Malchik Che

2010-09-14T12:07:00.004-04:00

Interesting tidbit: Pursuit Grooves holds a bachelor's degree in film from Vassar College. The ultra-sexy sample in this song was taken from the movie Sin City.

2010-08-27T22:43:00.024-04:00

some of my favorite cinematic moments

Hable Con Ella by Pedro Almodovar - Cucurrucucu Scene

Fat City by John Huston - Susan Tyrell "I love you so much"

You, The Living by Roy Andersson - Marriage Scene

Playtime by Jacques Tati - Apartment Scene

Paris, Texas by Wim Wenders - Peep Booth Scene

Twin Peaks Episode 14 by David Lynch - Roadhouse Scene

Stroszek by Werner Herzog - Closing Scene

Midnight Cowboy by John Schlesinger - Closing Scene

My Dinner with Andre by Louis Malle - Closing Scene

2010-08-19T17:42:00.007-04:00

I feel hungry all the time lately, like I’m constantly lacking some essential nutrient. I don’t know if it’s genuine malnutrition or some kind of psychosomatic manifestation of anger. I have been really mad all week long because of an incident that happened at my old high school on Monday. Anger influences people a lot like alcohol can: it makes you lose your inhibitions and under its influence you say and do things that you later regret. Yet anger is necessary every once in a while since it compels you to get off your ass and do something. As Howard Beale announced in Network, “Things have got to change. But first you’ve got to get mad!” It felt oddly refreshing to allow myself to be pissed off about something. I can honestly say that I haven’t done so to this extent since my angst-ridden middle school days. Being enraged again has made me wonder whether I was actually the calm, peaceful person I tried to be throughout high school, or if that was partly an act I played to stay professional, respectable, well-liked. It’s important to keep up appearances; for one, they keep you employable. But it’s not healthy to be so determined to stay calm and composed that you tune out anger that's brewing inside yourself.

There are a lot of things that make me mad that I never speak out about, whether out of laziness, fear, self-doubt, or the desire to be accepted. I am mad about the oil spill, the fact that my dad spends all day working and is too exhausted at the end of the day to do anything but watch television, the self-righteous vibes that academics tend to give off, unreciprocated love, the opportunities missed when people are afraid to share the true extent of their feelings for one another, bullshit in every shape and form, gay bashing and other activities that keep people from feeling good about who they are, suicide. It’s so hard to express serious frustrations like these in a way that people will listen to and take seriously.

Untitled (One Day This Kid...) by David Wojnarowicz (1990)

Usually I’m not that into protest art, but this collage by David Wojnarowicz means a lot to me. I think it’s a perfect example of an artist expressing anger in a powerful but effective way. The picture is a childhood self-portrait, and the text around it reads:

One day this kid will get larger. One day this kid will come to know something that causes a sensation equivalent to the separation of the earth from its axis. One day this kid will reach a point where he senses a division that isn’t mathematical. One day this kid will feel something stir in his heart and throat and mouth. One day this kid will find something in his mind and body and soul that makes him hungry. One day this kid will do something that causes men who wear the uniforms of priests and rabbis, men who inhabit certain stone buildings, to call for his death. One day politicians will enact legislation against this kid. One day families will give false information to their children and each child will pass that information down generationally to their families and that information will be designed to make existence intolerable for this kid. One day this kid will experience all the activity in his environment and that activity and information will compel him to commit suicide or submit to danger in hopes of being murdered or submit to silence and immobility. Or one day this kid will talk. When he begins to talk, men who develop a fear of this kid will attempt to silence him with strangling, fists, prison, suffocation, rape, intimidation, drugging, ropes, guns, laws, menace, roving gangs, bottles, knives, religion, decapitation, and immolation by fire. Doctors will pronounce this kid curable as if his brain were a virus. This kid will lose his constitutional rights against the government’s invasion of his privacy. This kid will be faced with electroshock, drugs, and conditioning therapies in laboratories tended by psychologists and research scientists. He will be subject to loss of home, civil rights, jobs, and all conceivable freedoms. All this will begin to happen in one or two years when he discovers he desires to place his naked body on the naked body of another boy.

2010-07-22T14:16:00.008-04:00

Last night while we were preparing dinner my mom and I had our first off-to-college “goodbye” conversation. To my surprise, the dreaded talk did not feel one bit artificial or contrived. It started off with me ranting about ivory tower exclusivity and somehow ended with an intensely personal discussion about the choices I will have to make in college about friends, schoolwork, spiritual life, and so on.

Letting go is going to be really hard for my mom. I have no idea how she’s going to cope with empty nest syndrome. There’s been talk of replacing me with a parakeet, but that’s just silly escapism. I sense that I’m the force that holds my parents’ marriage together, so I’m not sure what will happen to them while I’m away. In some ways I think my absence will be good for them, since it will force them to assess their lives as individuals again. Parenthood seems like the ultimate exercise in self-effacement; you are a parent first, then an individual. Questions like “Am I living a meaningful life?” or “Am I doing what I want?” become secondary to the more pressing responsibilities of childrearing. [One of many reasons why I never plan to become a father!]

Back to the goodbye talk: I hesitate to give or accept advice because there’s no one algorithm to the countless problems lurking about in the cosmos. What works for one person might screw over someone else, and besides, solutions must emerge from personal experience anyway. You have to fail to learn how to succeed. It’s funny, but that’s exactly what my mom was getting at last night when she advised me to be confident, which is to say, willing to make a fool of yourself. By taking risks and facing challenges, we inevitably make mistakes, embarrass ourselves, and fail, but somehow these successive disappointments and failures help us stumble toward ourselves.

What do I mean by that? As I have mentioned in previous posts, I think that personality is in constant flux. I feel uncomfortable saying that people are always moving towards better, wiser, realer versions of themselves because it sounds too fatalistic. Nonetheless, I do think that as we grow older, the things we have learned have the potential to expand our ideas of what is possible, which is practically the same thing as living a better life.

2010-07-15T00:55:00.019-04:00

A Good Audience Is Hard To Find

Over the past few weeks several semi-significant things have happened to me. First off, I’ve realized that film history/theory/criticism might be my calling, given that my freakish obsession with the movies has not subsided, and I’m still watching anywhere from one to three films a night. Independent filmmaking and academic film criticism are both highly competitive fields that don’t make much money, but that’s perfectly fine by me. I’d rather be broke and happy than well-off and bored out of my mind.

In other news, I got my first-ever job as an usher/concessionist at a movie theater. The position has shown me how the movie watching experience fueled by huge media conglomerates is essentially a commercial venture designed to feed and entertain, in that order. Because mainstream movie theaters make a profit from concessions sales, moviegoing is becoming synonymous with eating, as epitomized by the rising demand for “dinner and a movie” style theaters, which offer viewers two distractions in one: food to distract you from the movie, and the movie to distract you from real life.

In-theater dining follows in the sordid footsteps of its icky predecessor, the drive-in theater. Why o why did young people want to watch movies inside their motor vehicles, with all the attendant distractions (poor sound quality, grimy windshields to squint through, uncomfortable seats, etc.)? The answer: teenagers didn’t go to drive-ins for the movies; they went there for nuzzling, necking, and you know what else. Drive-ins of the 50s were, in that sense, the training grounds for the generation of perverts who would later flock to seedy theaters on 42nd St. and elsewhere.

"Dinner and a movie" venues, drive-ins, porno theaters- these are the places where people go to do anything but watch movies. Considering the proliferation of bad audiences seeking movieless moviegoing experiences, it makes sense why so many sniveling cinephiles are choosing Netflix, GreenCine, and other video rental services over actual movie theaters.

2010-06-15T20:30:00.007-04:00

Susan Hiller fascinates me. Like Adrian Piper, Hiller was trained as an academic before becoming a conceptual artist. She attended Smith College for her undergrad and eventually earned a Ph.D. in anthropology from Tulane University.

Hiller then travelled throughout Europe, Africa, and Asia before finally settling down in London. During the early 70s, Hiller decided to turn to art because she felt disillusioned by the distancing participant/observer dynamic of social science.

The artist’s experiences studying anthropology have deeply informed her unique approach to art-making. She describes her work as “archaeological investigation,” namely the documentation of overlooked “cultural artifacts” gleaned from banal, everyday experiences.

Hiller lists Minimalism, Fluxus, and Surrealism as influences, yet she never limits herself to any one mode of thought. She uses nearly every medium at her disposal--whether photography, text, video, sound, or performance--without mimicking the self-consciously “experimental” aesthetic of her conceptualist peers. What’s more, she pursues “lowbrow” subject matter like postcards and puppet shows without donning kitschy Pop Art cliches.

Early on, her work mostly consisted of collaborative endeavors with ordinary people. In Dream Mapping (1974), a “group investigation into the origin of images and ideas,” ten participants devised a graphic system to record their dreams, and then slept for three nights in a field containing “fairy ring” mushroom formations, which, according to local legend, are said to transport dreamers into fairyland. Every morning the participants diagramed their memories of the previous night’s dreams using the special system they’d devised together. Years later, Hiller superimposed these notations to create wall-sized “dream maps” at the Institute of Contemporary Art, London.

Dream Mapping (1974)

Hiller’s more recent projects include the sound installations Witness (2000) and Clinic (2004), about UFO sightings and near-death experiences, respectively. For Witness, Hiller spent years recording eyewitness accounts of UFO sightings told by people from all around the world. She then transmitted these stories from earphones dangling on wires in a dark, empty room. Every voice spoke at the same time, producing a discordant drone of differing languages and viewpoints.

Witness (2000)

To learn more about Susan Hiller’s work, check out her website here.

2010-06-08T18:45:00.005-04:00

Every Wednesday night, the Low End Theory nightclub hosts one of the best parties in the city of Los Angeles. The events are so legendary that many music lovers actually move to LA just to participate in them. None of this would be possible without the hard work and talent of its amazing resident DJs: Daddy Kev, Nobody, The Gaslamp Killer, D-Styles, and Nocando.

Luckily for those of us living outside LA, every month the club releases the Low End Theory Podcast for free online. Each 45-minute-ish mix features a set by one of the resident DJs followed by a shorter set by a special guest. Previous guests have included Nosaj Thing, Lorn, and Mono/Poly, among others.

If you haven’t done so already, you should go subscribe to the podcast on iTunes! Seriously, every other underground hip hop / electronic / dance podcast I’ve heard feels trite in comparison.

2010-06-04T15:41:00.003-04:00

I’m really fascinated by childhood sexuality. Not enough is known about it because it’s such a taboo topic. It’s dangerous to let coyness get in the way of scientific research, especially since science can be used to advance social justice. A great example is Dr. Evelyn Hooker’s research about well-adjusted gay men, which led the APA to the remove homosexuality from its list of mental disorders in 1973. If more research was done about childhood sexuality, people might be more likely to recognize queer issues, especially those concerning LGBT youth.

What I’m most curious to find out is whether sexual orientation is imprinted in our genes at birth or if it emerges gradually from experience. Whatever the case, I think it’s wrong that children are expected to be straight at birth, as if heterosexuality is the default, the norm. This leads to the common misconception that people are born straight but “turn gay”. It seems more likely to me that children are either completely asexual at birth but gradually become gay over time, as they’re exposed to new ideas and experiences, or that they’re born gay, but don’t realize their attraction toward the same sex until puberty, when sex hormones surge.

Speaking from personal experience, I actually knew I liked guys very early on, but I didn’t realize this meant I was “gay” until puberty. If homosexuality was not kept hidden from me as a child, and if it was not later scorned by my peers and church, I probably would have professed my attraction to the same sex much earlier. Misinformation and social stigma keep gay youth from disclosing their sexual orientation, which makes research into childhood sexuality practically impossible. Maybe most people actually know about their sexual orientation way before puberty, but they’re too afraid to say so…

If I was not deemed straight-until-proven-otherwise, I would be a much happier camper. It’s really annoying when strangers make false assumptions about my sexual orientation and share homophobic jokes in my presence. Responding with bitchy arguments is exhausting, and it usually only makes them more defensive. I need a more creative way to call out prejudiced remarks. One option, conceptual artist Adrian Piper shows, is the calling card.

Adrian Piper is not just an artist but also a philosopher, distinguished with a Ph.D. from Harvard, no less. The kind of discrimination that she must put up with in academic circles is not about her sexuality, but her race. Piper is very light skinned and could easily “pass” as white, though she identifies as black. In 1986, in the face of racist remarks made by people who assumed she was white, Piper began to pass out calling cards at dinner parties and other high-brow social events. One such card appears below.

Calling Card 1 (1986)

The text reads:

Dear Friend,

I am black.

I am sure you did not realize this when you made/laughed at/agreed with that racist remark. In the past, I have attempted to alert white people to my racial identity in advance. Unfortunately, this invariably causes them to react to me as pushy, manipulative, or socially inappropriate. Therefore, my policy is to assume that white people do not make these remarks, even when they believe there are no black people present, and to distribute this card when they do.

I regret any discomfort my presence is causing you, just as I am sure you regret the discomfort your racism is causing me.

2010-06-02T19:21:00.011-04:00

Philip-Lorca diCorcia is one of the most interesting American photographers working today. His photographs are known for their distinctive blend of fact and fantasy. Although the artist carefully stages each of his compositions, he still embraces the realistic style of street photography. At first glance, his scenes seem natural, even banal, but upon close inspection, they’re filled with peculiar details. In his series Street Work (1993-98), for instance, diCorcia photographed crowded streets in cities like Tokyo and New York, but he hid flashbulbs in the sidewalk to illuminate individual passersby at just the right moment.

The most affecting images in diCorcia’s body of work comprise the Hustlers series, which he worked on from 1990–92. For this ambitious undertaking, he traversed a section of Santa Monica Boulevard frequented by drug addicts and male prostitutes. Around dusk, he paid the characters he met there to let him take their photographs. Each model was asked for his respective name, age, birthplace, and fee—which later served as the portraits’ titles. The most iconic image appears below.

Marilyn; 28 years old; Las Vegas, Nevada; $30

In an interview about the series, diCorcia commented, “The warm glow that suffuses the 'golden hour' in Los Angeles acts to filter the grim realities, the outright lies, the self-deceptions, which allow Hollywood and, by extension, America to flourish.” Hustlers perfectly captures the deceptive decadence that the artist speaks of, given that Marilyn the prostitute looks practically as glamorous as the eponymous Marilyn Monroe. The apparent contradiction between appearance and reality forces viewers to question what is true versus what is, in diCorcia’s words, an “outright lie”.

To check out more of diCorcia’s work, click here.

PS - Over the coming weeks, you will notice the typeface of this blog enlarge. That's because I'm going to start using a Mac from now on. Sorry for the annoying inconsistency!

2010-06-01T17:12:00.014-04:00

THIS I BELIEVE

[some of my fundamental beliefs, today, in this moment]

PHILOSOPHY

Humans have much less free will than we like to think. We are a product of our genes, our environment, and the whims of change and chance. Humanist psychologists and their petty self help books exaggerate the influence of choice.

Life is like television in that even if you have a remote control to change the channel, the programming is still predetermined by forces outside your control.

Nonetheless, people should be skeptical of purely biological explanations of human behavior. For instance, I think we should question medical diagnoses of mental illness, since they can undermine our sense of free will.

People avoid silence like the plague.

Silence is not the absence of thought, but the collision of mutually exclusive ideas. In other words, silence is an awareness of contradiction and ambiguity.

People fear change and uncertainty, so they worship routines and detest silence.

It sounds counter-intuitive, but uncertainty is essential to our understanding of our selves and our surroundings. People are too focused on always taking a stand and having an opinion. Sometimes you just have to say, “I don’t know,” and be quiet.

POLITICS / RELIGION

Politicians and excessively opinionated individuals usually can’t be trusted. Liberals and conservatives both make empty promises.

Teachers, politicians, and priests are human beings, and are therefore prone to vice. They can not be held to stricter moral standards.

War is never necessary.

Humans do not have free domain over this planet and its other inhabitants.

There is no “correct” political belief, just as there is no “right” religion.

God does not exist. Efforts to define God are futile and irrelevant. But again, this is only my opinion, and if you disagree, I’m not saying you’re wrong.

My body is my body, so I can do whatever I want with it. This could mean: I have the right to have sex with whomever I want. I have the right to sexual reassignment surgery. I have the right to end unwanted pregnancies. I have the right to die.

People should have the right to privacy: the freedom to keep their private life separate from their public life, to keep their thoughts and feelings to themselves.

Progress (political, intellectual, social, whatever) means continuous change, not continuous improvement.

SEXUALITY

Relationships constantly evolve and change. This sounds like a truism, but I mean constantly. As in, conversation by conversation.

Mutual trust is the most important prerequisite for a healthy relationship.

Desire obscures rationality.

Commitment limits possibility.

People should have a lot of sex when they’re young and not be ashamed of it.

People are too uptight about childhood sexuality. Children should not be sheltered from sex.

OTHER RELATIONSHIPS

I know this sounds harsh, but “family” basically amounts to paperwork once the kids move out. Adults should be free to disown their families; families should be free to disown their adult offspring.

All humans are narcissistic and self-centered. This is only a problem if people are also ambivalent toward others.

People should be concerned for themselves and others. No one should subvert their own desires for their families. For instance, parents should not feel obligated to work in offices to pay for their children’s education. Likewise, children should not feel the need to stay in the closet to keep their parents happy.

Everyone deserves a happy childhood. I can not emphasize this enough. When I see mistreated children I want to scream.

LEARNING / EDUCATION

An unexamined life is not worth living. The meaning of life lies not in the frivolities of present experience, but in the insights later gleaned from it. People should derive satisfaction from learning, not material pleasures.

An ideal society should support the arts and sciences.

People should seek a liberal arts education. Society today is too focused on vocational learning, and careers in general.

Children should be required to learn multiple languages. Adults should travel as much as possible.

Education is a human right that should never be denied to anyone.

VALUES

Modesty and humility are a tad overrated. They keep us from saying what we really mean just for the sake of being polite.

People should say what they mean and mean what they say, in moderation. By which I mean, be honest, but don’t be an overly outspoken arse.

People should aspire to do their best, meaning they should take risks, accept challenges, and work ridiculously hard.

People should compete against themselves, not others. Intrinsic motivation is essential to success.

Open displays of weakness are actually a sign of strength.

People should keep themselves busy. That includes old people. Retirement = submission to death.

2010-05-28T13:50:00.006-04:00

Over their half-century-long career, Vitaly Komar and Alexander Melamid have staked a reputation as one of the most unconventional and irreverent art teams to emerge from the former Soviet Union. They make conceptual art that provokes and challenges, without ever seeming gratuitous or pretentious. Their enormous repertoire includes a series of paintings by trained elephants, an ad campaign for “the buying and selling of human souls,” and the founding of their own country, Trans-State, complete with a constitution and passports. Their most famous and perhaps most interesting project, however, is the People’s Choice series, 1994-97.

Souls Project advertisement poster (1978-81)

In People’s Choice, Komar & Melamid aimed to make “painting for the people” as had never been done before. They wanted to shift the artistic decision making back to the public audience, thereby making art a democratic process similar to modern advertising. To do this, they hired professional polling companies from 10 countries—the US, China, Denmark, Finland, France, Iceland, Kenya, Russia, Turkey, and Ukraine—to conduct scientific polls to determine what people most wanted to see in art. The survey questions ranged from broad ideas like “Prefer modern or traditional art?” to very specific details like “Prefer nude, partially clothed, or fully clothed [subjects]?” They then used the results to create pairs of the “most wanted” and “least wanted” paintings for each country.

Originally the artists hypothesized that people’s interests would vary dramatically, but what they found is that regardless of race, sex, class, or nationality, the majority of people wanted to see realistic (as opposed to “different looking”) landscapes containing the color blue. In his essay "Can It Be The 'Most Wanted Painting' Even if Nobody Wants It?" celebrated art critic Arthur C. Danto argues that these overarching aesthetic preferences are a cultural construct. It comes down to the mere exposure effect, the phenomenon that repeated exposure to novel stimuli increases liking of them. In other words, we’re trained to like low-brow artwork because we’re constantly surrounded by it, in hotels, in offices, and so on. Danto, like everyone else featured in Painting by Numbers: Komar and Melamid’s Scientific Guide to Art, ignores the possibility that humans might have genetically inherited aesthetic preferences. This idea is supported by the Wagner Institute for Color Research’s findings that viewing the color blue releases hormones that relieve stress and produce calming moods.

People's Choice Series color preferences graph (1994)

Whatever the case may be, whether nature or nurture, why we like certain images is not really the point of People’s Choice. The more profound question the series raises is whether we’re even capable of knowing what we like, and therefore, whether advertisers can use poll data to give us what we want. One need not be an art critic to realize that the People’s Choice paintings are ugly, kitsch, and just plain bad. For instance, as you can see below, when Americans said they wanted to see wild animals, historical people, fully clothed children, and blue landscapes, the final product looked completely absurd. Given that nobody wants the “most wanted” painting, the artwork questions the efficiency of market research polls, the very basis of capitalist advertising.

America's Most Wanted (1994)

In interviews, Komar & Melamid have suggested that the series also has political implications. Though the artists insist that their intention was never to satirize, the work pokes fun at the Soviet Union, which was meant to run off the people’s interest without requesting their opinions. But the work also calls into question the Western idea of opinion-poll politics. Can and should politics be run by public opinion?

To learn more about the People’s Choice series, click here.

To see other Komar & Melamid projects, go here.

2010-05-27T11:45:00.015-04:00

No human being possesses sureness of self: this can only mean being bounded and unbounded, selved and unselved, "sure" only of this untiring exercise. Then, this sureness of self, which is ready to be unsure, makes the laughter at the mismatch between aim and achievement comic, not cynical; holy, not demonic. This is not love of suffering, but the work, the power of love, which may curse, but abides. It is the power to be able to attend, powerful or powerless; it is love to laugh bitterly, purgatively, purgatorially, and then to be quiet.

Gillian Rose, Love's Work

2010-05-26T16:23:00.001-04:00

Susan Sontag

2010-05-25T11:13:00.004-04:00

Next Monday the discussion topic at Time Out Youth is coming out. I’m excited and a bit nervous. Just hearing the words “coming out” puts butterflies in my stomach. It’s such a powerful topic to talk about. What follows is my story. It feels odd sharing something so personal online, but whatever. Silence rarely makes the world any better, and besides, I never get the chance to talk about this without being interrupted. This is as much for me as it is for you.

It happened the summer after eighth grade. I had planned to come out to my mother with an elaborate ceremony disguised as a day trip to the mountains. At one point, we were alone in a canoe out on a lake and I got so close to telling her but I just couldn’t. What if she had a heart attack or shed our paddles in frenzied hysteria? Or what if she intentionally tipped over the boat in a tragic double suicide? On the ride back home, I finally told mom that I wanted to have a “family meeting” the next morning, because I had something very important to tell her and dad.

The next morning my plan was foiled: mom drove me to the library instead, supposedly to return some books. I remember her telling me she felt like there was “an elephant in the room” before we’d even made it out of the neighborhood. Then she asked, Is this about your religion? No. Your sexual orientation? Bingo. I confessed that I was gay and rattled on and on about it the whole way to the library. By the time we had parked, we were both in tears. Mom bought me a Cheerwine in a glass bottle to try and cheer me up. Then we walked around a park, dodging puddles from a recent thunderstorm, and mom assured me that she was crying out of sadness, not disappointment. She explained that she wholeheartedly supported me, but she hated how I’d have to deal with undeserved discrimination in the future, especially from my own father. We embraced, drove back home, and didn’t discuss it again for months.

The strange thing about coming out to a loved one is that your relationship with the person is never quite the same afterwards. Every subsequent interaction builds upon the foundation, solid or shaky, that forms in that one seminal moment. I appreciate my mom’s concern for my well-being, but shielding me from my father like she did was a huge mistake. Not only did she deter me from coming out to him; she took it upon herself to do it for me behind my back. This decision has put an incredible strain upon my relationship with my father. It wasn’t until my sophomore year in high school that he finally approached me about my sexual orientation. He said he felt hurt that I hadn’t trusted him enough to tell him in the first place. He then went on to suggest that credible, scientific sources said that was only going through some adolescent phase . . . That moment killed our relationship. I know he wants the best for his only son, but he seriously breached my trust that day. I cannot forgive him until he learns to stop being ashamed of me, of himself. If he really accepted me, he wouldn’t care what some bogus scientists say. It’s strange: usually parents reject gay children because of religion, but in my dad’s case it’s from too much faith in science. People ask, Is it a choice? Who the hell cares!? Why do we depend so much on religion and science to tell us what to think? People need to learn to be strong enough to trust themselves. Trust your body. Trust your intuition. Trust your instincts.

Another complicated thing about coming out is how it never really ends. It’s so much more than some momentary pride parade that simply comes and goes. You’re never actually done with it. It resurfaces again and again. Like sex, the first time is the most memorable, but each exchange is different somehow. Which makes me wonder, What do people really mean when they say they’re “out”? My close friends and family know I’m gay, but I have no desire to disclose my personal life to the entire world, because A) it’s not professional and B) frankly, it’s none of their business. Can I call myself “out” if my grandparents don’t know, for instance? Well, what if I depend on them to help me pay for college? Gay culture is so focused on PRIDE (imagine that in 72-pt rainbow letters) that it makes people feel ashamed if they’re not “out” enough.

I could go on and on about this issue, but that’s enough for today. The point is that coming out is a very important process for everyone involved. If you’re an LGBTQ person, there are plenty of resources out there to help you come out. While I have not used it before, the GLBT National Youth Talkline (1-800-246-7743) is said to be one of the best. It’s a 24-hour, completely anonymous, peer-led service that can provide you with information, counseling, referrals, etc. etc. If you’re a straight person, my advice is: Don’t force anyone to out themselves, and most of all, do not assume you have the right to out other people. Be a good friend by being a good listener. That’s all.

2010-05-23T15:52:00.003-04:00

Machines should work.

People should think.

The year is 1967. Jim Henson, creator of The Muppets Show, gets commissioned by IBM to make a short film advertising the MT/ST, one of the world’s first word processors. Henson enlists frequent collaborator Raymond Scott to compose an electronic score.

Thus was born The Paperwork Explosion, a mind-blowing audiovisual assault that uses fast cuts and chaotic rhythms to evoke the frenetic pace of modern industry. If the soundtrack sounds familiar, that’s probably because J Dilla sampled it on his Donuts album.

2010-05-19T07:56:00.008-04:00

On the topic of dismembered dead people, I feel the need to discuss the photography of Joel-Peter Witkin, an artist who’s so “out there” that it’s hard not to consider him a twisted genius. Witkin’s photographs are, in a nutshell, what it’d look like if the Mütter Museum was housed in a Gothic cathedral that doubled as a whorehouse. The deformed and sometimes deceased subjects that inhabit his nightmarish world make the so-called “freaks” of Diane Arbus and Tod Browning look like beauty pageant contestants. See for yourself here.

To say that Joel-Peter Witkin’s work is only daring because it’s disturbing, though, would be a terrible falsehood. Seeping through all the blood and guts is a truly original artistic sensibility. Every tableau is painstakingly staged in the artist’s studio in Albuquerque, New Mexico. Then the artist scratches the negative with pins and scalpels to achieve the desired daguerreotype-esque effect. The resulting images confront us with a blend of grotesque religious iconography and transgressive sexuality.

Las Meninas / Self-portrait (1987)

It’s practically impossible to look at a Witkin photograph without having some kind of strong reaction. His work challenges our notions of what is beautiful and even what is right. Is it ethical to hang this in a gallery or post this on a blog and call it “art”? Share your thoughts.

2010-05-18T13:33:00.005-04:00

Flayed Man Holding a Dagger and His Skin by Juan Valverde de Amusco

This is one of the most whimsical anatomical engravings I’ve ever seen. Interestingly, the composition seems to have been inspired by the self-portrait found within Michelangelo’s The Last Judgment. Funny story: While painting his monumental fresco, Michelangelo was sharply criticized for his frank depiction of the male genitalia. The backlash was so intense that after Michelangelo’s death an artist nicknamed “The Breeches Painter” covered the genitals with loincloths and fig-leafs. Anyway, Michelangelo was so fed up with the controversy surrounding his mural that he included himself as St. Bartholomew, an Apostle who was allegedly skinned alive.

Keeping Michelangelo’s creative process in mind, I like to wonder what Valverde de Amusco was thinking when he made the engraving above. Can some implicit self-portraiture be gleaned from his image as well?

It’s silly to think that scientific diagrams can only portray objective ideas, without any underlying artistic expression. Science and art have never been separate spheres, as the works of Andreas Vesalius or Ernst Haeckel can attest. Even today, the boundary between the two fields is continually crossed by artists like James Turrell from one side and scientists like Gunther von Hagens from the other.

What do you think about all this?

How have science and art overlapped in your lives?

2010-05-17T22:25:00.007-04:00

A few weeks ago, James Pants released a new mix of original songs and remixes called “New Pants”, which you can download from the Stones Throw website here.

Among the songs featured in the 30-some minute podcast is “The Eyes of the Lord”, the opening track of his latest album, Seven Seals, a bizarre apocalyptic record inspired in part by the large occult community surrounding his abode in Colorado Springs. All in all, Seven Seals is much gloomier than his 80’s-themed debut album, Welcome, though only in a goofy costume party sort of way. His catchy hybrid of electro, soul, disco, funk and new wave remains, but the general vibes have taken a slightly more serious, conceptual bent.

To hear more of Señor Pants’ super rad music, check out his MySpace page here.

2010-05-17T07:50:00.001-04:00

This is what the last sunrise at Governor's School felt like.

2010-05-16T19:10:00.005-04:00

Merrill Garbus (alias Tune-Yards) is probably my favorite “up and coming” musician of the past few years. The thing that really inspires me about Merrill is how she takes the confines of a modest budget and uses it to her advantage, making sounds with whatever she can find, whether homemade field recordings of children singing, African-inspired beats on pots and pans, or her own voice, which she uses at full capacity, yodeling, howling, and squealing into a loop pedal to build dense layers of rhythm and noise.

Merrill’s fame is founded upon DIY community ethics. In 2008, she booked her own tour across the US. Through word-of-mouth hype, she quickly earned a reputation as a promising solo artist. Even after scoring a record deal with renowned indie label 4AD, Merrill decided to produce her debut album on her own with a digital voice recorder and free shareware mixing software.

Anyone could make music like Merrill does, but few have the skills to do so with such boldness. To see the unbridled energy that I speak of, check out this live performance of her new(ish) song “Gangsta”.

2010-05-16T11:40:00.002-04:00

In 1987, the Swedish National Board of Health and Welfare commissioned Roy Andersson to make a short film about AIDS to play in high schools throughout Sweden. Instead of making a straightforward educational film, Andersson created Something Happened, a moody arthouse piece that’s more about stigma and indifference than the virus itself.

The film includes all of Andersson’s usual trademarks: long takes with a stationary camera, large groups of uniformed people, checkered floors, little to no background music, etc. Though the film was deemed too dark to release in schools, Andersson’s unique absurdist humor appears, too, from the sex-ed teacher who carries around plastic phalluses in public to the medical researcher who ad libs a monkey attack.

If you enjoy the film, be sure to check out Andersson’s two most recent movies, You, The Living and Songs from the Second Floor.

2010-05-15T00:44:00.010-04:00

I’m intrigued by the photography of Carrie Mae Weems, particularly her Kitchen Table series, which you can view on her website here.

The body of work addresses one woman’s relationship with her husband, her daughters, and her girlfriends. Every photograph shows a simple scene of the artist’s kitchen, with the camera positioned from the vantage point of a guest sitting at her table. Each image is carefully staged through the placement of objects and the selection of subjects. Interestingly, only the artist herself looks directly at the camera. The other characters go about their daily routines seemingly unaware of the onlooker’s presence.

The picture above is, in my opinion, the most powerful photograph in the series. No matter how hard our protagonist tries to get her man to care for her, he can not stop contemplating grim news.

2010-05-13T20:42:00.003-04:00

Today I had to make an emergency trip to the grocery store to buy salt, of all things. When I got there, I was overwhelmed by the lavish variety of options to choose from. Small, medium, or large? Perhaps extra large? Store brand or Morton? Sea salt or table salt? Iodized or non-iodized? For goodness sake, all I want is some freaking salt!

Sometimes life in consumer society can get quite absurd. It all reminds me of this scene from an old Jerry Lewis movie.

2010-05-06T16:55:00.002-04:00

Jean Genet by Marc Trivier

(click on the image to see more of the photographer's work)

2010-05-06T16:38:00.001-04:00

“Whenever audiences see loneliness in my films, they think I am lonely, but I quite enjoy that feeling. When a person is lonely, the person becomes real, real to be oneself.”

Tsai Ming-liang

2010-05-04T20:24:00.003-04:00

my man

he loves to eat
he has big feet

he picks his nose
he sheds his clothes

he plays the fool
he hates high school

he fills a space
he has no face.

2010-05-03T21:52:00.003-04:00

I am so sick of the “I like” feature on Facebook. Every social interaction feels superficial now. Even the most intelligent people I know only say things to attract virtual thumbs of approval. I like this. Why thank you. I like that. Social networking has become a thumb war. A shallow popularity contest. I feel like some dumbfounded anthropologist observing it all from the inside. What do these strange humanoid creatures actually mean when they say they “like” each other? What about thoughts / emotions / opinions / ambiguities / disagreements / conflicts / real verbs?

2010-04-28T21:47:00.004-04:00

Thematic Apperception Tests fascinate me. Though I feel skeptical of their scientific merit, I’m intrigued by the questions they pose for art historians. Can we ever really respond to a work of art objectively? Do our interpretations of ambiguous images reflect more upon ourselves or the artworks in question?

Below is a real TAT taken from the Macalester College website. What follows is my attempt to identify some potential scenarios behind it. How could I have forgotten my Viagra?
My daughter has died of malaria!
Ouch! There’s a hair in my eye!
Put your clothes back on! I don’t want to see that!
Why is the light in this room so damn bright?
Check out my new dance moves!
3… 2… 1… Ready or not here I come!
Shit! I’ve given her an overdose!
Oops! I dropped a cufflink!
What’s her name, again?
Stay calm. Wipe the sweat from your brow.
What’ll she do when she finds out I’m biologically female?
MIGRAINE!
The hands on this watch sure are tiny!

2010-04-07T19:25:00.022-04:00

Tonight I finally got around to watching Lars von Trier’s Antichrist, which I’d been stoked to see ever since John Waters called it the second best film of 2009 in Artforum magazine. What a joke! I approached the film with high expectations and walked away feeling duped.

The camerawork felt so juvenile at times, like something I could do, which isn’t saying much. During intimate conversations, the camera would jerk from one character’s face to the other, then haphazardly wobble or zoom. The shaky cinematography was probably meant to heighten the eerie mood, but it only distracted me, since it suggested the presence of someone behind the lens. One of the strongest moments in the film was when Willem Dafoe finally noticed this voyeur and stared straight into the camera at us, or what we later learned was a self-devouring wolf.

Which brings me to my next point: the thing that really ruined Antichrist for me - besides its awkward camerawork - was its random delves into exploitation, especially during the outrageous bloodgasm scene. Lars von Trier could easily pull off Tarantino’s self-deprecating irony, but I’d rather he not do so in the middle of a moody art film. Antichrist tries so hard to shock its viewers with sex and gore that its more artistic, introspective moments feel contrived. Overambition is the film's downfall. Movies can be serious or kitsch, but problems arise when they try and do both at once.

2010-04-05T17:15:00.004-04:00

Several weeks ago I vowed to delete my contribution to the blogosphere suddenly and discreetly, without even leaving a trace of its former existence. It felt a lot like deleting a Facebook does: a week or two of pride for your newfound freedom, followed by excessive snacking and a subtle existential crisis.

Why did I want to abort my literary offspring?
1. Let’s face it, blogs are an extremely narcissistic and trivial medium of communication. Who cares what I think about any given topic? Why are you even wasting your time reading this when you could be off deciphering T.S. Eliot or something? I’m not saying that all obscure writers are not worth reading, but why even bother when you know that better writing is easily accessible?
2. I have a nagging suspicion that something I write here will get misinterpreted and used against me in the future. Who knows where Big Brother might be lurking… When I least expect it, I’ll be the victim of a vicious scheme, caught with my finger in a jar of drugged Nutella, wondering why the cops are at my door.
3. My blog entries will inevitably become embarrassing in a year or two, like my middle school poetry only worse, because everything I write here is public.

These three resignations - along with a flood of college applications - have kept me from writing a single blog entry for nearly a year. So, you may wonder, why am I resurrecting my literary progeny? Because I miss writing stuff that actually gets read and thought about and criticized and maybe even imitated or praised. Writing in a journal just ain’t the same. So, may this be the beginning of another blog-tastic year. Huzzah!

2010-01-18T21:24:00.006-05:00

Check out this video I found in the National Film Registry!

2010-01-16T13:34:00.008-05:00

"You may be disappointed if you fail,
but you are doomed if you don't try."

(Courtesy excessive sign on local greenway)

2009-12-15T21:26:00.001-05:00

Francis Bacon

2009-12-10T17:18:00.002-05:00

An Aspiration to Enfold All by Annie Bresant

2009-12-08T17:17:00.002-05:00

Hey look - It's Stephin Merritt!

2009-12-06T15:29:00.004-05:00

"A people is known, not by its statements or statistics, but by the stories it tells."

Flannery O'Connor

2009-12-03T19:07:00.002-05:00

Ophelia by Odilon Redon

2009-11-28T23:16:00.002-05:00

Union City Drive-in by Hiroshi Sugimoto

2009-08-28T21:47:00.005-04:00

Today I was driving cautiously through the pouring rain when I caught a fleeting glimpse of a sullen, barefooted girl. She stood fixated like a scarecrow on the gravel path outside her trailer home. Obscenely short denim pants advertised her thighs, and her formerly opaque t-shirt clung to her figure like a saran wrap corset. She stared past the traffic as if the adjacent field were a movie screen and we heedless passersby obstructed her view. In her hands she held a pathetic cardboard sign that read, "TWO FREE DOGS".

How did she acquire the canines?
What had compelled her to give them away?

2009-08-10T13:34:00.001-04:00

2009-08-10T12:55:00.008-04:00

ten things i learned this summah

1. The real problem with humanity is not close-mindedness but small-mindedness.
2. Happiness is a choice we make indirectly by how we treat others.
3. No matter how standoffish people seem, they all want to be acknowledged, accepted, and loved.
4. Little acts of kindness like thank you notes and compliments go a long way.
5. Smiling is scientifically proven to make you a happier person.
6. Life is better barefoot.
7. Writing letters reinvigorates the heart, soul, and mind.
8. Forgiveness is actually way easier than revenge.
9. The best kinds of questions lead to more questions.
10. There will always be so much more to learn...

2009-07-30T11:31:00.011-04:00

josephine joseph

(still from freaks)

In the early days of circus sideshow performances it was common for female impersonators to dress up as hermaphrodites. Since there were obvious restrictions as to how graphic their shows could be, many simply took the “half and half” costume approach: dress one side of the body as a male and the other side as a female. Even today, despite all the progress in transgender/intersex rights, most people still seem to share this over-simplistic, binary view of gender. Sadly, the common consensus decrees that people are 100 percent male, 100 percent female, or 50 percent of both. Analyzing gender as points on a scale disturbs me in part because it infers that transgender people must always identify as half male/half female, the 50 percent mark. Does gender neutrality really mean gender duality?

2009-07-27T09:05:00.000-04:00

2009-07-26T09:35:00.007-04:00

(still from dr. jekyll and mr. hyde)

One of the weirdest elements of the “modern age” is the phenomenon of online alter egos. When your entire personality is defined by your photos, your sexual/religious/political orientation, and your favorite books/music/movies, then you have tons of creative license to become whomever you want. Social networking sites like Facebook, Myspace, and Twitter erase unwanted blemishes like your voice, your facial expressions, and your mannerisms, simplifying you into an attractive but ultimately deceptive façade. One intriguing byproduct of this DIY-personality-movement is the hoards of people who are sociable and outgoing online, but standoffish or shy in person.

The disturbing consequence of cyber extroversion is the addictive tendencies it provokes. If it’s easier and more efficient to speak online, then what impetus is there to pursue actual conversations in the “real world”? If you find yourself preferring online communication, does that automatically make you superficial or disturbed? Who's to blame: are you the perpetrator of your own demise or just the victim of a soul-thirsty cyber leech?

My Pet Peeves

2009-06-11T22:14:00.004-04:00

-when people lick their fingers to turn the page
-dysfunctional zippers, hole punchers, and staplers
-when people repeat letters at the end of words
-when people finish your sentences incorrectly
-excessive reply all usage
-when people read over your shoulder
-when people don’t tell you there’s something stuck in your teeth
-when my dad places empty food packages back in the pantry
-when people talk at you, not to you
-squeaky-clean dishes
-knuckle cracking
-when people leave the toilet seat up
-when people leave their turn signals on
-trendy abbreviations
-rhetorical questions
-off-white wite-out

What are your biggest pet peeves?

Man's Best Friend Is Himself.

2009-06-10T23:34:00.012-04:00

On my last visit to Mexico I met an amazing free spirit named Mariana. On our first night together, she told me, “You always have two things in life: your God and yourself.” According to her theory, loneliness is silly since you always have your God and yourself to keep you company.

Since meeting Mariana, I’ve started talking to myself whenever I’m alone in my car. Sometimes my monologues amount to mere mumbles; other times they rise to passionate crescendos, complete with hand gestures that must make me look like a deranged lunatic. No matter what disapproving onlookers think, though, speaking to myself has become one of my most cherished daily routines. Like writing or painting, it helps me relieve stress, assess my successes and failures, and appreciate life.

Most people seem to associate driving with introspection. The thing they don’t appreciate is the value of transforming those intangible thoughts into words. To the uninitiated, spoken monologues sound immature or narcissistic. In practice, though, such conversations attain deep profundity since they're unfettered by listeners’ judgments.

Moral of the story: In a group context, self consciousness means masquerading as others' ideal, but in solitude, it means understanding oneself. Seek to embody the latter kind of self conscious. Don’t be afraid to talk to yourself, and more importantly, don’t forget to listen.

Classic Click Moment

2009-06-09T22:19:00.010-04:00

This is what life's all about!

(photo by martin parr, 2007)

2009-06-09T22:03:00.010-04:00

Naples (1996) and The Lucky Coin (1995) by David Hilliard

Beyond Happiness

2009-06-05T16:48:00.014-04:00

Sideways represents everything that a movie should be. A simple storyline without any distracting vagaries, a realistic screenplay that explores the idiosyncrasies of each character, casting that assembles a group of fresh, unfamiliar faces, cinematography that incorporates some stylistic innovation, filming on location. The film addresses so many profound facets of life (dating, aging, marriage, infidelity, divorce, alcoholism, depression, sex) without seeming sappy or contrived. I love the film’s portrayal of the protagonist: a depressed, recently-divorced teacher struggling to publish a semi-autobiographical novel. We detest his cynical, self-deprecating attitude, yet at the same time we empathize with his situation because his wife divorced him, his father committed suicide, and his mother constantly worries about him. His one true passion in life, aside from writing, is his love of wine, which his newfound lover, Maya, shares.

She understands him because she, too, is a recent divorcee, much like Macon and Muriel from The Accidental Tourist (another one of my favorite films!) Maybe I just identify with these characters because they embody some part of me? [Warning: angst-ridden, confessional pulp, ho!] Sometimes I seriously think that I’m incapable of having close friendships with happy people. B. Scott recently posted a video stating that you should strive to surround yourself with positive people because positive energy attracts positive energy and negative energy attracts negative energy. Don’t get me wrong, I love me some B. Scott, but I disagree with him here. No matter what psychology says, in practice things are never that simple. Happiness doesn’t just radiate from people like pheromones. Besides, there’s so much more to life than happiness! Seriously, who invented this ridiculous notion that the only worthwhile feeling in the world is happiness? Everyone should try to be happy, but no one should feel guilt or shame for being sad. After all, without pain there’d be no humor. It’s all cyclical. (Pay attention to what people consider funny, most of it is pretty negative stuff! Just consider the popularity of FML.)

2009-05-30T00:08:00.009-04:00

Last night I had this terrible nightmare that my ex’s father chased us with a flame thrower. It sounds funny now, but at the time it was upsetting and traumatic. All this stress is turning my face into an ugly, acne infested wasteland. Thinking that some exercise might clear my pores, I headed to the gym again today. There I encountered the latest off-putting subtitle error: “Obama flu flew to Nevada”.

The other day I experienced some unexpected turbulence on my descent into Charlotte, and thought for sure that I was going to die. If I were reincarnated, I’d like to become a bird. Flight would be such a liberating adaptation. Whenever you’d want to start life anew, all you’d have to do is flap your wings and wa-la! What organism do you want to become? Anyway, as my plane was about to crash and burn, I thought to myself, “Please don’t die. So much remains to be done!” Afterwards, in appreciation of the preciousness of time, I deleted my facebook. I felt determined to replace the insipid news feeds with real, important, breaking news coverage. Such attempts were futile, however, since real life is so damn boring lately. I try to seek refuge in books and movies, only to realize that escapism doesn’t help. Without facebook, I’m definitely wasting less time in front of the computer, but I also feel more lonely than usual. I have not yet replaced the online socializing with face-to-face interaction, so I’m turning into a teenage mutant ninja hermit. My blog entries suddenly feel like messages in a bottle I’m sending from some remote, uninhabited island. Somebody really needs to invent a non-academic, non-religious way for socially inept adolescents to meet other interesting young folk.

klepto craze

2009-05-18T21:27:00.006-04:00

Vino (2009)

I am a terrible pack rat. My enthusiasm for collecting junk borders on kleptomania. If I find a $20 bill on the sidewalk, I will pick it up impulsively. “If I don’t do it someone else will,” the heartless collector on my shoulder whispers, “and besides, I’m just teaching its owner an important lesson about guarding your valuable possessions!” My relentless greed applies not just to money, but to useless trash as well. Wine corks, paint chips, bottle caps, sea glass, shells, buttons, keyboard keys, plastic trinkets, safety pins, fortune cookies: nothing can escape my avarice. You name it: I probably have a stockpile stashed away in some cobwebbed corner. When my parents complain, I lie that I’m collecting materials for an ambitious sculpture project. In actuality, though, I have no good reason for amassing useless junk. You’re not meant to have a reason for collect things, though. In the words of one fortune cookie from my extensive collection, “You find beauty in ordinary things, do not lose this ability.” Collectors embody this advice more than all others. We make simple, ordinary objects extraordinary. Obsessively collecting junk does not remotely benefit the world, yet it's oddly satisfying anyway. This absurdity is exactly what makes it such a worthwhile hobby.

Do you collect anything?

The Future Is Here

2009-05-17T19:05:00.006-04:00

“I’m not liking this; I’m not liking this!” whined the boy next to me as he tugged on his mother’s baggy, off-white jumper. I, too, was constantly on the edge of my seat in anticipation of the closing credits, which is curious considering my supposed genetic predisposition to love Star Trek. After all, my parents met at a Halloween party dressed in hardcore Trekkie garb. Perhaps I was just sleepy, but I kept droning off every time the cute Russian boy wasn’t on screen. The movie was neither moving nor thought provoking, and I was bored. Like the woman in this Edward Hopper painting, I felt hopelessly lost, staring at the ceiling, at my lap, at the chiaroscuro silhouettes of my fellow movie-goers.

New York Movie by Edward Hopper (1939)

Audience participation can make or break live theater. In much the same way, movies completely change depending on whom you watch them with. As I sat with the small child beside me today, I pondered how astounding it is that Star Trek was the very first show to broadcast an interracial kiss on American television. Nowadays any kid who watches Spock and Nyota kiss will no longer see a white man and a black woman in love. The color of their skin no longer matters. I’m not sure if people’s perception of interracial couples has changed because of their depiction in popular culture or if the opposite is true: if the masses’ beliefs define popular culture. Maybe it’s a bit of both. As mainstream films reject the status quo, so will the next generation of American audiences. A futuristic science fiction show will thereby produce the very same future it predicted. We live in one strange, ironic world.

I Love My Subaru

2009-05-17T00:09:00.004-04:00

Subaru has come out with what may be the sappiest marketing campaign in automobile history! The new slogan asserts, “Love. It’s what makes a Subaru a Subaru.” Ordinarily I’d sneer at such a maudlin car commercial. But believe me: Subarus are no ordinary motor vehicles. No, my Subaru Outback (AKA the Lesbian Mobile, AKA the White Stallion) is one enviable slab of steel. We’ve been through many daunting trials and tribulations together. She’s trudged 179,738 miles across the East Coast. She’s endured blood, sweat, tears, rain, milkshakes, and bird shit. She’s witnessed dancing, kissing, and countless games of pdiddle. Yet she also suffers from a nervous disorder which sets off the security alarm at the most inopportune moments. Her headlights only illuminate a meager 3 or 4 yards. Her transmission is faulty, her CD player hasn’t worked for years, and her front passenger tire is perpetually deflating. Despite these shortcomings, nonetheless, I love her to death. It’ll be sad to part when I move away for college.

Speaking of bitchin' cars, here is a cool blog about inventive art cars.

The Saxophonist

2009-05-13T16:11:00.006-04:00

Tlaquepaque (2006)

Several years ago I walked past this blind busker on the streets of Guadalajara. I'll never forget the look on his face as he played that saxophone.

Where've You Been Hiding?

2009-05-12T22:49:00.006-04:00

I volunteer at the library shelving picture books. Usually the task is mind-numbingly dull, but today I stumbled across a book I hadn’t thought of in YEARS: The Scary Stories to Tell in the Dark series by Alvin Schwartz! Suddenly I was my eight-year-old self again, giddily feasting over the grotesque inky illustrations of long-legged spiders, haunted houses, and creepy old witches with wiry black hair. It’s amazing how fast time passes.

I still vividly remember the day I learned how to swing. After months of impatient flailing, I was suddenly propelled into the air, weightless and carefree! I recall forgetting how to ride my bike one summer due to my Nintendo 64’s irresistible magnetism. And that one afternoon when I swallowed so many jarring combinations of jelly bean flavors that I puked. Plus that time I idiotically jumped from a second-story landing. My first kiss! Sketchbooks full of primitive drawings of voluptuous women whom I envied.

The most beautiful thing about small children is that they have no self-restraint. They speak exactly what’s on their minds, no matter how silly or imaginative. They also have no sense of what’s socially acceptable behavior, so they do whatever they feel like in the spur of the moment. They are perpetually optimistic and confident. Essentially, they don’t stop themselves from being who they are. That’s ultimately what changes the most when you get older: you come to understand that success and acceptance must be derived by resisting your “childish” impulses. We’re trained to believe that what’s right to do is what other people expect us to do. Eventually, we forget what it is that we really want to do and only envision what we’ve been told we’re supposed to do. We learn to sit up straight, to look serious at funerals and happy at weddings, to keep secrets. People always talk about how when you age you somehow begin to “understand who you really are” by undergoing all these drastic changes. Yet it seems to me that to some extent, our personalities are set from the get-go. Sure, we have some free will to choose who we want to be, but ultimately, our inner selves remain more or less the same. Thus, adolescence is not actually about changing, but rather about testing the limits that we choose to let society impose on us. Deciding who we are mostly means sifting through those boundaries and deciding which to keep and which to discard. Just how much of your childhood self are you willing to salvage?

fear

2009-05-02T15:07:00.003-04:00

Mexico City #347 by Jed Fielding (2000)

My biggest fear in the whole wide world is going blind. Losing my eyesight would be the death of me, not just because it’d be inconvenient, but because seeing is quintessential to my relationship with the world around me. I express myself best verbally, but I experience the world the most visually. Thus, if I ever went blind, I could still share myself with the world, but the world could no longer respond. It’d be like staring into a one-way mirror for the rest of my life.

What are you most afraid of?

2009-04-30T22:58:00.002-04:00

Melancholy by Edvard Munch (1894/95)

On Love

2009-04-30T00:10:00.001-04:00

Yesterday the headmaster of my school advised several students (myself included) to “learn to love other people.” His optimistic- if slightly esoteric- advice has been percolating through my head all day long. Sure, life is better when you’re surrounded by people you love, but loving everyone is impossible, and to suggest otherwise is to devalue the meaning of love. Not everyone deserves to be loved by you. People need to hold each other to higher standards. [Having high expectations means measuring peoples’ worth by the quality of their character, not being a shallow, judgmental snob.] If someone treats you or your loved ones like bull dung, being nice back to them shows: A) codependency, B) naïvety, or C) a seemingly wise but ultimately egocentric attempt to imitate Gandhi.

I’ve always been skeptical of people who are unconditionally kind to everyone. If you’re making a conscious effort to “love” everyone equally, that generosity becomes impersonal and contrived. Everything exists on a spectrum: for true love to exist, contempt and indifference must, too. Most people will think you’re a “good person” when you’re always kind, but do most peoples’ opinions truly matter?

Some words of wisdom: If you don’t really care about someone, leave them alone! Disregard the insincere masses and seek out a few genuinely caring friends. Only then will you understand what it means to love and be loved. Amen.

2009-04-27T16:52:00.005-04:00

The Lost Frontier by Llyn Foulkes

A few weeks ago I embarked on a college visiting crusade in Chicago. Big city life is at once exhilarating and distressing. Metropoli offer so many incredible cultural opportunities: prestigious art museums, sprawling libraries, quirky book stores, ethnic restaurants. Superlatives of all shapes and sizes. It’s so humbling to watch urban sprawl seep past the horizon. Every human life amounts to a mere speck within the huge labyrinth of steel and pavement. In some senses, I enjoy the anonymity of cities. It enables ordinary people to do unconventional things in public (like kissing a member of the same sex) without drawing unwanted attention. Yet this apathy for one’s neighbors often turns to distrust and fear. You hastily learn to avoid eye contact in the subway. To clutch your hand bags tightly. To keep your wallet concealed. In short, though surrounded by other human beings, you are alone. The closer we get, the farther we feel. That is the paradox of the city. Is it human nature to be so impersonal? Do suburbs merely conceal the dark reality of human relationships behind hi, how are you’s and fine, thankyou’s?

Despite the alienating atmosphere, I still thirst for city life. Cities are like cultural petri dishes. It’s unwise to judge a person by their hometown, but it’s totally legitimate to judge a place by its people. Cities are havens for artists, writers, musicians, and other lovable miscreants. Suburbs attract families and businessmen. It’s somewhat pretentious, but in the public eye, urban arts are more significant, too. Anything suburban merely amounts to an imitation of the urban. Just look at the word itself. sub-URBAN. AKA the ugly, illegitimate step child of the city.

What do you think? Is city life worth all the pollution/crime/corruption?

The Memory Project

2009-04-26T20:16:00.006-04:00

Herica (2009)

Last week I started (and finished) a new portrait! It’s of a beautiful Honduran orphan named Herica. She’s standing in front of a sunflower patch, looking intently at the camera with a genuine, knowing smile. Everything in the photograph seems carefully arranged: the pulled back hair, the lush garden, the shirt that reads “Corriendo Vencemos las Drogas.” I wonder if she actually enjoys running and horticulture or if it’s all just the photographer’s illusion. One clue stands out: a single strand of wavy hair that pokes out of her otherwise neatly combed haircut. This subtle hairdo malfunction shatters any sense of formality the photographer tried to impose on her youthful restlessness. She doesn’t really give a hoot about how she looks, and thus she is free. The portrait will now become her only visual record of that vivacity. This makes me feel both honored and hopeless. Only through portraiture can you form such an intimate bond with a stranger.

If you’re a high schooler who likes to draw/paint [Ahem, Rachel!], you should definitely check out The Memory Project. It’s worth the hard work.

2009-03-05T17:48:00.002-05:00

Love Montage

2009-03-03T22:19:00.003-05:00

All originals except bottom right: "Untitled (Kiss)" Sonia Boyce. 1962.

A Gentle Dissolve

2009-03-02T10:11:00.013-05:00

I woke up with itchy eyeballs and a sore back. The television cast an artificial blue light over the sofa where I rested. ¿Qué hora es? 2:49. I must have fallen asleep watching The Godfather again. Lengthy cinematic classics are my sleeping pills. Simply pop in Lawrence of Arabia or Fiddler on the Roof and within an hour deep REM slumber will overtake me. Upon waking, I glanced out the window to observe the blanket of snow that canceled my school day. An irresistible impulse to go for a stroll outside summoned me like a sleepwalker in a trance.

I felt so at ease meandering through the transient winter wonderland alone. Snow reminds me of my childhood in Pittsburgh. My family lived in a house upon a hill, meaning we had to park our car at the bottom of the steep slope each night to avoid a disastrous Slip-n-Slide fiasco. Nowadays, my favorite thing about snow is its potential to capture the past, like a primitive form of photography. Nothing escapes the snow’s memory: Tiny, ecstatic footprints. Sad, abandoned snowballs. Ugly tire treads. More notably, though, the snow enables you to create imaginary narratives. A dysfunctional snow angel reminiscent of a UFO landing strip will greet Mr. Griffin in the morning. Ms. Lee, on the other hand, will encounter footprints from a deadly Mexican standoff etched into her yard.

On one side of my neighborhood there sprawls a garbage dump strewn with barbed wire, broken industrial equipment, and a suspicious van that resembles a meth lab. In the opposite direction there lies an aging cemetery. Naturally, I decided to visit the latter. What better thing can one do in the middle of the night? Silent silhouettes of tombstones kept me company as I lay cold and lifeless in the snow like the bodies six feet below me. Lying supine on the frozen earth-- gazing up at the deep cosmos-- my body smiled cheek to cheek. In the meantime, I disintegrated like melting snow.

The Beloved Window

2009-02-07T10:51:00.009-05:00

I live deep in Southern suburbia, where the architecture is dominated by drab wooden paneling, imposing brick slabs, and weathering grey shingles. Unlike adobe architecture, the buildings are based on tight right angles. Any organic/round shapes simply don’t belong. Yet the side of my neighbors’ house bears a stunning architectural anomaly: a tiny, circular window.

Apart from the great stained glass panels adorning Mexican cathedrals, it is definitely my favorite window in human history. The curious structure has captivated me ever since we first moved into our house 11 some years ago. Overtime, the house’s inhabitants have changed. A pastor and his obnoxious offspring have replaced the guitar collecting beer connnoiseur. But all the while the enigmatic window has remained the same, staring back at me like the eyeball of a giant cyclops.

What’s its purpose? To let in light? To offer a nonconvential fire exit? Perhaps the more pertinent question is Why does it need a purpose? Like a human appendix or a Chindogu gadget, its futility makes it all the more delightful.

I Have a Dream...

2009-01-25T09:52:00.012-05:00

I’m driving to a friend’s party in the dark. A slight suggestion of dawn peeps out over the horizon. Beams of orange sunlight weave through leafless branches. My breath fogs up the windshield. I’ve been driving for hours, nearly shivering with anticipation, yet I can’t find my destination. I circumnavigate an icy lake several times, when suddenly-- I'm back in bed. I’ve overslept by more than an hour. Tardy once again.

Lately I’ve been having very lucid dreams. I wake up feeling like days have passed in some nocturnal world where photography is prohibited. My memories are intricate yet sparse. Is this how it feels to have Alzheimer’s? (photo courtesy flickr.com/photos/greendestiny)

My dreams are always in color and usually in English. They typically involve weird manifestations of acquaintances from waking life. In one recurring dream, I can propel myself into the air by rowing my arms downward like oars. My nightmares usually involve death by slipping off cliffs (Note: slipping off cliffs is far less exhilerating than jumping off cliffs). My dad has a recurring nightmare with great poetic potential. He wanders around inside an old, windowless wooden mansion. Every nook and cranny on the wall is covered in miscellaneous clutter: taxidermy animals, brass instruments, photographs, what have you. The unnerving thing about the house is that every room contains multiple doors leading to multiple rooms. Each exit only leads deeper into an endless stream of chaos.

Back in middle school, I had an unhealthy obsession with antique malls. (Unhealthy because my companions were mainly elderly women and I’d usually contract mysterious respiratory problems afterwards from all the dust.) Anyway, one day I bought this book with crackly, yellowed pages called “What Your Dream Meant” by Martini the Palmist. The poor writer was clearly a masochist: “to dream of burning yourself is a good sign.” And carnivorous: “to dream of cabbage is as a rule not good.” Yet also introspective: “to dream of seeing macaroni in large quantities denotes that you will accumulate quite little money.” Sadly, Martini had nothing to say about driving to parties in the dark. What could my dream mean?

Please leave comments about any recurring dreams you experience!

2009-01-21T16:13:00.000-05:00

Black Hole

2009-01-09T22:22:00.011-05:00

This week I finally finished Charles Burns’s famous graphic novel “Black Hole”. It’s one of the most chilling, down-right creepy stories I’ve ever read. It features Burns’s distinctive, graphic, meticulously detailed black and white illustrations, reminiscent of classic horror comics. The book took him over a decade to complete and won the Eisner, Harvey, and Ignatz Awards. It’s currently being made into a film by David Fincher, director of Fight Club. Pantheon Books has a short except of the first chapter here.

The story is about a sexually transmitted disease called The Teen Plague which ravages suburban Seattle high schools. The “bug” causes its hosts to grow grotesque deformities like tails, bumps, and extra mouths. Society ostracizes the infected, so many go out to live in the woods alone. Towards the end of the book, one of the seemingly good characters, Dave, stages a bloody massacre of other infected kids in order to win over the female protagonist, Chris. The book’s title refers to the gaping bullet hole in one of their faces. It’s also a reference to astronomical black holes, which attract all approaching objects with an irresistible gravitational pull, just as the disease pries the two main characters, Keith and Chris, from their normal lives forever.

Burns has explained in interviews that the disease represents adolescence itself. Indeed, the story perfectly captures the confusion, loneliness, and desperation of the teenage experience. For example, Dave was a normal, chess-loving geek before his peers' relentless bullying transformed him into a passive agressive maniac. I thought the most powerful scene in the book was when Dave visits a KFC and a man standing in line behind him orders him to leave. Dave threatens to shoot the man, then spits in his mouth and shouts, “See how easy that was? That’s all it takes… A little spit. Some saliva… And now you’re one of us.” Becoming an outsider is that simple.

Ode to North Carolina

2009-01-05T16:52:00.014-05:00

Today I’d like to reflect on some of the idiosyncrasies of North Carolina. This post is dedicated to all the readers *cough penpals cough* out there who are out-of-state (and out-of-country).

One ubiquitous North Carolinian celebrity is our lovely Commissioner of Labor, more commonly known as the elevator inspector lady: Cherie Berry. This woman’s portrait, shown here, adorns the walls of every single elevator in the state. Well, every safety inspected one, for that matter. How one safety inspects an elevator is beyond me. I like to imagine it this way: As the elevator approaches her floor, Cherie makes the sign of the cross. Then, as she steps onto the dreaded death machine with her clipboard and pen in hand, she closes her eyes and imagines the hopeful face of each and every North Carolinian staring back at her. We are her people, and it is for us that she selflessly risks her life.
(photo courtesy nclabor.com)

Next comes Cheerwine, a distinctively North Carolinian beverage that’s manufactured in Salisbury. This heavenly burgundy soft drink is purported to taste like cherry but I think its flavor is indefinable. If Cherie Berry was my Jesus, Cheerwine would definitely be my holy water. [Side note: Cheerwine has a citrusy bastard cousin named Sun Drop that everyone hates, discounting my old chemistry teacher, who uses it as a coffee substitute. ]

(photo courtesy greensboring.com)

Another strange North Carolina tidbit is our rivalry with Ohio over bragging rights. North Carolina license plates and quarters boast “First in Flight,” referring to the Wright Brothers’ first successful airpline flight at Kitty Hawk in 1903. Ohio’s quarter, however, says “Birthplace of Aviation Pioneers” because the brothers built their airplane there.

(photos courtesy Wikipedia)

One of the best musical acts to come out of my state is the amazing Chapel Hill-based swing revival band, The Squirrel Nut Zippers. The two lead singers were married when they formed the group, but since then they’ve divorced. (awkward much!) Anyway, you can check out one of their most popular songs here. Also be sure to check out fellow Chapel Hill denizens The Old Ceremony here!

New Year, Old Embargo

2009-01-02T22:33:00.003-05:00

Yesterday marked Earth’s 2009th orbit around the sun since the supposed birth of Christ. But for Cubans and Miamians, yesterday also commemorated the 50th anniversary of the Cuban Revolution. As January 20th approaches, Americans and Cubans alike speculate what Barack Obama’s election means for US/Cuban relations, namely the trade embargo.

President-elect Barack Obama has pledged to maintain the 1962 embargo, but will lift the harsh restrictions on travel and money shipment enacted by President Bush in 2004. Obama’s push for direct democracy and the closing of Guantánamo Bay also displays a clear change from George W. Bush’s policies. Similar steps towards closer US/Cuban relations have been taken by Raúl Castro, who replaced Fidel Castro as the President of Cuba in February of 2008. Since then, he has enacted several reforms which stray from his brothers’ strict egalitarianism. This move towards a more moderate socialism will accelerate with the looming death of Fidel Castro, who has not made any public appearances for over two years due to an undisclosed illness. As Barack Obama has recognized, completely lifting the embargo is unlikely in the forseeable future, largely due to Cuba’s alliance with Venezuelan dictator Hugo Chavez, whose anti-American rhetoric and close ties to Russia pose obvious threats to American interests. Nonetheless, increased US/Cuban cooperation will benefit both countries.

While the US has provided considerable aid to Cuba after the series of hurricanes which recently plagued the Caribbean island, the trade embargo still puts considerable strain on the Cuban economy, which contributes to its citizens’ ridiculously low wages. The archaic embargo keeps the Cuban economy frozen decades behind that of the US, as epitomized by the abundance of pre-embargo models of American automobiles in Cuba. The photograph below from the Magnum Photos exhibition “Cuba: 50 Years of Revolution” documents this trend.

Untitled by Christopher Anderson (2003)

Lifting the trade embargo would not only strengthen Cuba’s struggling economy, but would also yield innumerable benefits for the United States. Most notably, it would restore the US’s international reputation, especially in Latin America. The UN will exhale a deep sigh of relief when the US finally recognizes its proposal to lift the embargo, which was passed for the 17th straight year in October with an overwhelming 185 to 3 majority. A closer relationship with Cuba could also help the US gain access to the potential oil reserves in the Gulf of Mexico currently being explored by its #1 economic comptetitor, China. US/Cuban collaboration could also help both countries intercept overseas drug trafficking from Colombia.

Opinions? Predictions? Bueller?

The Good, The Bad, and The Fugly

2009-01-01T22:22:00.029-05:00

Dearest readers,
Sorry for the lengthy lapse in blogging! For the past four days I’ve been quarantined within my grandparents’ computerless Orlando apartment. (PS- I love my grandparents. I only say “quarantined” because we played too much shuffleboard.) On the exhausting nine hour drive back home, I wrote a list of some of the good, the bad, and the ugly things in life.

First but not most, the Dull, Dreadful, Despicable, and Damned:
religious dogma, conformity, codependency, prunes, Guantánamo Bay, whining, homophobia, xenophobia, racism, dogs, lethargy, gangs, the Second Amendment, capital punishment, Bill O'Reilly, Proposition 8, gender roles, fruit cake, knuckle cracking, polo shirts, charlatans, Prohibition, insincerity, drive thrus, Nascar, mathematics, multi-tasking, cluster bombs, traffic, television, routines, perfectionism, copyright laws, lies, stigma, fear, aeroplane turbulence, denial, regret, political correctness, GPAs, Crocs, offices, home improvement stores, Vera Bradley, hunting, fishing, mobs, cliques, oblivion, trickle-down economics, minutia, censorship, hangnails, yes or no questions, mosquitoes, natural disasters, depression, acne, bad hotel artwork, retirement, genocide, aging, florescent lighting, parasites, dysfunctional hole punchers.

And now for the Flipping Fabulous, Funtastic, Fascinating, and Freaknasty*:
rocking chairs, bonfires, sea glass, rainbow flags, collar bones, little dainty serving utensils, neon signs, subways (especially the London tube), comics, Scottish oat cakes, tai chi, cheesecake, David Sedaris, lucha libre masks, vagabonds, humorous typos, unicycles, strobe lights, orange-brown, screenplays, diversity, antiquated maps, memory, hummus, disco balls, boxer-briefs, old postcards, bubble wrap, ice sculptures, roller blades, screenprinting, crabs, humanism, panhandling, Frida Kahlo, vandalism (especially culture jamming), blown glass, serendipity, art cars, diet Coke with lime, the 60s, ink blot tests, exposed brick, drum breaks, spinach, sunsets, NPR, debates, magnetic poetry, public transportation, vegetarian tacos, op-eds, the BBC, liberalism, history, pop culture, art critiques, hermits, buskers and street performers (especially the World Famous Bushman!), Quakerism, Buddhism, sequins, Trader Joe’s, spontaneity, the UN, free speech, Switzerland, honesty, satire, texting, liberal arts, doodling, kitsch, crustaceans, art museums, urban landscapes, bowtie pasta, adobe architecture, animation, the Strand Bookstore, improv comedy, green eyes, old school hip hop, slang, free samples, social networking, bossa nova, puns, installation art, buffets, missed connections ads, elevator music, DIY culture, Halloween, the smell of shaving cream, toenail moons, Cheerwine, pyromania, photojournalism, entropy, watercolors, recycling, constellations, stalactites, Google Earth, free will, lists, extraterrestrial life, mosaics, corral reefs, the Internet, PhDs.

*euphoric, inducing acute sensual pleasure.

Slumdog Millionaire or Milk?

2008-12-27T20:25:00.002-05:00

To begin, for all those who haven’t done so already, GO SEE SLUMDOG MILLIONAIRE! Why? Because:
A) It’s by Danny Boyle, the same guy who directed 28 Days Later.
B) It features music by M.I.A. and the brilliant Indian composer A.R. Rahman.
C) It’s been nominated for 4 Golden Globe Awards including Best Motion Picture and Best Original Score.
D) It will make you laugh, cry, and perhaps vomit. (One scene involves an all-too-intimate encounter with a pit latrine)

Both Slumdog and Milk will most likely be nominated for Best Picture at the Academy Awards this February. But who should win? Surprisingly, I actually believe that Slumdog most merits the award. I’m not saying that Milk hasn’t earned any awards. On the contrary, Sean Penn undoubtedly deserves an Oscar for Best Actor in a Leading Role. But as a whole, Slumdog was a superior film. Whereas Milk followed a fairly linear storyline, Slumdog integrated past and present through an intriguingly complex and original narrative. Both films perfectly captured the spirit of their urban settings [Mumbai and San Francisco, respectively], but Boyle’s unusually colorful cinematography ultimately outdid Van Sant’s.

If there was a Most Politically Relevant and Historically Significant Film Award, Milk would deserve it, hands down. So much of the rhetoric used for and against the discriminatory California measure Prop 6 parallels contemporary arguments concerning Prop 8. Milk was the more powerful film for me emotionally and intellectually, but Slumdog was the better film cinematically speaking. What do you all think? Please leave comments.

On another note, why the hell is everyone in North Carolina already throwing away their Christmas trees!? My goodness! At the very least they could wait until New Year’s Day to dispose of their holiday spirit. Forgive the crude analogy, but in one sense, Christmas is a lot like an orgasm. Just after Thanksgiving it builds and builds, but then- after only a moment- it’s gone again. The trees get tossed to the curb, the mountain of gift wrap goes straight to the dump, and reality resumes…

Monsters, Chilis, and a Miraculous Fluke

2008-12-26T10:55:00.004-05:00

Yesterday was Christmas! Three notable things happened:

1) We all exchanged gifts. One of the most interesting things I received was a set of Horrified B-Movie Victims made by the entertainment masterminds at Accoutrements. “We provide the screaming hordes! You provide the monsters!” the box declared. So I did just that:

2) Every Christmas my uncle receives additions to his extensive hot sauce collection. This year, one brand contained Naga Jolokia [AKA Ghost Pepper], which Guiness World Records recently named the hottest chili in the world. After dinner, we decided to test its badassness for ourselves, using our fingers as spoons. ...Moments later I remembered it was time to change my contact lenses. Need I say more? Ghost Pepper + index finger + contacts + eyeball = PAIN.

3) I was not the only person who was adversely affected by the pepper. Grandma felt a little light-headed afterwards, and in her jittery state she accidentally knocked over a glass of red wine. Luckily, it splattered upon a yellow argyle sweater which I was dreading having to wear. In the voice of an overzealous P.E. coach, Grandma screached, “CLUB SODA AND SALT! QUICK!” But, alas, no blotting or salty beverage conconting could erase the unrelenting stains that clung to the knit fabric like blood. I repeat, mistakes are often blessings in disguise.

On another note, today I started reading an amazing graphic novel of sorts called “Capacity” by Portland-based artist Theo Ellsworth. You can check out his intricate, dream-like illustrations here.

The Quirky Side of Photography

2008-12-25T15:45:00.009-05:00

I hope you peeps are having a lovely holiday season! Last night my relatives and I gobbled up a great big vegetarian feast. In the ensuing period of food-induced sedation, everyone lazily fingered through the stack of photo albums Mom had conveniently placed on the coffee table. “See how thin I was!” Grandma remarked. “Do you remember that little dance so-and-so used to do?” Mom inquired. Photography is such an incredible invention. It enables us to stop time and preserve a moment, to add a visual narrative to the disparate stream of events that comprises our lives. But some of the most interesting, less-acknowledged aspects of photography are the awkward social constructs it bears.

I absolutely abhor taking photographs, especially of other people. Carrying a camera in public feels like wearing a nametag that shouts, “LOOK! I don’t belong here!” Or worse, when I haul around my clunky SLR, it asserts, “Not only am I a tourist, but I’m a pretentious snob, too!” Even more awkward than carrying the camera, however, is actually taking pictures. I’m always terrified that an innocent bystander will apprehend me for my intrusive behavior. In this day and age, cameramen are mistrusted outsiders, second only to KGB agents, beggars, pedophiles, and Pee-wee Herman. Because of my sheepishness, whenever I bring a camera on vacation, I do not return with a collection of family portraits or panoramic landscape knockoffs. Instead, my repertoire consists of disturbing snapshots of taxidermy tigers and candid close ups of unsuspecting family members.

Another funny result of photography is the advent of photogenic-ness. Some people, like my parents’ friend from college, always produce curiously pristine photographs, reminiscent of either Barbie dolls or classic Mentos advertisements. Others somehow exorcise all cameras within a 30 foot radius.

Then, of course, comes the paparazzi, who produce some of the most sleazy, moronic journalism out there today. How many idiots does it take to photograph Britney Spears? Hundreds, evidently.

(photo courtesy msnbc.com)

With such constant surveillance, it’s no wonder why so many Hollywood stars go mad. As Chris Crocker once pled, “LEAVE BRITNEY ALONE!” One of the most fascinating figures in the history of tabloid journalism was the elusive Weegee. Instead of chasing celebrities around LA, he frequented the many notorious crime scenes of NYC. Several of his photographs resemble footage from Red Asphalt, minus the motor vehicles.

“Weegee at a Murder” (1942) (photo courtesy www.nytimes.com)

You can check out more of his work here.

The Gift Wrap Debacle

2008-12-23T18:44:00.011-05:00

The last- and probably most painstaking- item on the Christmas agenda is gift wrapping. I think I possess a recessive present-wrapping-ineptitude gene. The last time I wrapped a gift for a friend’s birthday, I gave up halfway through and proceeded to frantically garrote the package with duct tape. I am capable of turning a simple cube into a hideous, lumpy amoeba with just one sheet of tissue paper. For this reason, my stomach churned when Mother proclaimed me her gift wrapping apprentice.

The twenty-something stocking stuffers I was assigned to package were of the most inconvenient shapes imaginable, aside from sea anemones, but no one bestows those anyway. After a few futile attempts to stretch, tear, and fold the uncompromising tissue paper into the proper form, a penetrating thought arose: Why the hell am I doing this!?

Let’s make things clear: I do understand and appreciate the importance of wrapping paper. It adds to the sense of anticipation and suspense that deprives every child of sleep on Christmas Eve. After all, within that elusive layer of paper hides either joy (a new Wii) or misery (your aunt’s homemade rabbit slippers). My frustration does not concern the existence of wrapping paper itself, but rather our boring uses of it.

Why do we go through so much toil and trouble to make gift wrap just as blank and non-descript as the box it contains? Why not be more creative and build a piñata? Or, even better, be like the golfers who frequent airport baggage claims and turn your package into a mysteriously anthropomorphic mummy! Speaking of anthropomorphic mummies, you should check out the work of the renowned American sculptor George Segal, who created amazing life-sized plaster casts of humans, such as that below, which commemorates the 1969 Stonewall Riots.

George Segal’s “Gay Liberation” (photo courtesy stanfordphoto.blogspot.com)

Also, check out the burgeoning DIY packaging tape sculpture movement here!

Why I Don't Eat Fish

2008-12-23T10:08:00.003-05:00

Lately my family has been in a huge frenzy to get our house ready for Christmas. There’s more pressure than usual to make the vicinity presentable because this year a whopping half dozen family members will be visiting. FYI, my family belongs in the least hospitable household hall of fame. We are all super anti-social, introverted wallflowers. Holiday spirit? Ba Humbug. Mother keeps insisting on playing Christmas music around the house to boost holiday morale, while my atheist father interjects, “I hate this music. I just can’t understand Charlie Brown’s allure.” Our apathy is epitomized by our meager decorations. We bought our crooked, outcasted [yet oddly loveable] Christmas tree on the very last day before the venders across the street packed up to leave. Also, in the realm of lights, our house seems like an Amish compound in comparison to the lavish displays which adorn our neighbors’ front yards.

Anyway, one of the many chores we had to perform was cleaning out the refrigerator. The task was pretty simple and mundane, until we proceeded to the freezer, at which point my dad pulled out a small Tupperware container and exclaimed with horror, “WHAT IS THIS!?” Within moments, our eyes interlocked and it clicked. It was Loachie. Our dead fish. We were not intending to preserve him like Walt Disney, but rather had entirely forgotten about his burial some many months ago. (Yes, my family buries our fish. Flushing them down the toilet is far too inhumane a goodbye. The freezer is the interim between Water and Soil, the fish equivalent of purgatory.)

I’ve been a semi-vegetarian for about a year and a half now, and people always ask me, “Do you eat fish?” The answer is no. My silly, nonsensical rule is that I don’t eat anything that has a face, with the exception of crabs because they’re SO DAMN TASTY. My mother bugs me all the time about it. “Fish aren’t like other animals. All they do is swim around,” she insists. Originally I tried to see things from her point of view, but the day Loachie died, I changed my mind, because he looked so edible in his little plastic coffin. Yet he was not, in fact, food. He was my pet. I wouldn’t eat any other type of pet, so why eat fish? In my mind, fish are human, just as much as dogs, cats, parakeets, hamsters, monkeys, or any other domesticated animal. [Note: I’m not writing this to try to persuade you to take on a vegetarian diet. Even though soy substitutes exist for basically every variety of meat out there, it’s REALLY not for everyone. Besides, I respect all diets, except cannibalism.]

At exactly 9:45 AM, we entombed Loachie within an unmarked, one-foot-deep grave in the back yard. We all wore dark attire and bowed our heads to share a moment of silence. And then, as we entered our all too empty house in sorrow, Mom hastily resumed the Christmas soundtrack. Now more than ever, getting into the holiday spirit feels like a struggle in itself.

The Joy of Mistakes

2008-12-22T21:55:00.007-05:00

Something funny happened to me today. Dad woke me up obscenely early in the morning insisting that we visit the gym together. His sudden enthusiasm for exercise seems akin to going to Confession before a trip to Las Vegas, since no matter how much we try to avoid it, our holiday dinners will inevitably fatten us up a bit. I entered the gym through a covert doorway to avoid the greeter lady upstairs, who has recently encouraged me to purchase a new $5 identification card to replace the previous one, which a friend of mine recently stole for the blackmail potential of its prepubescent photograph. The particular gym my family attends presents its visitors with three options:

A) Runners can look down to ponder the wonders of treadmill technology. Such a decision is simply blasphemous, for it slows one down and can damage his or her posture. (My old cross country coach’s piercing cries of “HEAD UP!” come to mind.)

B) You can run with your eyes closed, which could be risky, even in the good ol’ Christian establishment that is the YMCA, considering that thieves often occupy the least expected places, like the break room in my dad’s office, where a notorious villain has been known to commit crimes as heartless as stealing the fish from a coworker’s salad, leaving only a bed of dry, iceberg lettuce behind.

C) Runners can choose to look up at the seven or so TVs which line the front wall of the room.

I was, of course, performing option C, turning my head from the television broadcasting Fox News on the left and that showing MSNBC on the right to avoid the plethora of home improvement and sports channels which plagued the middle TVs. (Speaking of this, my ideal gym would only show the news, with the channels’ positions determined by their place on the political spectrum.) Anyway, at one point, Fox News caught my attention, as an overly casual, twenty-something weather woman pointed towards big arrows representing the blizzards plaguing the Pacific Northwest. The TV was muted, but subtitles appeared as the talking head babbled. Then, out of nowhere, the caption read, “It’s getting more severe as the gays come.”

The last time I checked, homosexuals do not in fact influence weather patterns, unless you consider rainbows. Perhaps the simple typo was some sneaky journalist’s attempt to transmit subconscious, homophobic messages. More likely, however, the puzzling message was due to some subtitler’s negligence in proofreading. The insertion, deletion, or substitution of one word or letter in a sentence can significantly distort its meaning, just as changes in the nucleotide bases of DNA can cause genetic mutations. Yet one must ask, would the world really be such a better place without mutations? Of course not! Who doesn’t love a six-fingered man or a bearded woman! Also, mutations are one of the foundations of the gradual changes over time that comprise evolution. Much like genetic mutations’ influence on the gene pool of a population, grammatical errors like typos can actually help enrich and enliven language! Consider, for example, the numerous exciting, awkward situations that arise when gringos attempt to speak Spanish, including: “Estoy caliente” meaning “I’m horny” to “Estoy embarazado” which apparently means, “I’m pregnant.” Basically, I’m trying to say that while proofreading is undeniably important, we should not always fear our mistakes. Errors make the world a more fun, more quirky, and more livable place. Amen.

Thanks for reading! More funny anecdotes, political commentaries, music/book/film reviews, etc. to come.