing her, I felt like I could have married her. As I left her and went home, I felt a sadness, an emptiness I had never, ever felt in my life.

It took more than a year in our difficult, sometimes-closer-than-others, always long-distance friendship before that phone conversation in which I was asking her the same question Buddy asked his senorita. And just like Buddy Holly, I found myself asking why -- making her very uncomfortable, no doubt. (Heck, she couldn't've been a tenth as uncomfortable as me. I've been in several car crashes and a bunch more near-crashes; I've been accosted by a road-rager who came up to my car, ripped open the door and looked about to pummel me to a pulp; I've been accosted by a mob of bottle-and-stick-wielding little punks claiming Folks on a dark street at night; I had a guy nearly run over me and then threaten to shoot me -- but asking this one little question over the phone was somehow much scarier.)

She had a very good reason for saying no, since I wasn’t the first guy to have asked the question, and she had already said yes to the first guy, and I knew that. But I asked her anyway. What'd I have to lose?

Revenge of the happy baby pigs

2007-03-05T19:26:00.000-08:00

I'm not a hipster or a parent, but I'm intrigued nonetheless by the idea of "hipster parenting." (Like "alternadad" Neal Pollack, for example.) I wrote the following a couple of years ago, on an old blog that I never publicized. Here it is, only two years late.

MOMS ROCK. If you're not aware of the burgeoning "mommy rock" phenomenon, it encompasses groups such as the Motherlode Trio, the Mydols, Housewives on Prozac (well, it's rock 'n' roll -- you gotta have drugs), and of course, a festival called Momapalooza.

Not long ago Housewives and Momapalooza founder Joy Rose read an essay on NPR wherein she related her overnight transformation from SoHo punk rock queen with a gold record to . . . "happy baby pig" (her words). As the reality of motherhood set in, she quickly tired of the artist's life. Navigating the walk up four flights of stairs with kids, baby bag and toys in tow proved too challenging. So she and her "partner" (alternaterm for "husband") opted for -- gasp --

THE SUBURBS -- !

Denizens of insular urban bohemias think differently from others, to say the least. In some ways that's for the better. But there is among some that contempt, even terror, for anything and everything perceived as bourgeois: a notion that the traditional family is for the dull, the bland, the conforming -- the people who go to megachurches and shop at Wal-Mart. Marriage ("partnership," whatever) is a transmitter of patriarchal oppression. Children not only unhip; they are a burden, a disease to be cured by the abortionist. In some circles these beliefs are held quite literally. Traces of them are evident in Rose's language. In relating her journey from moshing to mommying, Rose sounded sheepish and apologetic, as if to say: I'm really sorry ... I know I'm not supposed to enjoy this exploitative subjugation to an artificial gender role forced upon me by the Oppressive Rapist Patriarchy ... but dammit, I'm lovin' it!

Rose had spent so long steeped in a milieu where women doing what nature made them to do are "baby pigs," but women who reject motherhood to satisfy misplaced ambitions and spend their time and money on themselves are not "anti-baby pigs"; they're strong and progressive. What's wrong with that picture?

Yet even punk rock chicks like Rose continue to apostacize from the cult to obey the call of nature to do what they -- perhaps too obviously to need to point out -- are uniquely equipped to do: to bear and to nurture children. Rose had to give up her "me"-centered lifestyle, but didn't give up her love of rock 'n' roll -- at least not forever. She continues to rawk, even in the suburbs. (While moving to the burbs is a tradeoff, not all suburbs fit the stereotypes of blandness, homogeneity and cultural barrenness. And as things are today, a good suburb is a helluva lot better environment in which to raise kids than the big city.)

While I don't know all the details of Rose's rock career, I admire her tremendously for simply desiring to be a real mother. And I'm glad to see the new wave of mommy rock. It refutes the notion of a huge conflict between rock and roll and home and hearth, of fun with family, of art with adulthood. It shows that artistic expression is not exclusively the province of nihilistic, solipsistic singles in their teens or twentysomethings. The movement may inject some much-needed perspective into a scene that needs to be reminded from time to time that it actually is not the center of the universe. Definitely, it will inspire creativity, since rockers who are mommies automatically have a whole new world of material to draw from. And with little ones depending on them, they have even more reasons to change the world.

Knockered out

2007-03-05T18:33:00.000-08:00

IN THE FEBRUARY 8 love-'n'-sex-themed issue of NewCity, “Marcy K” bared her soul and shared her small problem -- or rather, her two small problems, which must seem ever smaller compared to the pumped-up monstrosities being paraded around town.

Marcy writes of a recent experience at a club:

I was spending a good portion of the time wedged on a too-tight-to-move lounge space, getting knocked around by big breasts. … It seems to me that they are everywhere these days – and that single (and not-so-single) men in this city have it much too good … How did they spawn? How come all of a sudden it’s
become the industry standard to have glammed-up boobs in this city?

I began to notice the same phenomenon several years ago on the first warm day of spring. I was in the yuppie center of Chicago, Lincoln Park -- my first visit to that area in a couple of years probably -- and I marveled at the new epidemic. It was as if an “Instant Inflate” button had been pressed and everyone in the area had magically gained two sizes. They were bouncing around -- or more accurately, sort of gliding around -- everywhere, especially on a certain species of skinny twentysomething blonde commonly found jogging along the lakeshore or walking around the park toting their hamster-sized dogs. Sure, they catch your eye for a second. But then you realize you're looking at plastic, and you look away, in search of something real.

They're really impostors

2007-02-22T20:06:00.000-08:00

I'M PROBABLY THE biggest fan of Hall and Oates on this planet (Oates especially), and I know they’re old-old-school, but -- c’mon. How do professional entertainers, who presumably have managers and PR people, let a couple of clowns such as this one and this one steal what oughta be their MySpace pages?

I gotta admit though, the second one is funny. And the first guy, when I first visited a few weeks ago, has this wacked out hip-hop-swing-marching-band song from these Brooklynite goofsters. But now he's got this redickulous remix of the Muppets' "Movin' Right Along" ... (Haven't heard this song in about 25 years, but I'll be diddly-dong danged if I didn't recognize it after about the first four bars.)

* POSTSCRIPT: Somehow, since I wrote this post, it seems that the real Hall and Oates have managed to claim this myspace page for themselves. Now that's good news.

Stop the Catbox?

2007-02-21T20:09:00.000-08:00

EVERYBODY LAUGHS AT THAT commercial . And that's because it poses the question that has perplexed young and old alike for over 24 years:

What the hell were the Clash singing?

I was eight when that song came out. I only knew the word "Casbah" because my big sister told me that was the word. (She couldn't say what a casbah was, though.) I knew "kosher" because I had Jewish friends, and I could make out a few other really obvious parts, like "on the radiator grill" or "degenerate the faithful." But as for the rest, between Mick's mush-mouthy, British-accented delivery and my unsophisticated grasp of Middle East politics, I was pretty lost.

So what did I think they were saying?

Now the kid he told the boogie bear
Ya got to let the robber drown
He oiled down the desert wind
Has 'im shakin’ to the town
He shaky drove his Cadillac
He went a cruisin’ down the real
The prison guard's a standin’
On the radiator grill
(YAAAAAA)

Cheri don’t like it
Rock the Casbah
Rock the Casbah
Cheri don’t like it
Rock the Casbah
Rock the Casbah

I ordered up the profit
You better prove your sound
Degenerate the faithful
With that crazy Casbah sound
They better when they brought out
The electric cattle drum
They look and get to thinkin’
that he’s goin’ ta break his thumb
Soon as the Cheri cleared the square
Babe began to wail

[chorus]

I'm over at the temple
Oh, they really packed the rim
Think I say it’s cool
To take this child teen thing
But as the wind changed direction
And the temple ground’s on fire
The ground got a will
Oh that crazy Casbah chiiiiiiiiild

[chorus]

The king called up his jet fighters
He said you’d better run your planes
Drop your bombs between the minarets
Now the Casbah way
As soon as the Cheri goes surfin’ outta there
The jet pilots tune to the captain radio blare
Soon as the Cheri gets outta their hair
The jet pilots wail

Cheri don’t like it
Rock the Casbah
He thinks it’s not kosher
From the mental retardation
You know he really hates it

(Now here are the real lyrics.) By the way ... A live version of this song featuring Mick Jones and someone named Rachid Taha, singing in Arabic. Cool.

FROM THE CLASH to ... America? Why the hell not?

America's “You Can Do Magic” is a perfectly crafted pop song in the smooth vein of late '70s/early ‘80s yacht rock.

Now, for some strange reason, something told me last week to record a “ghetto bounce” R&B version of this song, just for fun. Last Sunday I slapped together a demo, complete with six parts of vocal harmony. It actually doesn't sound that bad. I'm wondering why someone hasn't already thought of doing this. Maybe someone like that Usher-sounding kid -- what's his name? -- should try it. It's a hell of a lot better song than "She's Like the Wind."

And whaddya know? I go on YouTube and this song has been resurrected thanks to some Harry Potter fan who’s put this song to captured video of evil warlock Snape.

While we’re talking about great songs of 1982, how about F-Mac’s “Hold Me”?

I loved everything about this song: its dreamy otherworldliness, its piano tinkling, its driving beat, its plucky guitars and percussion, the echo that makes the guitar solo sound like it was played in a canyon, the five-note scale (which is Oriental, but at the time actually made me think of American Indians), and the way McVie, Buckingham, Nicks et al. came off like an unruly, unpolished children’s choir rather than a precision-engineered pop group. I love musicians who are obviously having a lot of fun, and FM were certainly having fun in this song, or at least made it sound so.

But for me, the videos tend to spoil these images -- especially America's original video for "Magic." I'm kinda like Jade, one of the kids I work with in an after-school program, who prefers books without pictures. Just like Jade, I would rather make the pictures in my head.

two fridays of art

2007-02-12T00:01:00.000-08:00

"DO YOU LIKE REALISM?” the guy said to me when I poked my head through the door of the tiny but plushly appointed art studio.

The studio was one of many in Chicago's fine Fine Arts Building, a stately, storied old edifice which originally served as a Studebaker carriage and wagon factory and now houses a variety of artists and related organizations. (For a few months during college I had worked at the art-house theater that formerly occupied the first floor; when not busy I was always snooping around in the building's nooks and crannies.) The man was Steve, who was the husband of the artist, Alice McMahon White.

Still clutching a half-drunk glass of red wine from the last gallery, I gazed appreciatively about the small studio, crammed with intricate wall- and easel-mounted works, mostly portraits in pencil and pastel. I told Steve I thought it was about time for realism to stage a comeback.
And he let me know that a comeback, of sorts, is underway.

Not to blow my own horn, but once upon a time I was an artist of some reknown -- at least among my second- and third-grade classmates. I spent most of my childhood drawing obsessively, and over the years took myself from the crudest scribblings to Peanuts-style cartoons to exercises in surrealism and realistic "portraits." (Upon which I promptly jumped over into music, largely because of a scheduling conflict between choir and art classes).

The point is, I educated myself and I put a lot of work into achieving a certain level of skill. So I get tired of going to galleries and seeing stuff that I -- or the stewbum on the corner, or a dead person -- could’ve slapped together in ten minutes, being lauded as “Art art.” (You know what I mean: Art art is the real stuff! It's Avant-Garde!* It's Daring! It's Authentic! It's Edgy! It's Outsidery! It's Dangerous!) I mentioned this point to Steve, who chuckled and replied, “My rule is that if I can do it, it’s probably not art.” For the next 10 minutes or so, we talked about the impending return of that downtrodden and maligned genre and the barren pretentiousness of so many of the -isms of Art Officialdom.

It's not just my own background that leads me to prefer craft in art; it's also an awareness of the awesome achievements of past artists infinitely greater than I could have ever hoped to be -- particularly the great painters who worked magic with their brushes before Art Officialdom expunged the values of craft and beauty from the art world.

A skillful realist drawing, or better yet, a painting in the style of the great masters of the 19th century and before, such as William Bouguereau, can absorb my attention for minutes. (Especially if it contains realer-than-real-life depictions of Rubenesque naked ladies -- but even if it doesn't.) By contrast, a lot of the pieces I see in galleries fail to catch my attention for more than the split second it takes for my fovea to rest on them and then flutter to the next piece, and then to that adorkable art chick in the granny glasses and the dress she just finished stitching together before she jumped on her vintage fixed-gear bike to come to the show.

Art isn't only about skill, of course. Creativity, of course, plays an important role. But novelty isn't everything, and sometimes it's completely beside the point. The Rocky Mountains, the night sky flecked with stars, the soft curves of the female figure, are not new, but they are no less beautiful and no less works of art.

During our conversation, Alice herself stepped into the studio and we were introduced. I repeated to her some of the stuff I'd been saying to Steve about realism, etc. She appreciated my praise for her portraits and Irish landscapes (the latter of which are not her favorite, she said, but people seem to like them). She also showed me a few more abstract pieces in a less visible corner of the studio. "What do you see here?"

I glanced at it and replied, "Hmm, I guess a night sky, with the moon hidden behind the clouds."

"Look again," she said with a mischievous grin. "I'll give you a clue. The title is 'A Star is Born.'"

"Ohhhhh," I said, embarrassed that I had missed it.

I should mention that Steve plays in alt-country outfit Urban Twang (which I will now have to go see, along with Robby Fulks, whom I met not long ago), and he also goes to various "Sout"- Side Irish pubs with friends and plays Irish type stuff.

After leaving Alice and Steve I moseyed on down the hall to Gallery Uno, where I encountered Taiwan native and current visiting artist at NIU, Yen-Hua Lee. She is a ceramicist, and evidently a very good one. But her piece was once of those wacky conceptual installations. She had made dozens of ceramic bowls and affixed them, in circular formations, to the wall and floor. Within the bowls were decals of –- mating insects. Cockroaches, flies, ants, bees, you name it.

In a good-naturedly puzzled way I asked her to explain the piece’s significance. She gave some convoluted explanation, half of which in her broken English I couldn’t decipher, and the other half of which I promptly forgot. Maybe she was just a freak and wanted to make art about sex, it being February and all.

I’ve always had the feeling that art needing lengthy explanation probably isn’t good art; otherwise it would stand alone. (In a conceptual installation such as Lee's, of course, there are the ceramic pieces-- which do stand alone -- and then there is the "concept," which I would argue is dubious.)

Now this is not to say there isn't a place or perhaps even a need for artists who figure out weird arrangements of physical objects and concepts. I just think it's all blown out of proportion and overrationalized. As I noted above, I was quite the renowned artiste in days gone by; yet even during my High School Period, when I produced my most challenging works, I felt no need or inclination to rationalize the images with some high-sounding statement about their alleged significance. There was no particular reason I would draw a crazed vampire-like guy standing before a darkened castle on a hill, mouth dripping blood, one hand holding his plucked-out eyeball (the socket being a hole I punched through the paper with a pen tip), the other holding open his cloak whose inner pockets contained a severed head and a bloody pair of shears -- other than that I thought that was funny as hell.

Likewise, there was absolutely no deep sociopolitical or psychological reason (that I was aware of) why I would cartoon a macabre baseball game in which the ball being pitched is yet another severed head. Or a giant one-eyed creature munching on human beings. Or a circus freak with a woman's body, five o'clock shadow, and an eye patch, strangling a small bug-eyed boy with a Gumby-shaped haircut and abnormaly elongated neck and limbs. Or any number of abstract doodlings. I was fifteen. Algebra was boring. Drawing was fun.

No profound insight was being expressed in my very realistic (in an "enhanced" kinda way) pencil, colored-pencil and pen drawings of buxom females in tight shirts, or out of tight shirts. I was a horny adolescent -- not to mention kind of an art/band/choir geek -- and it was cool to be able to create my own girlfriend.

I suspect most artists work from similar motivations -- random inspiration, enjoyment of the artistic process, horniness -- and the products are happy accidents or nutty experiments for which the artist is then told he must generate some profound “significance.”

Alternately, the work is a bullshit gimmick which must be cloaked in an artificial meaning in order to make a thin and unsatisfying work seem more substantial. In these cases I often find the artist's statements to be as creative as their art isn't. Perhaps some of these folks should give up art-making and focus instead on writing statements full-time.

Exiting Installationland, I went on to Ledesma Studio, drawn by the brightly colored, mystical, surrealist paintings, and chatted with Beatriz Ledesma for a few minutes. Last but not least, while looking for Finestra, I found myself in Richard Laurent's studio, taking in his surrealist/magical realist paintings.

LAST FRIDAY IN PILSEN (when did this become the new hipster capital of Chicago anyway? Okay, I know, I've watched it happen, but still...) I arrived with Annabelle Echo at Kristoffer’s Café, where we met Vito and the birthdaying beauty Ani.

At Extension Gallery, in the glow of Jonathan Miller’s TV-screens-everywhere installation “Traps,” a bespectacled and liquored-up chick kept teasing me about how I was trying to “steal” her wine or something. I shot back that she must be racially stereotyping me –- does she think every black man is a thief? We continued this mischievous flirtation back and forth, until I turned around and who should I almost run smack dab into but long-lost friend Marnita G., whom I had just emailed earlier that same day (and had been telling Annabelle what a trip she was)! Marni is an artiste and former Columbia College classmate. Last time I saw her she was an assistant something-or-other at a gallery, but now she says she's working at a real estate office. Yep, it's all about payin' the bills.

At the Chicago Art Department, which is applying for 501(c)3 status, the chalkboard posed the question: "what would you save if your house was on fire?” Many colors of chalk were provided for visitors to write (or draw) their answers. (My answer: "My extensive Anna Nicole Smith memorabilia collection.") I chatted with Nat, one of the personages behind this not-for-profit art-school-run-by-actual-artists, whom I'd met at the '05 VersionFest and who, at the after-party at Skylark, had kindly invited me to sit with him and his friends, who shared their Tater Tot basket with my penniless ass.

We stopped at the junk-art-festooned Get Knifed Gallery ("We're here to put the cult back in culture") for a few minutes. One of the partners, an artist and DJ, I think, related a story of how he and his buds went on a road trip with a portable record player, which they hooked up to their car stereo and held on their laps.

Drawn into the Maladjusted Art space by the funked-up sounds of an improvisational band, I talked with proprietress Vanessa Shinmoto. She’s a right-hander who took the idea of using her sinister hand to access her subconscious from some book she read. (This idea occurred to me some time ago as well -- left hand equals right brain -- and so I tried writing song lyrics that way. I was surprised by the way ideas began to flow when writing with my left hand. I haven’t tried it again since, however, probably because physically speaking it’s such hard work. But it’s probably well worth the effort.
At Vespine, Lisa Whiting’s amazing yards and yards of tangled hand-knitted yarn tubes (surrounding plastic conduit), attached to bulbous sacks filled with rice, colored in yellows and oranges, looked like mutant pumpkins attached by vines. But the idea was to mimick neurons, Whiting told me. (She said she used to be obsessed with medical illustrations.)

As I often find to be the case, on balance the art spaces and the people and parties and the interactions filling those spaces were more compelling reasons to be there than the art itself, which served as backdrop to the interactions. Of course, that's probably as it should be.

The next night, pretty much all of the Wicker Park spaces were opening. Much as I like the scene, I stayed home. At 32, I'm getting too old to do it two nights in a row.

* As far as the avant-garde, I tend to think that most folks who think they are on some sort of avant garde are fooling themselves. I recently saw Camille Paglia interviewed on Book TV, and in the context of a discussion about government arts susbsidies she said:

The art world has actually prided itself on getting a rise out of the people
on the far right. Thinking, “We’re avant-garde.” The avante-garde is dead. It
has been dead since Andy Warhol appropriated Campbell’s Soup labels and Liz
Taylor and Marilyn Monroe into his art. The avante-garde is dead. Thirty years
later, 40 years later, people will think they are avante-garde every time some
nudnik has a thing about Madonna with elephant dung, “Oh yeah, we are getting a
rise out of the Catholic League. ...Now, what is the result of this? Mainstream America looks at art and the artist as a scam ...

Reality, fiction and football

2007-02-05T19:32:00.000-08:00

SEEING THAT TRUTH is stranger than fiction, I tend not to spend much time on the latter any more. But in its own way fiction still can be powerful. Right now I'm starting Bukowski's Factotum, which I should've read long ago. (Partner in grime Annabelle dumps books on me as if I had nothing to do but read books -- which would be nice.)

Bukowski wastes no time in this novel. By the time you get to the bottom of page one -- and it's only a half-page -- you've already got great descriptive writing, you've got man vs. the elements, you've got poverty and down-at-the-heelness, you've got a bit of mystery about who's this protagonist and where's he going and why he's in this situation -- and most intriguing, you've already got sexual tension. Interracial sexual tension, at that.

If you're gonna write a story, you may as well start with a bang, I mused while reading.

The Bears started out with a bang last night. It turns out, though, that they only had a couple of rounds in the chamber.

THE AIR FORCE is aggressively hunting new bomb fodder with the help of commercials run during the Super Bowl and on MTV. They're all about action, speed, excitement, boys playing with cool toys and enjoying teamwork and manly camaraderie and the self-realization of belonging to something bigger than oneself. War as a kind of extreme sport.

Of course, these exciting, adrenaline- and testosterone-releasing images and messages are the stock-in-trade of military recruitment ads. And such techniques are common to advertising in general, which works on the emotions rather than logic and usually hypes the positive while omitting the negative. So is the USAF being an exceptional liar? By one standard, perhaps not.

But to bring a sense of perspective to it, one might argue that the higher the stakes involved, the less defensible the lie. Most ads, fundamentally dishonest though they may be, aren't selling you a product that inherently includes the risk of getting your arms, legs, face or man parts blown off, or getting turned into flame-broiled hamburger -- or having to do the same to other men, women and children you've never met and in most cases will never even see. Or perhaps taking part in "domestic surveillance" against fellow Americans. Seems to me that military recruitment ads ought to be required to provide, oh, I don't know, maybe just a smidgen of actual reality?

Even MTV has "The Real World." When are we going to see "The Real World: Iraq"?

Speaking of which, I salute this guy for exhibiting a kind of bravery they don't seem to teach in the military.

Where do ideas come from?

2007-01-28T23:20:00.000-08:00

WHETHER THEY COME FROM the unconscious, the spirit realm, or both, or neither, it's an amazing process -- and all the more so for its mysterious opacity. You feel sometimes like a passive conduit, an inbox just sitting there minding its own business. And then, when you least expect it, you've got mail.

Some poetic licenses should probably be revoked

2007-01-28T23:13:00.000-08:00

POETRY IS THE one form of entertainment loaded with hoards of mediocres completely unconscious of the fact that they are supposed to be entertaining. Lest "entertainment" evoke only fun and jokes, I don't mean it that way. Entertainment is diversion that can evoke the entire range of emotions. But it should evoke something more than tears of boredom.

An Enigmarie, wrapped in a riddle

2007-01-28T20:59:00.000-08:00

ONCE UPON A TIME -- on May 26, 2000, to be precise--I received a most intriguing e-mail from an "E Aguilar."* The subject line read:
TewlveTribes

And the message:

Ahoy there Fellow!
I be the homeless one w/ a Howard Hughs' story. - Now again;
w/ out a place to lay my head in a few short days.
Hughs' attention for his generosity -apparently didn't help attract an eye for diliverance.
I'd like to generate intrest in a group living siduation like the 12 Tribes, but the possibilities are weak. Please inform as to your
caution.
Thank you,
Blessings

What was I to make of this? I replied:

Ahoy there matie!
True to your e-mail address, your message was quite enigmatic. Could you explain yourself a little more? Who are you? Where are you from? Where'd you get my e-mail address? Are you associated with the Tribes? What does Howard Hughes have to do with your situation?
And by the way, would you be related to one Minor Aguilar of Chicago?

This person wrote back. Marie Aguilar was the name given this time. She was of a certain age, which she wasn't eager to tell. She was from the Sarasota area. She had at least one daughter. She was somewhat of an artist (an "illistrator," as she put it), but also had experience as a personal trainer, but was hoping to find work as a doula. And she was in some sort of dire straits, the nature of which she was never at liberty to fully explain. And no, she didn't know anybody named Minor Aguilar.

But how had she obtained my e-mail, and why'd she write? Turns out she had seen an article authored by me in an online Christian newsletter. In that article I mentioned certain spiritually based intentional communities, and one of these was a quasi-Messianic-Jewish group called the Twelve Tribes. Marie had an interest in such groups, and she e-mailed me, perhaps thinking I was involved in one. She told me that she was of marrano Jewish ancestry and was searching for her Jewish roots in Messiah. Currently, she said, she worshipped with a "home fellowship" rather than an established church.

As for the homeless bit, I speculated she was fleeing some sort of abusive relationship. Since she was reticent to share many details, I didn't pry. But she was safe for the time being, she reassured me, and staying with friends. She was trying to get a deal on a mobile home for $8000.

She made quite an e-penpal. Her handle, enigmarie2000, proved apt. In subsequent emails, she continued with her quirky colors, formatting, punctuation, and colors spelling ("inishally," "unfourtunatly," "uncertion," "perswations," "simmilor," etc.). She called e-mails "E-s." ("Guess I started looking forward to your E-s...")

Sometimes she'd sign her name:

mare

And sometime she'd use totally off-the-wall subject lines, such as:

Massa Massa

or
-1 + +1=*

I'd ask her to explain these, but she never did. I figured: okay, eccentric artist type, I get it. But as poor a speller as she was, she seemed a very joyful, optimistic person in the face of all her trials, and always had something to share: a Bible verse, an inspirational poem, a bit of advice.

In one e-mail I apologized for not writing for so long because I'd been overwhelmed and struggling with various projects, and also, with a female person in my life:

The more I get to know her, the more I'm convinced we are really twins who were separated at birth! We are so alike in so many things (including favorite brand and flavor of tea) it's scary. ...
Yet, we've had a little falling out over a communication problem and her mood-swing problem, which sometimes gets in the way of having a normal conversation. But I still care for her and I'm praying for her. ...

Marie wrote back:

Hi ya, _____ :) good to hear you sounding well. The girl, however much your ditto, may be a type of distraction. Use caution. Seek first His Kingdom so you have a safe Haven. I'm sure of your wittness, but as humans our biggest drawback is the glove attached to our soul. You are accepted in The Beloved & greater is He in you then he that's in the world. Keep yourself clean in His Word & approach her as a lover of the goodness & faithfullness of God before direction your affections too hastilly.

Too much to say now. I'll have to give you a couple of E- forwards to catch you up w/ me.

I love you my brother. God is working mightily in you! I look forward to the wonderful things He has in store for you

We carried on occasional correspondence for over a year. I even called her a couple of times. (She had expressed interest in a marketing business I was involved in at that time, so we talked biz as well as personal and spirichal stuff.)

But then her messages became scarce, and when they did come they were abrupt and created more questions than they answered. She was again homeless, she said, writing from libraries. She was on the road. With Olivia. It sounded like a dire situation. She asked me to pray that her vehicle didn't break down. Where was she headed? I asked her. Was she running from the law? She couldn't say.

Soon the emails stopped coming, and mine no longer received replies. So I said prayers for her, and life went on.

But I couldn't help but care about the well-being of this touchingly zany lady. Every now and then I'd try to Google her, plus her email addresses, trying to find any tidbit of information. Nothing came up.

After several months, on Nov. 17, 2002, she sent a message out to a list of friends, including me, with subject line:

Famous"in his words, this man used his influence to abduct Olivia Salisbury

To the message, she had attached a Google search page full of page hits concerning Enrico Wallenda. Yep, that's right, of the Flying Wallendas, of circus highwire fame.

That's when it all started to come together. She had been Mrs. Wallenda. They divorced and he got custody of Olivia. I don't know the circumstances or the justice of this decision; it does appear that Wallenda is a "famous freemason," and by many accounts, a Mason in court has a much easier time getting his way if the judge is also a "brother Mason," as many are. Whatever the case, in January of that year Marie Aguilar, or rather Edith Salisbury, her real name, had whisked the 7-year-old Olivia off on a wacky cross-country caper that culminated in San Diego.

But as part of a national law enforcement program, Olivia's face was plastered on "Missing Children" cards sent out by this direct-mail marketing company. As a result, when she and her mom were spotted at a San Diego homeless shelter in September 2002. The law was notified and soon Olivia was back home in Florida.

The latest news is that Olivia's training to be part of the next generation of the Flying Wallendas. I haven't heard from her mom lately. I hope by now she's out of prison.

* last name changed

24/7 nostalgia

2007-01-25T23:15:00.000-08:00

THE THING THAT'S so cool about growing old as a Gen-Xer is that for several years now, VH-1 has been replaying our entire youth for us.

This nostalgia barrage is a trap, yes -- but such a sweet sticky one. Who doesn't want to relive his formative years: the years when life was simpler, when everything -- especially music -- was just better?

In addition to transporting us back to carefree youth, the retro resurgence does us another favor by setting us up as guides -- elder statesmen of cool, you might say -- to all the MySpacing iPod kids who've never owned an analog sound recording and are just now discovering '70s and '80s music.

KID: Dude! R & B artists actually played real instruments back then? They had bands? Get out!

ME: Well, yeah. That was pretty much the norm until the mid-'80s.

KID: What's that thing their voices and instruments are doing? It's weird. But it makes me ... it makes me feel good!

ME: I believe you're referring to the melody and harmonies and chord progressions? Musicians used to know those, but they kinda went out of style in the '90s.

KID: Thanks to bands like the Killers (who I was into way before anyone had ever heard of them, by the way), I'm really discovering a lot of really cool, totally underground bands from the '80s who influenced them. Like New Order, the Cure, Duran Duran...

ME: [Erupts in peals of laughter.]

KID: What's so funny? Hey, do you like my ironic Hall and Oates t-shirt? [Glances around nervously, then whispers:] But just between you and me, I really like those guys!

ME: You know, some of their best songs were never even released as singles. You have to get the albums. Did you know they go all the way back to 1969? You know, Daryl Hall used to sing backup for all these Philly soul guys -- ever heard of the Delfonics? Anyway, he was with this band called Gulliver for a while. They put out this crazy album that sounded like the Beatles, with a little more soul. I might let you borrow my CD ...
KID: [Stares blankly.]

It's little perks like this that make growing old a little more tolerable.

I'm not here to start no trouble,

2007-01-23T19:51:00.000-08:00

but I'm so tired of the Super Bowl Shuffle gettin all the play in the wake of the Bears victory, while the sweetest '85 Bears charity single of them all goes ignored!

Sadly, everyone hasforgotten Walter Payton's clearly superior song "Together As a Team."

Together as a team, we have a dream
Everyone can win together
If we hold hands in this great land
We can make life a whole lot better
‘Cause the people of the world, we are the ones,
Everyone should get involved,
If we hold together aloft our hands
Our problems can be solved!

By the way, what was that I heard about the '85 Bears returning to the studio to record a "darker" album?

Good art is the new "outsider art"

2007-01-23T18:43:00.000-08:00

AND MUSIC BY MUSICIANS is the new punk rock.

Yes! So I have proclaimed it, and so shall it be.

While googling the term "art about art" (because I got tired of encountering art about art ), I came upon this site.

"So long as most of humanity is permitted to compare and decide for themselves, Truth and Beauty, the twin sisters of the human soul projected through cyberspace into millions of homes, are certain to prevail," writes Art Renewal Center chairman Fred Ross.

Interesting. I leafed back a few pages in my journal, which was in my lap as I sat before the computer reading Ross' words. There it is -- something I wrote a couple of weeks ago:

BEAUTY + TRUTH: The partisans of each tend to neglect or even trash the other -- not realizing beauty + truth are 2 sides of a coin, created by the same Creator. Truth is his Word and beauty his Work. But too often those given to Beauty neglect and scorn Truth, while those seeking after Truth give short shrift to Beauty.

I know a lot about conspiracies, and I know well about a general conspiracy (or if you don't like that "c"-word, call it a "consensus" or a "contagion") to dumb down the American public, and that modern art was part of it. But beyond perusing the conservative salvo Degenerate Moderns (and thinking: "Wow, those Bloomsbury people sound like an interesting crowd...") 15 years ago, I've not really kept up on cultural criticism pertaining to the fine arts. But encountering some skilled realists, and stumbling upon ARC, got me thinking again.

As I taught myself to draw from a very young age--not by attending a heavily theoretical Art^TM school but by imitating Charles M. Schulz cartoons, reading Betty Edwards, and randomly doodling during classes--my ideas about art are, let's say, outmoded and old-fashioned. I've always thought art of something involving skill and technique, beauty and form. I thought it was usually best when invoking the best of the human experience, rather than the ugliest and worst. (This doesn't preclude art forms exploring darkness within the context of a narrative arc, such as in literature, film, or music.)

But the above notions, of course, were all thrown out the window over a century ago, beginning a line of artistic movements each of which strove to outdo the other in the jettisoning of anything having to do with craft, skill, even genuine creativity--not to mention the violent divorcement from the real environment.

ARC Chairman Fred Ross says:

Cézanne collapsed the landscape, Matisse flattened our homes and our families, and Pollock, Rothko and de Kooning placed it all in a blender and splattered it against the wall. They made even pancakes look fat and chunky by comparison. But this was only part of the breathtaking breakthroughs of modernism ... and their offshoots flourished. Abstract expressionism, Cubism, Fauvism, minimalism, ColorField, Conceptual, op-art, pop-art and post modernism ... and to understand it all ... to understand, took very special people indeed, since the mass of humanity was too ignorant and stupid to understand. ...

Of course, to justify this whole theoretical paradigm, all the artists that painted recognizable scenes with depth and illusion had to be discredited ... and discredited they were, with a virulence and vituperation so scathing and merciless that one would think they must have been messengers of the devil himself to deserve such abuse. And to put the final nail in their coffins, all of their art was banished and their names and accomplishments written right out of history.

And on oppressor and oppressed:

Ironically it is modernism and modernists that have for nearly a century suppressed traditional realists from the freedom to express themselves artistically. It is Realism which has been virtually banned in most of the fine art departments in colleges and universities throughout the western world.

At its worst, modern art is the joke that got itself taken seriously. Or as the ARS crew says, a "cruel hoax." And In its role as long-hegemonic ideology-- as opposed to just one of many possible styles--modernism, in particular, appears to me as rebellious man's angry, angular protest against the creation and Creator: a collective temper tantrum. But I guess that's just my backwards, conservative, Christian spin on things.

It would be silly to say that none of the various 20th Century art movements entertained, provoked thought or action, or opened new doors. I don't think even ARC says this; as far as I can tell, they're protesting the totalistic way in which these schools dominated the landscape and swept away everything that preceded them.

As I visit the Art Renewal Society page, I'm struck by the fact that I've not seen art anywhere near so riveting and beautiful in a long time. And that's not just because it features a lot of pleasingly plump, naked ladies.

While museums display realist art of the past centuries, living realists are blackballed and shunned and ignored nearly everywhere, while countless numbers of “gimmick-of-the-week” charlatans are given endless space for their “installations” or “conceptual” constructs, regardless how lacking they are in skills, meaning, poetry or grace. ...

Clearly for many people it is more important to feel that they are some part of an elitist in-group that is endowed with the special ability to see brilliance where the bulk of humanity sees nothing and is afraid to say so. Since most people aren't devoted to or educated in fine art, they have successfully intimidated the bulk of humanity into cowering away in silence, feeling foolish for their inability to understand. The average person shrinks away from believing the reality of his or her own senses in the face of seemingly overwhelming numbers of people in this 20th century "establishment" who authoritatively dictate what is great art and what everyone should be seeing....

Equally ironic is the charge that academic painting is "uninspired," a proclamation issued by critics who are unable to see beyond the technical virtuosity for which they condemn it, to see what is being said. This rich visual language is wasted on eyes that will not see. It would be no different than dismissing out-of-hand a piece of music as soon as it was determined that notes, chords and keys were used, or dismissing any work of literature upon noticing words arranged in grammatically correct sentences.

News flash for Ross: both music and literature have undergone those very developments. There have been recurring eruptions of musicless music--whether in academic or pop music circles—each with its coterie of cheerleading critics. Being familiar with this fashion in pop music, I’ll just cite the utter contempt rock-snob critics heaped upon rock acts like Journey, not because they lacked stirring songs people loved, arresting melodic hooks, great harmonies, lyrical themes with universal appeal, a kickass frontman, and the love of the masses – but because they had all these things. The injection of political partisanship into music, whether in the sixties or in the punk/postpunk era, did music no favors.

Musiclessness (disguised as “hip hop”) also has been the prevailing current in the contemporary R &B charts for much of the last decade; laziness and paucity of compositional skill and ideas, euphemized as "minimalism" and such, have been embraced by the pop music critical elite. Modern literature in recent times has had much the same problem, complete with its own self-flattering elite in-group who pretend to "get" what the rest of us don't.

Cruise-ify him

2007-01-23T18:15:00.000-08:00

TOM CRUISE IS a "Christlike figure" in Scientology? So says a high-ranking member of the celebrity-stalking cult.

At least, so says the British tabloid the Sun.

Or rather, so the Sun says of the Scientology source's saying so.

Ugh. I'm getting my typing fingers all tangled up.

Plus, I do not like to make fun of the mentally challenged.

I will stop here.

"When we're not on, we're not watching either"

2007-01-10T22:02:00.000-08:00

ONE OF THE FUN THINGS about my career trajectory is that I'm probably one of few people to have both:

1) interviewed Daley as a reporter, and
2) nine years later, served him smoked salmon canapes as a server at the 410 Club.

I've also had the great pleasure of serving canapes to some of the same media people I used to compete with or rub shoulders with in professional groups. For instance, the NBC5 holiday party. Hey, there's Warner, who I hope doesn't recognize me in the dim light as one of the supposedly smart up-and-comers from NABJ/Chicago in the mid-90s. There's Carol, who exclaims "hi!" as if she recognizes me, though I don't think we ever met; maybe she's just all full of holiday cheer and her cougar instinct is coming out. There's Anna, whom I used to run into sometimes when I was editor/reporter of a community newspaper and she a newly minted reporter at Channel 5. We'd exchange a flirtatious smile and a "hi," but we were so busy. Not long thereafter I managed to piss off one of the paper's advertisers, got myself relieved from the job, and I was out of the biz for a good while.

Later, as I'm lugging HiBoy chairs upstairs up to the balcony, there's a nice-lookin blonde sitting by the now-closed balcony bar. She wants to know if it's still open -- or can I open it back up? I say sorry, it's closed and I can't bartend -- they haven't trained me on that yet.

"I always wanted to be a bartender," she remarks. She was a server once too, she tells me. The irony: when she finally got into her "real job" it only paid her half as much. But since that time she's worked her way up the pay scale.

I ask what's her job. She's an on-air reporter. I recognize her name only vaguely, because, as I let her know, I don't really watch local TV news.

With a knowing nod and a wry smile she replies, "To tell you the truth, when we're not on, we're not watching either."

SO THEN WE GET into the fact that I've done reporting too: I mention that I did some time at City News, among other places.

"Oh yeah," she says. "We used to use their stuff."

"Yeah -- you TV guys would rip it off the wire and read it -- and take the credit." We both laughed. "Or you'd sit outside in your fancy news van while I walked up to the tenth floor at the projects to interview the murder suspect's neighbors. Then I'd come down and you'd ask me what I got." Ah, the memories! I reminisced about the low salary -- how I could barely afford to keep my car running.

She asks me why I was waiting tables. Was I trying to figure out what I wanted to do?

"Really," I tell her, "I still want to write. But I'd rather do it on my own terms. I'd rather free-lance, and write books."

"You almost have to be unemployed to do that."

"Yeah. Unemployed, but with lots of money."

"Or have a sugar mama!"

"But you're probably not rich enough for that, are you?" I tease.

"Nooo, honey!" she laughs. "I'm married with three kids. That's enough!"

QUOTE OF THE NIGHT: "WHOOOO! IT'S NOT OVER! [to the DJ:] 'PROMISCUOUS GIRL!' [to the partygoers leaving the dance floor] GET YOUR F*CKIN' ASSES BACK ON THE FLOOR!"

(The above, from a certain young anchorbabe -- first name Anna-- who commandeers the DJ's mic at closing time. Sadly, we have to inform her that the party is, indeed, over.)

"The nation mourns President Ford,"

2006-12-28T19:22:00.000-08:00

THEY INTONED GRAVELY on every national newscast.

1) Is "national mourning" mandatory? Is there a law?

2) If not, then I'll let it be known that no, I'm not mourning. I really didn't know the guy personally. He was one of the least distinguished presidents of the last century, and he got his job by accident. Seriously, why would I be all broken up?

3) If the Voices of Authority on our evening news were to find that most Americans actually were getting on with our lives just fine, would they bother saying so? Or are they too into their perceived role as court scribes and hagiographers of power?

4) Why isn't "the nation mourning" James Brown, who arguably had more impact culturally and even politically?

5) Why do so many worship power? Why are some so hellbent on making the cult of the already imperious Imperial Presidency even more so with each passing day?

The Ford death was attended by the same sort of imperialism orgasm that attended the death and corpse tour of Reagan a few years back. Why all this attention showered on a carcass?

Did we really need the nationwide tour, the honor guards, the pageantry, the fanfare, the lionization, the damn-near deification? Where does this stop? When the title is changed to Caesar and he is declared God in the flesh?

Since they are dead, dead presidents are not helped by the worship of their remains, nor by the monuments built to them, nor by the monumental sums of taxpayer-contributed paper dead presidents consumed in the process.

But for the the still-living who stand to inherit the power, exploitation of the dead for propaganda purposes -- as spellbinding talismans and ritual props for the power structure -- is essential. The modern United States of America is restoring this ancient superstition to a high art.

Bringing the "stars" back down to earth

2006-12-15T19:52:00.000-08:00

MTV AND VH-1 have perfected the art of serving up pop culture offal you're ashamed to be caught watching, with just enough snark to distance themselves from the stink. When we finally get fed up with this stuff, they'll be able to say, "Ho ho, we were laughing at it all along."

But there is one redeeming value in our glut of "reality" and celebrity, and this is revealed in VH-1's "Celebreality" brand. Although at first glance this programming block appears to be more of the same disgusting celebsession we're already sick of, it's actually doing us a great service: deconstructing and lampooning celebrity; putting celebs -- more accurately, former celebs -- back in their rightful place. These has-beens get "stripped of all their A-list privileges -- and their self-esteem" (words taken from the actual Robin Leach intro). It's actually refreshing to see the formerly famous now groveling for money and recognition by cramming into houses together and enacting stupid scripts and playing dumb games for a nationwide audience. They're back to entertaining -- which is, after all, the whole reason why they became famous in the first place.

Also there are redeeming messages buried in the glut of celebreality and celebudocs. Like VH-1's "Behind the Music" series, "E! True Hollywood Story" is commendable in its candor about the realities of fame and quick fortune. Time after time they've brought us the stars' cautionary tales of too much too soon, of addiction and burnout, of squandered millions, of betrayal by fickle fans and media, of being sucked dry by armies of hangers-on, of feeling trapped in the bubble, unable to be normal people and do normal things without swarms of fans and parasite paparrazzi.

The lives of "stars" remind me of something I read about a tradition of the Incas. Each year they chose a slave to be elevated to deity and worshiped. Then they sacrificed him to the sun-god.

THE APPEAL OF "Flavor of Love" is beyond the entertainment of stupidity and insecurity and vapidity and viciousness on parade -- an example of the absolute bottom of the barrel of the female sex. It's a vivid example and reminder of why I steer so far clear of a certain subset of females. it's also an illustration that for every evil of men there are flocks of women who will not only encourage but reward them. Which dovetails nicely with something I noticed in Trail of the Octopus, an expose of the criminal dealings of American military intelligence. This book mentions in passing the avidity with which females throw themselves at drug smugglers, mercenaries and terrorists. And so, supported by Trail, "Flavor," and personal observation -- including my own experimenting with different personas and seeing how females react to them -- I'm convinced that women could save the world by simply closing their legs.

The world needs another blog,

2006-12-02T16:58:00.000-08:00

so here goes. This one will feature opinions and information about the arts (perhaps with a slight bias toward my hometown, Chicago), as you might've guessed from the name Live Active Culture.

What, you thought it was about yogurt?

Of course, being a writer and musician and artist of sorts, I will find the time to promote my own work here, when the time comes. I don't want to too tightly define or confine the content right now. Just read and enjoy and I'll figure it out as I go along.

Blood moon rising (a retro-post)

2006-10-20T09:27:00.000-07:00

LAST NITE, A FULL moon night: fun, but started out spacey. But that was okay, since I was with equally spacey Rhonda.

What I like about her is her ability to gently chide me into remembering where the hell I'm driving, without being all carp-y, back-seat-driver-y about it. More flies with honey. More broads could stand to figure that out.

I needed the help last night since I was just kinda lost. I had picked her up downtown near the Whole Foods on Huron, where she'd been shopping. I forgot which street was which -- stupid, since I've been navigating these streets for years -- and just started driving, not knowing really where I was going. I'm glad I had R. as my copilot. She was looking nice too, her long brown hair flowing over her shoulders. In the light, you could see she sported just a few strands of silver; but for fiftysomething she's remarkably young-looking.

She showed me the building where she worked as we drove past.

She likes '70s stuff: Earth Wind & Fire, Bee Gees (disco and pre-disco), Queen. However, I mention Todd Rundgren and she asks me if that's a politician.

At David Leonardis Gallery, Dave introduces himself to me, again: "I'm Dave." I told him I'm Dave too, and we've met several times before. "Well if you'd've bought some art, I'd've probably remembered you," he quips.

"I'm still saving up," I mutter.

I get a couple cups of white wine. We look round a bit, especially at the fascinatingly weird, and funny, Howard Finster pieces. One of the paintings has a little mini-shelf jutting from the bottom of its frame. In keeping with my super-ADD state, I end up doing something quirky and also pretty stupid: in a moment of levity, a little sight gag for Rhonda, I pretend to set my empty wine cup upon it. Upon which Dave leaps upon me from across the room: "Bro, BRO! Don't set your drink on the art." He's truly alarmed. I sheepishly apologize, but before I've had a chance to show him that at least the cup was dry and empty and it was white wine anyway and it was all in ill-conceived jest, he's moved on to his other guests.

R. wants to go to the next destination on our gallery hop, so I never get a chance to adequately explain or apologize. Next time he sees me, I'll be the idiot who was about to pour wine all over his art piece.

OVER TO GALLERY CHICAGO for Ken's regular gathering of senior hipsters.

(Vito Carli's Gallery Chicago photos here, and below, video from the first GC show I ever visited, Allison Reiss'The Glamour of War in 2004.)

Into the small storefront, through a door and into the cavernous, cluttered loft space in back. Folks are gathered around a beat-up old table in the back corner -- i.e. the kitchen-- laden with munchies and alcohol.

There's Ms. Devine and the guy I've labeled "Gay Raj," after the "What's Happening" character:

Ridiculously skinny in skintight tights (leopard-print, if memory serves) and equally tight top, with a long denim jacket over it all, and then those huge thick-framed black glasses. Total goofball.

Heather and hub show up. Heather's all into her film thang, how sexy UPS men are, and she wants to do a film about a sexy UPS man who works a suburban hood full of ennui and decadence, who knows all the dirt.

"How about throwing in some child molestation," I say, more as a joke than anything.

"YES!" Pedophilia, of course," Heather exclaims. "I want you to be in this. Maybe you can play the UPS man."

She says Kanye West came into the ritzy Michigan Avenue store where she works and started ogling a co-worker and then tried to kick it to her. "He was all like, 'I'm Kanye West, every girl wants to talk to me'!" Heather recounts in her best attempt at black English. "But that sista was like, 'hell to the naw!'"

After awhile, about 11ish, it seems all the regulars, including Heather, have disappeared, leaving only me, Rhonda, and a few others. Everyone can't have gone home this early. Are they out front on the sidewalk?

But then after 25 minutes or so they come back. And there's talk that they've been up on the roof of the three-story building, "moondancing" and "howling at the moon." I'm sure I hear the term "moon ritual" used too.

So I nod and ask one of the guys, "What sort of ritual?" He sort of makes light of it and doesn't really answer.

Presently, however, Heather goes on about the experience, claiming she saw "blood" covering the moon.

This pricked up my ears, since I vividly remember a childhood dream involving blood, or some red substance, dripping down over the moon (though not a full one, a crescent one) until the moon was obscured. I don't remember when this dream occurred, how old I was, or whether it had been influenced by hearing the biblical prophecy about the moon turning "red as blood." All I know was, it was weird. And so was this.

Continued Heather, in complete seriousness: "The moon spoke to us!"

"Well," I laugh, "you know, the Man in the Moon."

I ask her what the moon said, to no avail. I didn't ask her whether stuff had been smoked, because it usually is. I didn't ask whether other substances had been consumed. Probably were.

2006-10-02T00:04:00.000-07:00

Coed

marketing

A fake protest for "real fruit"
draws a crowd on Chicago's Mag Mile

IT'S AROUND 2:30 on a sunny Friday afternoon. The majestic Michigan Avenue drawbridge, gateway to the Magnificent Mile, hosts its usual array of buzzing traffic, busy people, tourists, panhandlers. At the foot of the northeast bridge house, magnificently adorned with classical bas-relief sculptures, a homeless man sits oblivious to it all, picking at his crusty feet.A dapper denizen of the district known as "Homeless Yanni" or "Walking Dude" (subject of a supposedly upcoming "Dudeamentary") strolls northward over the bridge, sporting his trademark flowing hair --now silvery rather than Kiwi shoe polish black -- and a rumpled leisure suit.

At Pioneer Court in front of the Tribune Tower, a little girl runs up to a 9-foot-tall moose sculpture made from car bumpers and tries to climb the creature -- then notices it has a penis, which she immediately grabs. Mommy scolds her, then complains to daddy, "Do they have to make these so realistic?"

Suddenly, there's a commotion over on the west side of the bridge. It's a bunch of fruits.

No, no, I mean fruits. Or at least, people dressed up like fruits. There's a banana, an apple, a strawberry, purple grapes, an orange, a kiwi. Marching with them northward on Michigan are a bunch of other young guys and girls in green shirts. They're drumming, they're chanting, they're dancing.

Is this a war protest? No, it's too small. Is it PETA? Perhaps it's local guerilla performance art group Environmental Encroachment, who are sometimes given to dressing up as produce items.

Upon closer inspection, the marchers' signs carry slogans like

ALL JUICES are not created equal!

and

THE FRUIT will set you free!

and

Liberty and just juice for all!

And -- ah, yes, there's the NAKED Juice logo. How clever!

The mini-carnival stops in front of the Wrigley Building, pounding drums and tapping their placard sticks on the pavement. The fruits take center stage, dancing while a green-shirted operative leads chants such as:

Get down! Get low! Naked Juice is the way to go!
Get up! Get high! Naked Juice is your alibi!

And:

Naked Juice'll make ya (Jump! Jump!) ...

And:
All we are saying ... is give juice a chance!

And:

We will, we will juice you! (Naked!)
We will, we will juice you!

Logo-emblazoned barrels full of Naked appear. Passersby, including Homeless Yanni, quickly gather around as the greenshirts dish out free bottles. I get in line and a Naked girl affixes a sticker to my lapels that reads:

EXPOSE your healthy side.TM
I DID!

I'm already on somewhat of an herbal buzz anyway -- coffee, tea, and St. John's Wort -- which no doubt heightens the hilarity of a bunch of life-sized fruits cavorting about on a downtown sidewalk. The best costume of all belongs to the Banana Guy, a tall, lanky dude whose costume sports a disturbingly huge, phallic lower half, protruding from crotch level nearly to the pavement.

Are these moonlighting Fruit of the Loom characters? I ask one of the Naked girls. "No, they're better," she insists.

I grab a bottle of Green Machine and start chugging. As more pedestrians gather, the fruit guys and girls continue to have fruity fun. They form a tunnel and line up to race one another, two by two. "On your mark. Get naked. Go!" someone shouts. Kiwi beats Strawberry by a healthy lead. (I don't recall who won the other races.)

Then the fruits and greenshirts form a dance circle. As the others beat time with their placard sticks, each fruit takes a turn in the center. The rotund, shades-wearing orange guy hops in and spins around, reminding me a lot of Barney the dinosaur or the Kool-Aid Man. Then Banana Man jumps in and does a ridiculous, shuffling dance, his yellow phallus nearly bouncing off the ground. That one makes me laugh tears.

I finish off my Green Machine. A fiftysomething black man who's just tasted a sip of Red Machine exclaims, "Whoa!"

"Good?" I ask him.

He shakes his head. "Too sweet for me."

I look around for Homeless Yanni to see whether he's snagged some Naked swag, and whether he liked it. But he's nowhere to be found.

Chicagowood (a retro-post)

2006-06-01T20:14:00.000-07:00

SO VINCE VAUGHN AND Jennifer Aniston did the unthinkable. They went ahead and filmed The Breakup without me.

You see, last summer while the film was in production here in Chi-town, I got in touch with the agency that was casting extras. For one reason or another (didn't have any logo-free t-shirts to wear/couldn't get downtown at 5:30 in the morning/etc.), I never got to work on the flick.

And then -- the chutzpah! -- they go ahead and put it out without me! Which fact is no doubt responsible for the bad reviews they've been getting.

ON A RECENT THURSDAY or Friday, I get off work and emerge into the small plaza in front of the Wrigley Building, where I see a sight that was quite familiar in the late '90s in Chicago: carts loaded with film and lighting equipment and young production assistants with walkie-talkies milling about. I went up to a couple of guys who looked like crew, wearing "Batman Returns" t-shirts, and said: "You're shooting another 'Batman' movie?"

"No," one of them said. "This is _____" (giving me a name I can't remember).

"So who's doing extras casting for this? Are they around anywhere?"

"I don't think so. And anyway, we're just here for today. This is mostly being shot up in ____." [He names the city, but whether it's Toronto or Vancouver, I can't recall.]

"So," I say, "they're just doing a few establishing shots here and that's it?"

"Yep," the guy replied, nodding sadly.

Another "Chicago movie" shot in Canada.

Besides the lakefront and skyline, the Michigan Avenue bridge is probably one of the more popular shots filmmakers like to show you to establish that "this story takes place in Chicago." They send a second or third unit to get a few exterior shots here. But the bulk of the film is shot up in Toronto or some other city north of the border. I can't blame them, since it's a lot cheaper up there.

While the film biz in Chicago is perking up somewhat, compared to the near-absolute stall of the last few years, it's still not where it was in the mid- to late-'90s, when TV series and feature films were being shot here practically year-round, and local actors and crews could at least count on getting some work in their chosen field.

My first gig as an adult was as an extra and photo double in The Fixer. From '97 to '99 I worked a British production, the exact name of which I've forgotten, and 10-12 episodes of Early Edition. In '02 I PA'd and extra'd in A Get2GetHer, whose first assistant director was a student at my alma mater, Columbia College Chi., and which was conveniently shot almost entirely at a house about four blocks away from my home. (It also co-starred this mamita, who I'm sorry I didn't "Get2GetHer" with when I had the chance. There's a lot said for being in the right place at the right time.) My feature-film debut was in Up Against the Wall, a "positive, uplifting African-American film" which was conveniently cast and shot at my school, and for which I auditioned for the lead part and actually got a callback. And -- get this -- it was directed by Superfly himself. (Rest in peace, you badass brotha.)

So anyway, I go on about my way, heading south on Michigan across the bridge. But as I walk, I notice I'm surrounded by oddly dressed people. They're dressed in overcoats, even though it's 70 degrees out. Then I heard someone say: "Back to one?"

"Yeah, back to one."

Okay, so these folks are extras and they're being rehearsed. They're being directed to go back to their original position. As with most extras, their task is pretty simple: walking across the bridge.

Across the river, some of these heavily-dressed folks are standing around and I go up to 'em and ask them who's casting extras for this flick -- so I can get in touch with the agency and maybe get to satisfy my movie bug again in upcoming productions.

After that I keep going down Michigan, then turn onto Lake and head west. And what do you know -- there parked under the el tracks are a bunch of "Movie Power" generator trucks. That means another production nearby. I ask the security guards who's shooting what, and they say "Conan O'Brien. He's here all next week." They were setting up all their equipment at the Chicago Theater. If you weren't able to catch the carrot-topped jokester on TV during his laff-packed visit to our little cow town out here in the godforsaken Midwest, read about it here.

Spaceships, disposophobia, and the infinite sadness of Taxi 1010 (a retro-post)

2006-02-25T17:32:00.000-08:00

So you haven't heard about the UFO pronouncement from Prophet Yahweh? What rock have you been under?

According to the Prophet, "summoning UFOs and actual spaceships on command" is actually a "lost art." (You can see video of his past UFO-summoning work for the low, low price of $7.95.)

He'll be doing his spaceship-summoning, he says, from now until July 15. Verily, verily! The Seer shall command, and UFOs shall appear. Amen?

DISPOSOPHOBIA: Do you suffer from this sad affliction? Does your home look like this?

Maybe these guys can help.

VERY DIFFERENT: Taxi 1010 is one of the weirder sites I've come across lately. It advertises itself as a "verbal self-defense" site. The idea seems to be that you can head off confrontations, or even avert a mugging, by spouting completely nonsensical gibberish.

IF THEY SAY: Kiss off!
YOU REPLY: Infinitely sad.

IF THEY SAY: What's up babe?
YOU REPLY: As if.

IF THEY SAY: Don't play stupid with me!
YOU REPLY: Very different.

Get it? Neither do I. But maybe that's the point. To be counterintuitive, unpredictable, and confusing -- to short-circuit the attacker's wiring for long enough to defuse the situation. Maybe I shoulda tried some of this stuff back in March when a certain young punk threatened to shoot me.

"DOCTOR" "WOMAN" MURDERER: Meanwhile, if you check out this site, I think you'll agree that its author is a bit disturbed, and very likely, the next deadly mass-shooting-spree perp. You read it first here.

And no, I don't know if she is any relation to William Hung. Although it wouldn't surprise me if she were.

Not so quick, "Assassin Chick" (a retro-post)

2006-01-23T19:26:00.000-08:00

This is sort of an inside-y joke for a certain surly girl who may wander on by and see my blog. It's an entry from my old blog from last year.

FRI 4/8: THE ENVIRONMENTAL ENCROACHMENT THANG at Artists in Residence in Rogers Park.
Now it just so happens that this is where my old partner in ADHD, the missing-in-action M., lives -- or at least, used to live. She hadn't responded to an e-mail earlier in the week. So I wrote her again that morning with, letting her know I'd be there. No reply, no call. I tried her number: no answer, and the voice mailbox was full.

I arrive at the AIR building and buzz her number several times. Again, no answer. Somebody lets me in, and I go up to the apartment and knock. I think I hear some stirring within, but the door doesn't open.

Now, if M. (a former bartender) is still partying like she used to, it wouldn't be unusual for her to be asleep at 6:30 on a Saturday night. She actually missed one of our dates, a few years back, because she was still asleep at 7, when I arrived. She then spent the next 25 minutes stumbling blindly about her wreck of an apartment, searching for her glasses. Then she had to open her closet and choose between about 200 outfits and 50 pairs of shoes. We ended up deciding that I would go to the event (was that the teepee show at Wes Kimler's studio? yes, I think so) by myself, come back around 11 or so, and she'd have some Mexican food for us and we'd watch a movie or otherwise occupy ourselves for the night.

Anyway, I ended up slipping a handwritten note under M's door. I don't know if she received it. I don't even know if she still lives there.

THE SHOW, ANYWAY, was hella fun. It took place in a black-box rehearsal/performance space on the first floor. (It was bring-yer-own-booze, so I went to the liquor store around the corner and grabbed a 40.) First there was the showing of the anti-Frankenfood film The Future of Food, presented by Genewise and THONG. The film was riveting and scary and outraging in the outright arrogance and greed of the biotampering and food industries, and damn near got me prepared to go totally organic. They had delicious food there (all organic, I'm presuming), including beans and rice and some of the thickest, tastiest chard I've ever had. With veggies like that, who needs meat?

Afterward was the show with Encroachment, the Jungle Street Rockers, and a DJ. Good time, dancing. I sat down, grabbed some unused drums, and bongoed along with ee for awhile.

I met a few gals, of course. First there was Megha, the Indian geology student. (She switched to geology, she said, because of her concern over the environment.) Then there was Allison, the cute plump blonde punkette who was shakin' it seductively to the music, and kept givin me good eye. I went over and introduced myself. She lives in the building. She's a Columbia student. "Oh, were you at the Story Week thing at the Metro?" I ask her. "I probably saw you, but to tell you the truth, most of my attention was on the chick in the Indian sari who was handing out the programs."

"Oh," says the blondie, "That's my roommate."

What luck!

I'm a male. Certain thoughts did flash through my mind. But only for a second.

Getting it made (retro-post)

2005-12-04T19:12:00.000-08:00

UNLESS YOU DEFINE C-SPAN as reality TV, most reality TV is dumb. Nevertheless, there are a few shows I admit to watching or having watched. The original, "Cops," I used to watch back when it was a new concept, but nowadays I'm older and wiser and a show glorifying the creeping police state and the drug war just doesn't appeal to me any more. I've been known to watch "The Real World" sometimes; it's like watching a car wreck. Ditto for the last couple seasons of "The Surreal Life" (which I swore I'd never watch, but how can you not watch the runty, black-as-coal, always-buggin'-out Flavor Flav hookin' up with sagging blonde amazon Brigitte Nielsen?), and "My Fair Brady." Again, it's the completely insane personalities and the drama that suck you in. And the fact that these shows, as unreal as they are in many of their facets, do evoke situations and people you know. They're an opportunity to watch human nature at work in all its beauty and repulsiveness. They excite a visceral reaction precisely because they portray such familiar, universal characters and themes.

Of the reality-show crop. probably one of the most positive in its impact is MTV's "Made." It's about high school kids who want to achieve a goal. They're provided a personal coach to pull and push the very best out of them. These kids have garnered a special place in my heart because they remind me of myself throughout much of high school. In other words, they're the so-called losers.

The kids who desperately want to be popular, to be rock stars, to be athletes, to have dates, to be good at something. Another reason these kids remind me of myself is that a lot of them kids seem to be spazzy or spacey ADHD types. (I'm the spacey kind.) The two girls whose episodes I watched during today's "Made" marathon -- Alaric and Alyssa -- did, so much that I was literally jumping up and down in front of the TV, cheering them on. I totally identify with these kids, their personalities, their gifts and their struggles.

And even without that connection, it's hard not to get caught up in the personal stories. The storyline is classic: underdog protagonist takes on his own weakness and fears, outside obstacles, the indifference, ridicule, even hatred of others, and nature itself -- and ideally, overcomes them all in 30 minutes. What's not to like about that?

Unlike most other TV fare, this show usually leaves me really pumped. If a geeky, pimply wallflower can become the prom queen, if a 290-pound poofter with 36D man-boobies can become a good soccer player, then dammit, I can do anything I want to do, too! (I already know that, in theory, but I tend to be always forgetting it.) Hard work, focus, determination, patience, persistence will prevail.

Then I feel a little envious. Why didn't I get a "Made" coach when I was their age? I sure could've used one. Heck, most days I feel like I could still use one. I never had such a person in my life. Never had much mentorship. I admit I never sought out any until recently: I'm a loner, not much of a joiner, I like to do things my own way, and my visions are so eccentric that few would understand. But no matter how unique your vision, you can always use some help in preparing to execute it. I can't help but feel a twinge of envy as I watch the paid coach push the kid to his or her utmost.

First, find your soul (a retro-post)

2005-10-04T19:01:00.000-07:00

(Image stolen from Jaina.org)

From a chat workshop hosted by Mystress Angelique Serpent, Shaman, Shaktipat Master, Pagan High Priestess (3rd Degree), Yogina, clairvoyant, channeller, Reiki Master ... and Dominatrix:

[Mystress] enters this room

[scott] enters this room

[MrDill] enters this room

[Mystress] heya.. welcome.. !

[Mystress] ok. First, find your soul... look within yourself for a tiny bright spark of light. It is likely near your power chakra.

[Mystress] find the spark of your soul inside you, let me know
when you see it or if you cannot..

[Mystress] find it, Scott?

[scott] i can't pinpoint it.. but i can imagine it

[scott] it looks dark

[MrDill] I'm trying

[Mystress] I think you may find it is outside your body, near your head, scott

[scott] wow

[Mystress] explains a lot, really... see it?

[Mystress] on the right...

[scott] i can't say i do

[scott] i don't know soul looks like

[Mystress] soul looks like a star, tiny bright light.

[Mystress] Resolution= Soul retrieval.

[Mystress] Goddess please gather all the parts of these men's souls, where ever they may be, heal them, integrate and put the soul right back where it belongs.

[Mystress] say "yes, thank you" and breathe,...

[scott] i don't feel all sketchy

[scott] my head has cleared up

[Mystress] excellent, Scott! You will find yourself less fearful and vulnerable in the future too...

[scott] great!

[Mystress] Yeah, there are a lot of strange side effects of not having your soul in your body. Body gets scared without it, thinks you have died... doesn't know how to be.

[scott] the change is phenomenal

[Mystress] yeah!

[Mystress] give love to your soul, until it lights up your whole body.

[Mystress] love, gratitude

[MrDill] Is my soul supposed to be located in the same place as his?

[Mystress] usually it resides near the power chakra but it varies with the
individual.

[Mystress] if you cannot find it, just imagine it.

[MrDill] I keep thinking that it is sort of between my shoulder blades

[Mystress] ok, then it probably is. Take note of your mental and emotional
state.

[Mystress] So, where are your souls now? Report..

[scott] i think mine took off again

[Mystress] it is back beside your head. Imagine it back at your
power chakra.

[Mystress] good!

[scott] haha

[Mystress] easy, eh?

[MrDill] I keep thinking either chest or belly

[Mystress] your soul is your spark of consciousness, and you can move it around to look at stuff... like it has an eye.

[Mystress] now, imagine the star moving down to the area of your second chakra.

[scott] it is easy!

[Mystress] Yes, easy! just use imagination or intent.

[scott] why does it keep moving, is it unconscious?

[Mystress] yes, partly, it naturally goes to look at stuff... and partly ego. It can get stuck in different ways and lose its natural place and mobility.

[scott] i see

[Mystress] so now we are going to take the soul on a tour of the chakras... to get to know the levels better

[MrDill] Sounds like an interesting way to do it

[Mystress] yeah, it is!

[Mystress] so, imagine that the spark is at your second chakra, hold it there.

[Mystress] you have both read the Fire Serpent Tantra essay where I explain the chakras by how they each see a glass of water? This is how it was written...

[Mystress] as you hold the spark, become aware of the state of your emotions, mind and body... how you feel, what thoughts come to mind, etc.

[Mystress] second chakra is about emotions, relationships and sexual pleasure.

[Mystress] so when your soul spark resides there, you are more aware of yourself physically, emotionally and sexually.

[scott] lots of pain

[Mystress] Hold the spark in the second chakra and check it out.

[Mystress] soul light is the most powerful healing, shine the soul on the
pain...

[Mystress] do you both understand about how the location of the soul changes how you are?

[Mystress] Do ya get it?

[scott] yah

[MrDill] Sort of where your focus lays, on what chakra, effects ones state of being

[Mystress] Yes!

[Mystress] Now move the spark into the heart chakra

[MrDill] And I suppose it is the kind of focus also

[Mystress] energy follows attention.. the soul sorta does this anyhow, goes to where your focus is...

[Mystress] not always though.

[MrDill] Hmmm,,, I feel happy now!

[Mystress] with your soul looking at the world through the heart... you get
thoughts of spiritual love and compassion.

[Mystress] and joy!

[scott] yes

[scott] i feel so painful

[Mystress] maybe another reason why you preferred your soul outside your body. It tends to escape if there is too much karma.

[scott] i see

[Mystress] you know the old warning about gaining the world but losing your
soul?

[Mystress] you are empathic and carrying stuff that is not really yours.

[scott] haha is that why?

[scott] i see

[Mystress] I know you were thinking you are a bad person... nope. Just kinda messy... temple got full of graffiti and litter, you did not know what to do about it and it hurt less to not be there. To detach by leaving.

[scott] yah

[scott] i don't know what to do with the empathy

[Mystress] fill yourself with soul energy and it won't be such a problem. It was partly caused by how nature abhors a vacuum... fill you with you... even if it hurts, use gratitude to turn it blissful.

[Mystress] this chat is going off topic a lot! o well..

[Mystress] now move the soul to your power chakra.

[MrDill] Power = 3rd right?

[Mystress] Feel the soul at the power chakra.. yes, under your ribs at the
diaphragm

[Mystress] and feed it with gratitude.. feels like you guys both have a
rats nest in there...

[Mystress] notice what thoughts come to mind..

[Mystress] probably the contents of the rats nest, revealed in the light of
the soul...

[Mystress] remember to stay grounded.

[MrDill] Yep, I need to clean out that nest

[Mystress] so what comes up? Power chakra is about personal power, free
will, divine will, victimhood and hierarchies

[Mystress] it is also the astral=mental level.

[scott] hierarchies... a bit of victimhood... maybe lots of it

[scott] i feel like my power chakra is telling me to get my life in check

[MrDill] Just a bunch of stuff that I KNOW I need to do with my life, to make it more MY life.

[Mystress] yeah!

[MrDill] No excuses

[Mystress] Dill, your reaction explains why the soul likes to hang out at the power chakra,.. soul path stuff is navigated there. Free Will & Divine Will together at the boundary between the unity universes and the nonduality chakra universes. The soul is You, your essential eternal infinite spark of consciousness, and it is Goddess, it knows why you chose to incarnate and what you planned to experience this time round.

[Mystress] now, move the soul into the root chakra.

[Mystress] root chakra is interesting, eh? it is pre-verbal.... deep and silent like the earth

[scott] as soon as I hit the root I said "boom"

[MrDill] I feel like my Root Chakra is saying, "About time you paid a visit"

[Mystress] root is the foundation, where the serpents begin.

[Mystress] issues of basic survival and belonging on the planet reside here.
[scott] i feel like i can find lot of balance there

[Mystress] yes, firming up your foundation would help you stay grounded and true to your self

[Mystress] abide in the root and feel how you are... sense of the properties of this chakra in a directly intuitive way.

cat_artist enters this room

[Mystress] hello Lesley.. we are meditating on the root chakra

[Mystress] nice energy eh?

[cat_artist] Yes. Except I feel it on my left face and nostril interesting.

[cat_artist] Hello Mystress. Salute

[Mystress] Love to you, Priestess.

[scott] it feels like home

[Mystress] yes, lovely.. simply being. No words, few thoughts, just earth and sun and you alive

[Mystress] now for contrast, move the spark into the throat

[Mystress] completely different universe, eh? There is song and poetry and laughter

[scott] is it normal to smell things

[Mystress] sure. What do you smell?

[Mystress] and tastes and smells... appetites...

[scott] i can't pinpoint it but something from work I think

[Mystress] do you all feel the difference?

[scott] yes lots of laughter and poetry

[Mystress] Do you get the difference between the deep silent primitive earthiness of the root, compared to the flowering of art and communication.. culture of the throat?

[Mystress] they are truly different universes, eh?

[scott] the root reminded me of clay, the throat was busy

[Mystress] yeah, it is like going from Neanderthal to Renaissance

[MrDill] Bad Thyroid gland makes this a hard one for me.

[Mystress] that idea is not resonant. The chakra blockage came first, the thyroid was result not cause. Blocking your art, your creative expression. Send the soul into the thyroid...

[Mystress] now float the soul above the crown

[Mystress] move your soul above your head and reconsider that thought

[MrDill] k

[Mystress] there is a chakra that is like a glowing ball, a foot or two above your head... move the soul spark there

[scott] the crown seems undescribable

[Mystress] indeed, it is

[Mystress] from the crown, remember how the power chakra issues you discovered looked... but stay in the crown

[Mystress] from there you can see them for the illusions they
really are...

[scott] yeah

[scott] i put them there and they were nulled

[Mystress] you are infinite...

[Mystress] you just forgot...

[Mystress] so.. to sum up... every chakra is a dimensional universe, and different people choose to primarily live in one or another. You can tell by what they focus on. Whether they are about love, or power, or sex, or transcendence... and they seldom agree!

[Mystress] imagine scott of the power chakra arguing with scott of the crown about death... they will never agree ...

[scott] hahaha the power chakra Scott is throwing eggs at the
crown, and the crown is saying huh?

[Mystress] but each of them is right , in their own way for the universe where they live.

[Mystress] You can think about something in your life, and move the soul from chakra to chakra, to look at it from different angles, so to speak... and make your decisions based on the total information, rather than the single perspective of the chakra where you usually live. As you experienced, often simply looking at a problem from a higher chakra perspective, resolves it.

[MrDill] In which Chakra do you tend to dwell Mystress?

[Mystress] the power chakra, because it holds discernment and the soul path.

[Mystress] it has the karma alarm, tells me if my thoughts are
"Right action"... and whether the boundaries of the body are being respected... my
personal sovereignty.

[Mystress] keeping my awareness there helps to keep my empathy in check.

[MrDill] k

[Mystress] but for teaching and writing, I move between crown, throat and heart.

[scott] what about the third eye?

[Mystress] sure, go there.

[scott] Mystress when I was in the crown it really felt like my body was
saying come back

[Mystress] yeah, you need to stay in your body... but I wanted you to get a crown perspective for a moment. See your limiting beliefs for what they are... illusion.

[scott] Mystress i can relate to you when you say that you talk from the crown throat and heart

[MrDill] Where we going to do something with the third eye
chakra?

[scott] yah

[Mystress] Go there... you know how.

[MrDill] k

[Mystress] it is not very describable either, but very interesting.

[scott] it wanted to look at things, mine thought he was the boss saying I
can do anything

[Mystress] you can do anything... you just don't believe it.

[scott] yah

[scott] this was a very good lesson

[MrDill] Yep, it was. Haven't gone inside myself like this for a few months now

[MrDill] =)

[scott] thank you!

[cat_artist] Mystress, it's very good just to be 'listening' to your energy. Very soothing.

[Mystress] y'all mind if I edit the chat and post it to the list?

[cat_artist] I don't mind

[MrDill] Sure

[scott] only if u make me sound really witty

[Mystress] Thanks. You all did very well!

What's in your closet? (a retro-post)

2005-08-29T17:50:00.000-07:00

SO I MANAGED TO CATCH part of MTV's Video Music Awards last night. Chi-towners (or Chi-towners-turned-New Yorkers) were mos def representin', with appearances by Messrs. Kelly, West, Lynn (aka Common), the pop-punk band Fall Out Boy, Jeremy Piven.

Props to Mr. Robert Kelly for his brave attempt at performing two acts of his interminable and tortuous masterwork, "The Closet." The thing is part opera, part soap opera, part suspense thriller, part one-man dramatic interp. Kelly's performance was mostly or entirely lip-synched, and at times it was a head-scratcher to follow the plot twists and the multiple-character dialogue voiced by a single performer (Kelly). But he deserves an "A" for the effort, for thinking outside the box of the normal three-to-four-minute single, and for even attempting to bring such an awkward performance piece to the stage.

Kells ended the saga with a new twist: he gave the last line to Rufus. Remember, Rufus, Cathy's husband, is the pastor who, in an earlier installment, had outed himself and introduced his paramour Chuck. But at the end, here's what Rufus says to his boy toy:

"Chuck I'm sorry, but I'm going back to my wife."

And so things end, happily -- but not gayly -- ever after. Ah, just when you thought Kells was about to get all weird and perverted on us ...

When "The Closet" first came out I'm sure I wasn't the only one who wondered whether it may have been a cryptic way for the brotha to dangle some of his own sexuality issues before the public, in the guise of art. (At least the song does not allude to, erm, watersports with underage girls ... )

And speaking of closets, when VMA host Sean "Puffy" "Puff Daddy" "P. Diddy" "Diddy" Combs wasn't exhuming Biggie Smalls for the millionth time, he was spoofing his own gender identity. First, he told the audience, he was simply Sean Combs. Then, as everyone knows, he became Puffy, then Puff Daddy. But after that he took a little-publicized detour: He got Afrocentric and tried "Kunta Combs"; then he collabo'd with Kanye West, so decided to try out "Seanye West"; then he got political with the "Vote or Die" campaign, so (showing a slide of himself in drag dressed like our secretary of state): "Seandoleezza Diddy Rice." Talk about your camp!

So Diddy or didn't he? In a frickin' American's humble opinion, if Mr. "I'm Coming Out" Diddy isn't giving us a clue about his own proclivities, I don't know what he's doing.

Unfortunately, 'Big Brother' isn't just reality TV (a retro-post)

2005-07-29T17:55:00.000-07:00

They'll narrate the terror
Then they'll turn up the commercial ...

-- Heather Guerin

IT IS TV. BUT IT'S ALSO fast becoming reality.

"The incredible presence of CCTV cameras in this city has yielded incredible results," CNN reporter Christiane Amanpour reported approvingly this morning. She said this during her coverage of the latest non-events in the London terror story -- non-events to which viewers around the world are supposed to react with paralyzing fear and beg for Big Brother's warm embrace.

Following Amanpour's report, the CNN anchor chimed in that London's omnipresent cameras "have proved instrumental in catching people." Implying: Those Brits sure are on the ball! Why don't we have cameras everywhere like they do?

Of course, cameras everywhere didn't stop the 7/11 bombings. But the cameras are performing quite well when it comes to conditioning an entire law-abiding population to stifling and overwhelming government surveillance.

What cameras did capture was the unprovoked police murder of another terror "suspect." The guy entered the subway, tripped and fell, and the police shot him dead. Because, you see, he "didn't heed their calls to stop."

It must be comforting to Londoners -- who aren't used to gun-toting cops -- to know that if they've got their iPod up too loud and don't see or hear plainclothes officers telling them to stop walking in a public place, they will be immediately shot dead.

On his WLS radio show today, Roe Conn said that if the guy they shot was the wrong guy, "I don't think Londoners would really care." Yep. That's the evil of terror and responding with indiscriminate force: morality disappears, swallowed up by fear. The Bible speaks of rulers wielding the sword of vengeance upon evil, but also says that "he who lives by the sword shall die by the sword." Rulers, and their subjects, keep crying for more and sharper and bloodier swords. There's gonna be a lot more dying before the simple lesson is learned.

FAUX NEWS ("We Distort. You Deride.') clearly gets a big hard-on at the slightest whiff of Terror. Their content was all terror, all day -- even though the little that happened, or didn't happen, over there across the pond could easily have been summed up in a minute or two. But they managed to stretch it out into an all-day blitz of terror, alternating between repetition of the few facts and propaganda about the wonders of London's seamless surveillance system. They seemed to be telling us: Get ready to be on government TV everywhere, all the time.

YOUR FREEDOM OR YOUR LIFE. This is the false choice being presented to Americans and Britons in the "War on Terror." We must destroy our freedom in order to save it. Hand over your God-given, constitutionally protected liberty, or else. It's a threat, all right, but it's not al-Qaeda making it.

"This is the new normal," said Lynn, wife of Dick Cheney, on Fox' Dayside. The problem is that "normal" keeps getting worse and worse.

(By the way, the anchor then asked Ms. Cheney how her books are doing. He neglected to ask this champion of family values if she perhaps had some more dreamy, steamy lesbian fiction in the works.)

"War on Terror" supporters are always saying of the latest proposal to increase government surveillance and police powers: "So what -- all your information's out there already." Much information about us is "out there," but it's dispersed among many databases and filing systems of government agencies and businesses all over. It's not integrated into a centralized government super-dossier, which is what they're proposing to create for every single American citizen. All to "protect" you.

Another unthinking cliche often used by defenders of Big Brother goes like this: "So they want to monitor our every movement and action, conduct random searches, track what books I read -- so what? If you're not a terrorist and you've got nothing to hide, you've got nothing to worry about." It should only take one false arrest and detention, or perhaps a little police brutality, or perhaps a false conviction and prison sentence, to convince such people that, yes, the law-abiding do have something to fear when already too-powerful police get more power.

History provides no reason whatsoever for people to have confidence in political leaders. Only ignorance of history (inculcated via the government school system, naturally) allows the confidence games to continue.

THE HOST OF FAUX NEWS DAYSIDE "remarked during an interview with terror analyst Mansoor Ijaz, "is it just me ... but it seems the British authorities came up with the information [about the identities of the 7/11 bombers] so quickly."

Well, they're not alone. Our remarkable U.S. authorities share that talent. For, we are told, for months before 9/11 nobody had any idea that anything funny was in the works, despite massive preparations and international communications and probably years of planning. ("If we had known," Condi said, "we would have moved heaven and earth...") Yet, within hours after the attacks -- before the dust had even settled -- they had all the culprits ready to present to the American public, and they had their Goldstein, a Saudi one named Osama bin Laden.

Why, they even managed to have a "hijacker's" passport pop up, still legible, in the WTC rubble, having escaped a fire which, it is claimed, was super-hot enough to melt steel beams and for the first and only time ever, bring down a skyscraper constructed of fireproofed steel and specifically designed to withstand an airliner impact.

If you believe that yarn, then I've got three skyscrapers' worth of steel to sell you. ... No, wait, sorry. That steel was sold to the Chinese, quickly and quietly, not long after 9/11, with no opportunity for any forensic investigation into how and why three hulking steel towers (the third of which wasn't even hit by a plane) could simply fall down. Oh well, my bad.