Perception is Reality

The swishy-swish in her pants, as she passed, drew my attention. It had a missed step, like a reggae song, with the shoes hitting the carpet and then the double beat of her light-grey colored khakis rubbing. It was then I peered over and realized that she had her head turned looking back at me. She was an older woman, not strutting in rhythm purposely to make the beat, but constrained in that motion by a larger, older body. Things had gotten out of hand; the stress, kids maybe: time had countered against her. And I think when she saw me look as she went by, she was giving me a scolding look for eyeing-in on her ass.

Quickly my neck snaps, the muscles triggered by embarrassment. Even though I know I'm innocent, the perception is the reality. I am a weirdo-pervert who craves older, bigger women because at that moment she believes this to be true.

Now my gaze is set on auto-pilot. While admitting that I do take part in the shared male ritual of checking out the lower half of a woman, I generally am not overzealous in my appreciation. I do not whistle or bark, or even widen my eyes when a fine-toned buttocks passes my way. And despite the perception is reality bit – a mantra that sounds like it came out of some fascist ideology - I do not consume porn with older bigger women. The only porn I consume is free on the internets and usually only about 20-30 seconds long, and it's a bad habit I picked up as a young horny teenage, when the novelty of having sexual urges was like some new video game in which you want to find all the secret levels and cheat-codes. Similarly, the novelty wears thin, till it breaks and what's left needs therapy from counseling.

When swishy pants went by again, I made an intentional effort not to turn my head. Then I got a bit arrogant and thought that she should really appreciate a young guy like me, only slightly deformed, checking out an older woman like her. Maybe she's just not used to it, or she hates young people with possibly active sex lives. Life can be like biting into a moldy apple and then spending the next hour or so trying to sanitize both your mind and mouth.

Flipper takes me to postmodern free-association

I think it was about two years ago when I first heard Flipper's "Sex Bomb," and I realized what had been missing from my life was some sloppy slow-sludgecore from San Francisco. It wasn't till a few months ago that I finally tracked down the infamous Generic album, which might be one of the best albums of the eighties, if you really are looking far afield for something that does not quite make sense.

The point of making sense, of fitting a line of logic that is clear, clean, and cut through with fine precision, of parts fitting nicely together with artistry and hard work; I respect all of this very much. But I equally am drawn to mess, to garbage and filth and disgust and failure, nonsense. When David Bryne breaks out and says it, sings "Stop making sense" in Girlfriend is Better, I think "here's a call to action, perhaps a punk manifesto for a band that in no respects should be as culturally well-known as they are." Do we understand that, Stop making sense? I doubt that a culture can really celebrate confusion, because there are elements of confusion that are devoid of humanity. Murder, rape, and racism all don't make sense, unless logic is warped to say that killing is justified by abstraction number one, two, three, and so on. America can kill because we are good, and those that die are evil. Thus, the good killing the bad is not wrong, but an example of justice.

These things make sense, perhaps, but only in a frame of logic, and that frame is a construct of society, which exists out of survival needs, but persists further beyond these very basic modes of sustaining the body, the mind, of nurturing the body till it has moments to think about its own existence. The convenience of survival, the take-for-granted aspect of life, is not really taken-for-granted, but merely the expectations are realigned. This is a culture completely disconnected from natural effects, of fitness being tied to purpose. No one hunts except for game - no one farms without the help of technology. The body is formed through science, exercises that have no end but to give to the body what it has lost in luxury. For ourselves, we need only to get into the car and drive quickly, an unhuman quickness that has no resemblance to life. This convenience: what effect does it have on the body? We go to the store and purchase milk, a plastic white container which is ours for a mere $3 dollars, and these are the ends of endless calculations, of distribution and temperatures, of life being bred to produce for such a purpose and then perfectly timed to die (Life Is Cheap)

Outside this context, these parameters of time, place, emotions; of cycles and prior engagements (promises, mothers and fathers, moments of revelation); beyond these details, there are future historians who examine the evidence and come up with different verdicts. The guilt is distributed, the reasons and actors presented bullet style on some Powerpoint in the classroom. The logic is simplified into text books and test questions, with correct answers and open-ended essays that are graded on how well they make sense. The logic is represented, the figures and dates and theories relocated into a kind of baseball game where the score will be figured, and the play will go off without a hitch. By the ninth inning, we have settled something for future games to redefine.

Long hours are spent in the library pouring over obscure books that recalculate the literature, reexamine controversial notions and the values of certain cultures, politics, and humans who have adopted their ethics from experience.

And so I see all of this as a means of getting to Flipper, to bridge a gap where art and trash and everything in between exists and takes on value only through its relation to what has come before. If we begin with Robert Johnson, and end with the Sex Pistols, things have been left out, somewhere. Nothing is omnipresent; mistakes are made, people forgotten. So why or how did Flipper exist, a band so raunchy, so senseless, who could write a song called Life and sing a line like "Life is the only thing worth living for" and make it sound endearing. I find it endearing, and I am lead on a long trail of an identity crisis.

Do I really want to be outside the norm? Did I choose to be outside the norm? Was it just a way to distinguish myself, because I wasn't special enough in the scheme of thing? Everyone enjoys the Beatles, everyone understands the Beatle, because there's not that much to understand. "All you need is love" and LSD and a certain innocence that quickly dissolves into something much darker, and that is Flipper. From the Beatles to Flipper and beyond. There I said it and now all my pretensions and long-winded attempts to be meaningful are stripped and made bear. (From LSD to Acid to Heroin)

I enjoy Joy Division, along with the Smiths and Gang of Four and every other post-punk outfit that you might hear on a cell-phone/ car commerical or some Apple product. But I'm pretty certain I will never hear a Flipper song either A) on any normal format radio-college station (God bless WFMU), or B) on a commercial for some product that knows the scene.

Not that those points are a litmus test. Just because a commercial quotes a song doesn't make the song irrelevant. But it does tamper with the associations that song holds. Commercials are never simply playing a song for the enjoyment of the consumer; there's a reason, a logic to the message, and the song gets wrapped into that logic as long as I can remember the two were one (which, speaking for the power of advertisements, is pretty long.) Consider that much of classic rock has been spoiled by its use in car commercials: what revolutionary quality, rebellious attitude a song by the Who or Iggy Pop might have once had, it's now swallowed by the ironic factor of the ad executive persuading us that product so and so is revolutionary, being associated with a the "punk" expression. In actuality, our very consumption of that message realigns both the product, ourselves, and the "punk" culture with a ritual of consumer identity. I have an Ipod, you have an Ipod, we all are one happy collection of Ipod listening civilians.

Hyper-instant gratification takes the aim of associating itself with the underground, because the underground is the very definition of righteousness. No longer is mainstream culture the standard-bearer; the references to obscurity are the new cult of power.

The act of rebellion, or perhaps the art of rebellion, is not in denying or challenging the rituals of consumption. A complete lack of self-consciousness, the ability to return to a child-like state in which identity still lives with constant curiosity, and there are no assumptions or beliefs that are never expressed, that seems the closest we might come to escaping the fashion. The fashion is more than clothes; it's an ideology of the look, of beginning at the surface and letting the surface give root to everything else. It's living in a belief in presentation and seeing only that as substance, and never questioning that because questions are a waste of time.

Too much is lost in the present, where a million facts exist, and yet are indecipherable. These are like adjectives coating a relay of actions: their bearing can only at times get in the way. We select, choose information that is relevant, so we are not lost in the unending stream of details. In this choice, our identity is formalized; from what we choose to say, not say, and all of the gestures in between. The silences can express more of a person than the actual utterances.

And then we try to make sense of the surface, and there is no sense at all to any of it, only the enjoyment or displeasure of the surface. There's pain, comfort, and a million variations and extremes that color them in between. Can there ever be closure, or is everything superficial and disappointing? What do we stand for, if we stand for nothing but the surface, of words that tumble and fall and the roots are missing and decayed? Is this tree dying a slow creaking death, shaking in the wind at night, forever threatening to fall?

Who would want to be such an asshole?

I know I'm not alone in the fact that Charles Bukowski is one of the few writers I consider a hero: it's probably the fact that I'm male, white, and go through long bouts of self-doubt, hatred of other people, and I'm pretty unromantic about everything. Two well-done films have actually come out of Bukowski work, which follows his fictional doppleganger named Henry Chinaski.

Barfly (1987)


Bukowski penned the screenplay of this cult classic, in which Mickey Rourke perfectly channels the Bukowski persona: a dark, brooding, shallow drunk who's completely void of the self-conscious, civilized manner that makes people "nice." The thing I love about this film is that it perfectly captures the details of drinking to no end. My favorite scene is when Chinaski grabs the sandwich from some overweight guy in a suit, for the reason that he needs the nutrients to win a fight against some butch bartender.

Barfly by night, classical music-listening writer by day - this is Rourke's finest moment. Another reason to check out the film is for a sighting of the fine actor and David Lynch favorite Jack Nance.

Now onto my next favorite,
Factotum (2005)


This one I actually got to see in the theaters, and enjoyed greatly. I remember my girlfriend saying that it was too bleak, but I didn't really agree. Yes, Bukowski is a dark road, but at the same time, there's no pretensions or face-fronting: he's showing how the other half-lives.

Matt Dillion is great, and actually looks more like Bukowski than I would have expected. He's got good looks, but at the same time his sexuality is a throw back to the beat generation. Overall, I prefer Barfly to this for a number of reasons. Barfly was a conglomeration of the Chinaski charachter from all the books; Factotum is an actual adaptation of a single Bukowski books. It's faithful, but the style that director Bent Hamer uses reflects a Jim Jarmusch aesthetic: let the camera roll, no flashy stuff. This seems like a perfect match, but it's too dry and lacks the quirky humor. Parts of the novel are toned down, like when Chinaski supposedly kills a man at the horse races; the book being told in first person by Chinaski, we see more of his guilt. Here, Dillion plays it cool.

The best scene from the film is when Chinaski wakes up and vomits, then decides it's time to move on. A great long take; someone else apparently agrees and has it up at youtube:



When ever I feel like shit, or an underachiever, or like the world doesn't give a damn whether I live or die, or like I'm a lazy no good unprofessional bum, I pick up some Bukowski and at least find the comfort that someone else took the breaks and the blues just as hard.

For those wanting to hear the man recite his poetry, check out this cd:


Bukowksi Reads His Poetry to an audience on September 14, 1972 in San Francisco. AllMusic.com doesn't rate this one highly, but during the summer I spent many a night on the back lawn drinking a beer listening to Bukowski rant and get heckled by a fiesty crowd. Get it here.

So this ad was asking me, "Want to fly to CANNES with Spike Lee?"  And I was like, do I have to sit with him?  I mean, I'm sure he's a nice guy, but that's a really long flight to take with Spike Lee. What are we going to talk about?  I mean, does he really want to hear about how my sister's doing, or about my worries of finding a job in the future, not to mention my concern about that mole on my back?

No, all we're going to talk about is all of the amazing movies he's made, and how amazing that scene is from such and such a movie, and what's it like to work with Denzel?  He's a normal guy? Really!!?

 

So, you see, shouldn't the real question be: 

Mad blunts? Hmmm.... Yes, that I might do - at least then I might be able to connect that mole on my back to some question of gender and race identity in a supposedly post-race America.

Peace.

Boredom is a self-inflicted disease

For anyone that has every made something that, at the time, seemed clever, witty, original, whatever; for anyone that has created only to realize the next day, or week, or month, that what they made was actually pretty stupid, embarasing, waste of time: it is for they that I present this document:

My first foray into the You Tube world of silly shorts resulted in this lackluster snooze fest.  So what have I learned?  Well, that being funny probably requires a little more thought before jumping into creation.  Also, that my room is a real shit pigpen.

Do I see any value?  I would like to do more work that makes fun of myself.  It seems to have an edifying effect: I now take showers more often (joke or reality?  You decide.)

Dylan on my Mind

So I play guitar. I don't write music, I play a wooden microphone with six strings, and I play it like I hate the goddamn thing. My real motivation for playing guitar: I hate punching things. Punching walls, punching pillows, punching bags. Stupid, stupid, stupid, nothing good comes out of it. But pick up a guitar, and all of a sudden, boom, the arm goes wild, the sounds are violent, the banging, the mess. Disgusting sounds, sounds unearthly.

Truth is, I just recently stopped caring what other people think of my work. Certainly, I am willing to admit that an idea I originally thought had value, is really complete garbage. So, with music, I might write lyrics - except, I never write lyrics. I hate lyrics, actually to be honest. Clarification: I hate reading lyrics. It's like when people perform poetry as though each line is suppose to be read like a period. The thing needs to flow, but without those chord, it's shit.

Here's a way to get to the core of something - create epic battles between two artists who represents two sides of the same side of a line.

Bob Dylan Vs. Leonard Cohen

Cohen wins for me. That probably identifies me with the hipster crowd. But I actually like Phil Ochs more than either, for personal reasons. Back to Cohen vs. Dylan: Both are indulgent, ego-centric, wild drug addicts and junkies for words. Why do I return to Cohen with more interest than Dylan?

The simple answer would be that Cohen is more obscure, but that's a cop-out really. I think Cohen never gained the kind of popularity of Dylan because the latter could really write a meaningless pop song that seemed to mean something. Take Rolling Stone, a song that makes me jump out of my skin, like I just want to start banging shit together and run in circles. It's got the best rock structure, because you're waiting for that moment when the things going to explode. And BANG! BANG! BANG! - boom there it is, the organism hits and we're floating for a little bit.

But the lyrics I could take or leave. Sure, there's craft, but I think it's all rhythm, Dylan's delivery. Cohen's different. He's a black-and-white film, but his words carry more. I have mediated on the song Suzanne for hours, thinking about oranges from China and the mind-body divide. What's it about - a ghost, a spirit, an intangible notion of love that's all peace, all tenderness, like those moments in a Fassbinder film where the characters are genuinely happy.

But happiness is not always fun, and Cohen is not nearly as much fun as Dylan. Dylan's a folk comedian who really can't stand being taken seriously, beyond a performer. I think that Cohen knows that those lines, a performer versus an artist or politician, someone that should really be listened to and celebrated, are all really just imaginary. Watch the press conference with Dylan: it's a joke on the society that wants to take meaning from his silly songs that are just vocal images for emotional effect. Songwriters are all about emotion - the highs, the lows, the in-between that really has no name, and so on.

But Cohen has a different quality. His images are cropped. Except maybe Dress Rehearsal Rag, which I love, but you could fault it for Cohen letting his morbid side get the best of him.

"Just relax man, take a chill pill. It's not that serious." Or maybe it really is that serious.

Too quote a Replacement song that I love:

I think big once in a while. - Thinking big to me is a Cohen song, while Dylan is more of the man himself - the character of Bob Dylan, mystery apostle, saint, idol, a man beyond a single man, a transcendent figure that pushes the boundaries of a single body. There is the flesh of Dylan, and that spirit of Dylan, and the two are not the same thing.

May 6th, 2008 - Todd Haynes fittingly all-over-the-map bio pic of Dylan drops on DVD. This post did have a purpose after all.

The Pee-wee Herman Show

When I was a kid, I did the Pee-wee Herman dance. I bent my legs, spread them apart at strange angles, and put my hands stiffly towards my back. And then did this in and out. It's hard to describe:

'

Perhaps the greatest musical episode in film? I don't know. It probably means more to me than most, just because Pee-wee was an obsessive part of my early childhood (I still have my Pee-wee's Playhouse sheets, and they are pretty rad: kid friendly abstract expressionism.)

So every kid who grew up in the late eighties, early ninties is familiar with Pee Wee, probably through either the Saturday morning show Pee Wee's Playhouse, and maybe also from the cult classic film, Pee Wee Herman's Big Adventure. But the Pee Wee character has a long history before that, and something more attuned to performance art than simply silly comedy.

Not going to go into this history now, but I am going to provide some context. There are two seminal points for the Pee Wee character that are available to wide audiences: the Roxy Theatre performance that was taped for HBO in the early eighties, and then the series of appearances he did on David Letterman The Late Night Show, which in my opinion was the avant-garde of late night shows in the eighties. Letterman had guests like Harvey Pekar, Andy Kaufman, and Crispin Glover - mostly to make fun of them, but they really owe him for their popular success. It's a strange contradiction probably, with a late night show poking fun at his eccentric guests to get laughs, but still, I sense that Letterman understood what they were up to and appreciated it, but at the same time he had to play the straight, ego-centric man.

Which brings me back to this whole notion of performance - the seventies really pushed the boundaries of stand-up to a level outside the realm of punch lines and straight jokes. Source it to Lenny Bruce, but Kaufman and Paul Reubens were radical in the sense that the joke never ended. The realm between the real and the joke, the imaginary-playful thing and the reality where people's feelings get hurt, were completely disregarded. Kaufman could be the sweetest, or he could a real asshole, wrestling women.

But Pee Wee, when it began, was similar. Check out this clip:



Very very naughty boy, that Pee Wee. But the whole thing is that, at the end of the show, they follow that woman out into the streets. Pee Wee wanted people to think that she was actually hypnotized: he was in a sense taking on the role of the magician. And there really is some supernatural performance about this Pee Wee creation being live, that you would go to a comedy club and see something as ingenious as this in a real, living setting.

Anyone wanting to rent it or buy this Pee Wee classic, look up:
The Pee-Wee Herman Show - Live at the Roxy Theater (1982)
or click on it to buy it at amazon.

The Films of Chris Farley: Or How I am Inarticulate

A poem for Chris Farley

Remember that film
you did
about the ninja.

That was awesome.

Remember that scene
with Gary Busey
He's an assassin.
Or something.

That was awesome too.

End of poem


If you read old reviews of Chris Farley's film in the NY Times, it's apparent that he was not valued for his comic gift. Stupid, stupid, stupid is pretty much the idea behind their reviews, which I can completely understand. The most immediate response to a Chris Farley movie would have to be, "It's pretty dumb." But at the same time, Farley is dead, and like Andy Kaufman (the cult/terrible Heartbeeps being the only real example of his film work), seeing him in his movies is to revisit a human being. I'm writing this with the idea that I watch a Farley flick like some people watch experimental theater. I'm less interested in the plot mechanics or subtle characterization or notions of pacing. I watch a Farley film to see Farley move, to see him fall, to see his spastic frame lumber and explode, and for his dead-pan delivery. And I would never want to see any of this in the ciniplex, because Farley is really a tv actor. His over-the-top antics works well on the small screen, because he dominates the space.

A few months ago I revisited some documents that I almost wished were destroyed. They are recordings of musical plays I did in junior high; the real angle is that I did these musicals at my church. They are youth group church plays, terribly written, and some of the most horrid music you will every hear. The only good part is the dancing, which has us doing a kind of vamped-up square dance with random hand gestures. Anyway, in one of these plays, I had a part as a chunky loser who eats too much but loves god. And I totally mimicked Farley, exploding at random like I lived in a van down by the river. And I realized that Farley was an iconic means of communication for me. I wanted to convey to the audience, in my limited acting vocab, that this is who the part really should be played by. So, in a sense, Farley wasn't merely a comic; he was a medium of expression. A way to connect.

There's something else though. There are emotions, generic things like laughter, and sadness, and so on. But then there's these ideas I can't say, and something in Farley, besides, "Oh year, hilarious." It's like some form of stupidity that is so good, and better than a lot of the intellectual pretensions and hypocrisies and pure cynicism that we have to face.

Farley never really made a good film, but I argue like Pauline Kael: this is trash not meant to be art, and sometimes that the greatest relief of all.