tired, with cynicism, sadness and love,
Anthony
Thursday, December 29, 2011
tired
Today I felt tired. I did laundry and folded laundry and put laundry away. I ate a Weight Watcher's frozen lasagna with meat sauce and cereal for dinner. I went on facebook multiple times. I watched that great video of a young Latino father and daughter singing "Home" by Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros. It's a great video. I've watched it a couple times now. The little girl sings from the gut and leaves it all out there for you to feel. I love my cousin Jeff, who is going through a rough spot. I'm worried that my writing ambitions will not play out as I hope. Tonight I feel mostly uninspired. I wanted to exercise today, but I didn't cause I felt tired. I'm totally okay with this decision. I'm glad I rested. I watched a Cal basketball game, a Washington football game, and a lot of other sports on tv. I thought about the Golden State Warriors. I think they have a legitimate shot at making the playoffs, which will be no small feat. There are a lot of good teams with great players in the NBA.
Friday, December 23, 2011
second professional piece of writing! (Albany Patch)
I published a two part piece in the Albany Patch. Here is the link to part II, which is better, but certainly feel free to start with part I (the link is at the top of the article):
http://albany.patch.com/articles/on-verge-of-retirement-city-attorney-reflects-on-33-years-part-ii
baby steps and love,
Anthony
http://albany.patch.com/articles/on-verge-of-retirement-city-attorney-reflects-on-33-years-part-ii
baby steps and love,
Anthony
Thursday, December 22, 2011
Madame Butterfly
I'm in nyc. Tonight, I went with my Parents and Sean to see Madame Butterfly. It was beautiful. The music was beautiful, the story was interesting and the art direction was brilliant, probably my favorite part of the opera though the music would be a close second. The Lincoln Center is so alive with the lights and the fountain and the people. And the Metropolitan Opera House is so glamorous. We walked on the plush red carpet, up the rounded stairs, staring at the glass chandeliers on the ceiling, to the fourth and final tier. The Met is so glamorous and still manages to feel comfortable.
I have many thoughts on being back in new york after living here from 2004-2007. But I'll save those for another time.
Tonight, I just wanted to say Merry Christmas and Happy Hanukkah. Enjoy the holidays.
Here's a treat:
Maria Callas
spread love,
Anthony
I have many thoughts on being back in new york after living here from 2004-2007. But I'll save those for another time.
Tonight, I just wanted to say Merry Christmas and Happy Hanukkah. Enjoy the holidays.
Here's a treat:
Maria Callas
spread love,
Anthony
Friday, December 16, 2011
2011 was a weak year in indie music
Reading through Pitchfork.com's top 50 album list for 2011 is a little less than inspiring. The best record of the year according to Pitchfork, indie music's most influential arbitrator of what is good and what isn't, is Bon Iver's Bon Iver. Yes, when I first heard this music I thought something entirely new had been created by angels and was being sent down to us in the form of Justin Vernon's, the lead singer and main guy in Bon Iver, high-pitched (is that what you call it, high-pitched?) voice. In the song "Holocene", he sings "And I can see for miles and miles and miles" It's undeniably beautiful. But the album only has two really good songs, in my opinion. This judgement after a lot of time to digest the record. And only Holocene is truly a savior of a song. A god imposter, drifting down to give my life a new layer of meaning, as some songs do. Later (and earlier) in Holocene Justin Vernon sings, "And at once I knew, I was not magnificent." I think he's right, sadly. The music he creates is beautiful. But the album, chosen as the best of 2011 by Pitchfork.com, is not magnificent.
with love and appreciation for Bon Iver and all the other music from 2011,
Anthony
Holocene
with love and appreciation for Bon Iver and all the other music from 2011,
Anthony
Holocene
Thursday, December 15, 2011
I left home when I was 9 (cont.)
[Author's note: this is a continuation of last week's post. It's turning into a story, a story I will continue to piece together here on the blog and later go back and refine. If you have thoughts, please let me know.]
Fresno
I landed at the Fresno Yosemite International Airport. My flight from Dhaka through Singapore touched down in Los Angeles. I took a short jumper over to Fresno. I rented a Chevy Tahoe from Hertz and set out to find the huge ass.
I drove around for a while, got momentarily lost and eventually found the ass on Highway 99, the Golden State Highway, out by Herndon.
Traffic cones had been laid out to guide traffic into the one remaining lane. The installation took up two lanes.
The giant ass was brown and stood about 15 feet tall. It was just as you would imagine, two large butt cheeks, with a giant ass crack down the middle. The ass flesh was made with laytex, the material out of which they make movie monster masks. It was painted dark brown. The kid from Yale was African-American, so the giant ass was flesh colored. The giant ass was supported by wooden beams, which weren’t visible to oncoming traffic. Just the giant butt cheeks were visible to the oncoming traffic.
The giant ass had become somewhat infamous already. There was a small crowd of people standing in front of it, admiring it or yelling at it. You can imagine the rubber necking.
I asked a fat guy in the small crowd why the giant ass hadn’t been removed by local Fresno authorities. The fat guy was wearing a grey, grease stained tshirt that didn’t quite cover his gut, a yellow Caterpillar hat, and some grease stained jeans that were baggy and fell loosely off his ass. He responded, “what the fuck else is there to see in Fresno?” I nodded a “yup that pretty much makes sense”. He continued, “ We got this black artist from Harvard or some shit,” “He’s from Yale,” I interrupted, “whatever, so we got this kid doing a huge ass in Fresno and the motherfucking city council votes to keep the ass up cause it's art. They think it’s an untapped goldmine for tourism.” Then he asked me how far I had come to see the giant ass. I said Bangladesh. And he said, “see these motherfuckers on the city council know what the fuck they’re talking about."
I moved closer to inspect the ass. Right in the center of the ass crack, the artist had posted small signs. The signs were wooden, painted white and had black letters. They looked a bit like street signs, only without the flare, very common wooden signs.
The first said, “Asshole” Okay, straightforward, simple enough.
The second, directly underneath the first said, “Infinite pleasure.”
The third and final sign, directly below the second and also directly in the center of the asshole said “America”
This lowest sign was still over 7 feet above ground. Underneath it the ass crack was actually made of drapes, meaning you could walk through the ass, into the asshole. Everyone was free to walk through the asscrack, into the asshole, on a freeway, in Fresno. Not seeing any reason why I shouldn’t, I walked through the ass into the asshole. On the other side was a view of the freeway and beyond the freeway one could see a strip mall, with a nail salon and a pizzeria among other local shops in tan stucco.
[Author's interjection: This is where I leave the giant ass in Fresno and go back to visit my parents in Albany. To be filled in later.]
I arrived at my parent's home. The same home I left at the age of nine. I was now 22 years old. I said hello to my mother and she cried. My father hugged me tight. We had dinner. We talked until about 11pm. And then I went back to my hotel on the Berkeley Marina.
It had to be a hotel room.
I got home from the visit with my parents and just fucking lost it. I fell on the floor and wrapped myself in the fetal position and wept, lurched, screamed, sobbed, convulsed. I lost connection with my hardened, and up-to-this-point only self. I was somewhere else--dissimilar landscape, disconnection, some place in the ether, a place like smoke. I lay on the floor blabbering about how much I loved my mother (huge, convulsing tear jerker) and the mortality of my aging father (another round of huge, convulsing tear jerking) I couldn’t hold it in. There was no indication my father would die soon. In fact, during dinner he looked healthy and upbeat, full of life. But eventually his eyes will fade from the twinkling star'd 'verse. Eventually his corporeal apparatus will be cremated (this is what he wants), the physical vessel turned to sand and blown to the sea. About this, I wailed.
I had held it in for too long. I hadn’t cried since I was 5 years old. At seven I realized the world was fluid and all I had to do was manipulate it to my advantage. I was not normal school children. Like the 12 year old who enrolls at MIT and finishes his PHD at 16, I was advanced. But my advantage was seeing from an extremely early age that the world and the people and social structures in it are malleable, that I could have everything I wanted, I just had to take it. My mind and maturity had been accelerated and fully formed by the time I left home. But, of course, many of my childhood needs were not met, like the need for parental authority, maybe that’s not a universal human need, but it's possible we do need someone to house us both physically and emotionally, to give us boundaries. I saw from an early age, these boundaries were fluid, many times unnecessary, easily transgressed and re-formulated. Yet, ultimately, as I lay whimpering snot on the floor, I realized that what I needed was at least some emotional, possibly unconscious (if you accept that mystical notion), ground rules. I needed my father to tell me no. OH GOD! I cried out and sobbed, squirming tragically on the fake oriental carpet. I suffered, I wept, I convulsed, I wept some more, I started blabbering, “I’m so sad, I’m so sad, I’m so sad. Ohhhhhhhhhhh” I felt such pain and misfortune. I didn’t care if the maid walked in. I wanted to fuck her so bad in this sadness, this maid I had never seen, only imagined, and in my imagination she wasn’t event that cute, but fuckable, definitely fuckable. I was in the zone, and the leakage actually felt good until the thought occurred to me again that my father was going to die and AHHHHHHHHHHH THE PAIN!!! I was spewing snot and tears and weakness and holy communion and I started weeping words, “I don’t want my dad to die, I don’t want my dad to die”
a voice: "It's okay. Everything you feel is okay. It's so understandable that you feel a deep, profound sadness connected to your father's mortality. You are entitled to feel this sadness. You are entitled to your tears."
to be continued...
with love, sadness, and a belief in taking small steps towards a larger goal,
Anthony
the sounds of silence
Fresno
I landed at the Fresno Yosemite International Airport. My flight from Dhaka through Singapore touched down in Los Angeles. I took a short jumper over to Fresno. I rented a Chevy Tahoe from Hertz and set out to find the huge ass.
I drove around for a while, got momentarily lost and eventually found the ass on Highway 99, the Golden State Highway, out by Herndon.
Traffic cones had been laid out to guide traffic into the one remaining lane. The installation took up two lanes.
The giant ass was brown and stood about 15 feet tall. It was just as you would imagine, two large butt cheeks, with a giant ass crack down the middle. The ass flesh was made with laytex, the material out of which they make movie monster masks. It was painted dark brown. The kid from Yale was African-American, so the giant ass was flesh colored. The giant ass was supported by wooden beams, which weren’t visible to oncoming traffic. Just the giant butt cheeks were visible to the oncoming traffic.
The giant ass had become somewhat infamous already. There was a small crowd of people standing in front of it, admiring it or yelling at it. You can imagine the rubber necking.
I asked a fat guy in the small crowd why the giant ass hadn’t been removed by local Fresno authorities. The fat guy was wearing a grey, grease stained tshirt that didn’t quite cover his gut, a yellow Caterpillar hat, and some grease stained jeans that were baggy and fell loosely off his ass. He responded, “what the fuck else is there to see in Fresno?” I nodded a “yup that pretty much makes sense”. He continued, “ We got this black artist from Harvard or some shit,” “He’s from Yale,” I interrupted, “whatever, so we got this kid doing a huge ass in Fresno and the motherfucking city council votes to keep the ass up cause it's art. They think it’s an untapped goldmine for tourism.” Then he asked me how far I had come to see the giant ass. I said Bangladesh. And he said, “see these motherfuckers on the city council know what the fuck they’re talking about."
I moved closer to inspect the ass. Right in the center of the ass crack, the artist had posted small signs. The signs were wooden, painted white and had black letters. They looked a bit like street signs, only without the flare, very common wooden signs.
The first said, “Asshole” Okay, straightforward, simple enough.
The second, directly underneath the first said, “Infinite pleasure.”
The third and final sign, directly below the second and also directly in the center of the asshole said “America”
This lowest sign was still over 7 feet above ground. Underneath it the ass crack was actually made of drapes, meaning you could walk through the ass, into the asshole. Everyone was free to walk through the asscrack, into the asshole, on a freeway, in Fresno. Not seeing any reason why I shouldn’t, I walked through the ass into the asshole. On the other side was a view of the freeway and beyond the freeway one could see a strip mall, with a nail salon and a pizzeria among other local shops in tan stucco.
[Author's interjection: This is where I leave the giant ass in Fresno and go back to visit my parents in Albany. To be filled in later.]
I arrived at my parent's home. The same home I left at the age of nine. I was now 22 years old. I said hello to my mother and she cried. My father hugged me tight. We had dinner. We talked until about 11pm. And then I went back to my hotel on the Berkeley Marina.
It had to be a hotel room.
I got home from the visit with my parents and just fucking lost it. I fell on the floor and wrapped myself in the fetal position and wept, lurched, screamed, sobbed, convulsed. I lost connection with my hardened, and up-to-this-point only self. I was somewhere else--dissimilar landscape, disconnection, some place in the ether, a place like smoke. I lay on the floor blabbering about how much I loved my mother (huge, convulsing tear jerker) and the mortality of my aging father (another round of huge, convulsing tear jerking) I couldn’t hold it in. There was no indication my father would die soon. In fact, during dinner he looked healthy and upbeat, full of life. But eventually his eyes will fade from the twinkling star'd 'verse. Eventually his corporeal apparatus will be cremated (this is what he wants), the physical vessel turned to sand and blown to the sea. About this, I wailed.
I had held it in for too long. I hadn’t cried since I was 5 years old. At seven I realized the world was fluid and all I had to do was manipulate it to my advantage. I was not normal school children. Like the 12 year old who enrolls at MIT and finishes his PHD at 16, I was advanced. But my advantage was seeing from an extremely early age that the world and the people and social structures in it are malleable, that I could have everything I wanted, I just had to take it. My mind and maturity had been accelerated and fully formed by the time I left home. But, of course, many of my childhood needs were not met, like the need for parental authority, maybe that’s not a universal human need, but it's possible we do need someone to house us both physically and emotionally, to give us boundaries. I saw from an early age, these boundaries were fluid, many times unnecessary, easily transgressed and re-formulated. Yet, ultimately, as I lay whimpering snot on the floor, I realized that what I needed was at least some emotional, possibly unconscious (if you accept that mystical notion), ground rules. I needed my father to tell me no. OH GOD! I cried out and sobbed, squirming tragically on the fake oriental carpet. I suffered, I wept, I convulsed, I wept some more, I started blabbering, “I’m so sad, I’m so sad, I’m so sad. Ohhhhhhhhhhh” I felt such pain and misfortune. I didn’t care if the maid walked in. I wanted to fuck her so bad in this sadness, this maid I had never seen, only imagined, and in my imagination she wasn’t event that cute, but fuckable, definitely fuckable. I was in the zone, and the leakage actually felt good until the thought occurred to me again that my father was going to die and AHHHHHHHHHHH THE PAIN!!! I was spewing snot and tears and weakness and holy communion and I started weeping words, “I don’t want my dad to die, I don’t want my dad to die”
a voice: "It's okay. Everything you feel is okay. It's so understandable that you feel a deep, profound sadness connected to your father's mortality. You are entitled to feel this sadness. You are entitled to your tears."
to be continued...
with love, sadness, and a belief in taking small steps towards a larger goal,
Anthony
the sounds of silence
Thursday, December 8, 2011
I left home when I was 9
[Author's note: I was asked by a group of grad students at my new job to write up a little piece about myself to put in the upcoming newsletter. This is what I wrote and handed in.]
I left home when I was 9. Said, “mom, I gotta stretch my wings. Don’t cry for me."
Got on a train and ended up in new york city. By the time I was ten I was running a weed operation out of a small apartment on Ludlow and Houston. Spent a good deal of time at Pianos, this indie club down the street. Kept a dagger close to the vest. Had a multicultural Benetton model crew of dealers. One African-American dude with poofy hair was all soft and sensitive. He got anxious about going out and switchin’ ten dollar bills for dime sacks. So I had to check his ass. One night before he was going to walk into the apt, I got up on the couch (I was still only 4’10), and when he opened the door, I jumped on his ass.
“Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!!!!!” he screamed.
I wrestled his ass to the floor.
“Please get off me!!! Please, please, please, AHHHHHHHH!!!” I started pulling his hair, which smelled really good.
I was bumpin Rihanna’s "we found love in a hopeless place" so adrenaline was coursing through my pre-adolescent body like fish oil--my childhood, you will notice, moved around in time, although this song was released in 2011 it was very much part of my 10 year old life--and I kept at it screaming, “Bitch, you better have my money!!!” I pulled the shank on his ass.
“Oh god, Oh my god! Please t-money, don’t hurt me!!!”
I got off of him and regained composure.
“Listen motherfucker, you’re done. Get the fuck out.”
“But t-money, your gifted, I know I’m not the top hustler, but I can learn!” He pleaded.
“No bitch. You’re soft like jelly my mom used to buy. She put it on my peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. You need to work in retail.”
He started to cry and cry, and then I felt sorry for him and said I had some connections at Tory Burch and I could hook him up. After he cried and I managed my anger back down to a cool breeze, we watched Shrek. He was really happy about the Tory Burch opportunity.
I left the weed game when I was 14 and decided to get myself a proper education. I enrolled at the New York City School of Technology in Brooklyn, studying business. I took an extracurricular class in Women’s Literature and ended up banging the TA. She screamed louder than I’ve anyone heard anyone scream, not just during the big Ooooooos (cause there were many), but the whole motherfuckin time, she was screaming and yelling. It was seriously like some political shit, like I’ma be a woman and get my pleasure and show you neighborhood, Brooklyn, that I am an empowered sexual being. And by god she was. I gave her honey four times that night, and by the end I had to put little balled up pieces of tissue in my ears like I was at a rock concert just to avoid long-term, serious auditory damage from this bitch. But it was still fun.
The next class meeting she was all demure. She even told the professor she could no longer grade my work because of what had transpired although she didn’t mention the yelling. My ears were still ringing.
After I learned some more shit, I said fuck school and just started to read a lot of books. Read this great novel about a college advisor who worked at 17 different universities and came to the conclusion that nobody has a fucking clue what they’re doing. Faculty argue everywhere about the curriculum, no one knows what to teach undergrads or how; graduate students spend 11 years on average in every program; the most prestigious faculty are the worst people; and every year seven new forms are introduced to departments, on average.
So the college advisor left his university and went out on his own. He started an international consulting business. His first client was a school in Saudi Arabia where the male faculty, by law, could not be in the same room as the female students. The male faculty member had to sit in a room all alone in front of a video camera and skype his lectures into a big auditorium filled with female students all watching a big video screen of the male faculty member. And this was at a progressive Saudi school.
The fucked up thing was that there was only one mic for the female students to ask questions of the male teacher. The mic was up front and center in the auditorium. So the most obnoxious chics would sit in front, close to the mic and hog it whenever there was a chance for students to speak, which was rare because it was Saudi Arabia. This advisor made a million dollars for suggesting the school buy a boom mic so anyone could speak and be heard. With the advisor/consultant’s help, they initiated the raising your hand policy. After that consulting job, he got many others, they were all related to college advising.
Reading this novel as a 15 year old changed my life. I went back to the New York School of Technology in Brooklyn and walked down the hallway of one of the Business buildings until I found a graduate advisor. His name was Nick. He had long hair and he wore jeans and black, button-down shirts, not tucked in. Super nice guy. I talked to him for four hours about my plans for opening a new business, about football, he turned out to be a huge Patriots fan and actually loved Tom Brady. I was a huge 49ers fan having grown up watching Joe Montana. I couldn’t really forgive his love of Brady (a douche bag who does not compare to Joe Montana). But he was a great guy, totally chill, said, “no worries man, it’s all gonna work out” multiple times. Loved Simon and Garfunkel. He was from western massachusets, small town full of Portugese immigrants. He himself, Nick, wasn’t Portugese, but he knew a shit load about Portugese culture, all about how they serve small sausages on small plates during Easter. He had a beautiful girlfriend, he showed me her picture on his iPhone. She was portugese, a super successful fashion executive headhunter and rich.
We talked about my childhood and how my mother would never forgive me. Not for leaving when I was 9, but for refusing to tell her I loved her when we talked on the phone, which was frequently. I was too hard. My shell couldn’t condone such a soft soufflé. I told Nick, “I can’t be bothered. My balls are man balls. They are not woman balls. They are made of diamonds, and we both know diamonds are hard as fuck.” Nick thoughtfully agreed, "yes, man balls are diamond balls and they are very hard."
After our discussion, I decided I didn’t want to be a college advisor. And I decided I’d had enough of new york. My weed operation functioned for four years and during that time I saved close to four million dollars. I had money but I didn’t care about in the following manner: my life still needed purpose; I had to take action and do something; I needed to feel like I was giving something to humanity, serving some higher purpose. The money was great because it made everything smooth and if I decided to hop on a plane to Bangladesh and help start the Grameen Bank and microloan the shit out of some poor, country, Bangladeshi bitches, then by god, that’s what I did.
I got off the plane in Dhaka and was greeted by my good friend Ishtiak. I had met Ishtiak at Pianos, tried to sell him some weed, but he wasn’t buying. He had enough cocaine on him to send a small horse, emptied of all its innerds and filled with cocaine, to the promised land. That doesn’t make any sense. He had a backpack full of cocaine.
When I first met him, he was dressed in long white tube socks with two blue circle stripes at the top of the socks, fake Reebok sneakers, short, khaki shorts, a fake navy blue Polo polo shirt, and a black vest. He was balding and couldn’t have been older than 22. And he was like 180 pounds overweight, roughly 280. He looked like supernerd straight off the boat, the cops just laughed as he walked by with 4 kilos of coke in his backpack. Laugh on you coppers. Cue the Strokes, “New York City cops, New York City cops, New York City cops, they ain’t too smmarrt!” The Strokes are amazing. But this fool Ishtiak was the life of the motherfucking party that night. Girls were doing like 9 lines of coke off Ishtiaks fat ass. It was pretty sweet to watch. Ishtiak would wiggle his fat ass and make it hard for the hot chics to snort the coke. Ishtiak and I hit it off like childhood friends meeting in kindergarten and discovering a mutual love of legos.
When I landed in Dhaka, Ishtiak had paid all the authority figures, so instead of going through customs, I learned the custom of having Bangladeshi authorities carry my bags, push through all the beggars and help me into a armored Land Rover.
Ishtiak and I sat in the back and the driver took off at a speed that did not correspond to the amount of space available on the road. He went from 0 – 90 in six seconds, knifing by goats, small children and huge busses carrying loads of people on the top of the bus. We flew past cattle and baby taxis and authentic rickshaws and I guess there were lanes, but the driver was weaving like it was a basketball drill. I am not easily scared. However, during this jet propulsion entry into the chaos of the Bangladeshi streets, I was momentarily terrified. Ishtiak wasn’t wearing a seatbelt and looked bored. Ishtiak’s driver honked and violently motioned with his hand and people just succumbed to his will and moved. I told myself, “you must not hold this fear as you cannot control this circumstance.” I accepted the chaos and speed and cattle and came to the center of my mortality. I accepted everything, every moment of my life, being borne, to the present moment, to the time I would die, which seemed soon. I accepted it all and understood it as one moment trapped in amber, the entirety of my life, the entirely of time beyond my own birth and death, all one moment trapped in amber.
I let go.
My mind was like water. When we arrived at Ishtiak’s palace (there were columns), I was relaxed.
The next day I had a meeting with Muhammad Yunus. He had just returned from schooling in the States and wanted to go on a walk with me in the country side. Ishtiak had told Yunus about me and my business idea and thought the two of us should meet and walk in the country. So we met and walked in the country. We found that the women were being treated like indentured servants by the village loan sharks. The village loan sharks would lend a village woman enough money to buy a goat, but they would charge an insane amount of interest and the woman, on her own, could never pay it back. I had a light bulb moment and told Yunus, “why don’t we give little bitty loans to these women in groups. Charge them very little interest, do it on a huge scale and see what happens.” Yunus was down. He and I put the wheels in motion. Turns out if you loan a tiny bit of money to a group of women, they buy a goat, they start making money off their goat, they pay you back, and you get the small interest. And if you do this times a billion, you make hellof money. Fortunately, there are HELLOF Bangladeshis. The Grammen bank was borne, which made Yunus and me (and Ishtiak who got a cut) extremely rich. So we enslaved some women from the villages to clean our houses.
Once again I had been victorious, only this time vs. the poorest country in the world, Bangladesh, and now I was super rich. But still the question nagged: what am I meant to do. The question haunted me. By haunted I mean it occasionally interfered with my having a good time.
So I left Ishtiak and Yunus and flew back to California to confront my parents (and check out the "giant ass" art installation some Yale MFA grad had constructed on a freeway in Fresno).
to be continued…
with love,
Anthony
[Author's note: ps - As much as I wanted to, I did not send this to the kind folks in my program.]
New York City Cops
I left home when I was 9. Said, “mom, I gotta stretch my wings. Don’t cry for me."
Got on a train and ended up in new york city. By the time I was ten I was running a weed operation out of a small apartment on Ludlow and Houston. Spent a good deal of time at Pianos, this indie club down the street. Kept a dagger close to the vest. Had a multicultural Benetton model crew of dealers. One African-American dude with poofy hair was all soft and sensitive. He got anxious about going out and switchin’ ten dollar bills for dime sacks. So I had to check his ass. One night before he was going to walk into the apt, I got up on the couch (I was still only 4’10), and when he opened the door, I jumped on his ass.
“Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!!!!!” he screamed.
I wrestled his ass to the floor.
“Please get off me!!! Please, please, please, AHHHHHHHH!!!” I started pulling his hair, which smelled really good.
I was bumpin Rihanna’s "we found love in a hopeless place" so adrenaline was coursing through my pre-adolescent body like fish oil--my childhood, you will notice, moved around in time, although this song was released in 2011 it was very much part of my 10 year old life--and I kept at it screaming, “Bitch, you better have my money!!!” I pulled the shank on his ass.
“Oh god, Oh my god! Please t-money, don’t hurt me!!!”
I got off of him and regained composure.
“Listen motherfucker, you’re done. Get the fuck out.”
“But t-money, your gifted, I know I’m not the top hustler, but I can learn!” He pleaded.
“No bitch. You’re soft like jelly my mom used to buy. She put it on my peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. You need to work in retail.”
He started to cry and cry, and then I felt sorry for him and said I had some connections at Tory Burch and I could hook him up. After he cried and I managed my anger back down to a cool breeze, we watched Shrek. He was really happy about the Tory Burch opportunity.
I left the weed game when I was 14 and decided to get myself a proper education. I enrolled at the New York City School of Technology in Brooklyn, studying business. I took an extracurricular class in Women’s Literature and ended up banging the TA. She screamed louder than I’ve anyone heard anyone scream, not just during the big Ooooooos (cause there were many), but the whole motherfuckin time, she was screaming and yelling. It was seriously like some political shit, like I’ma be a woman and get my pleasure and show you neighborhood, Brooklyn, that I am an empowered sexual being. And by god she was. I gave her honey four times that night, and by the end I had to put little balled up pieces of tissue in my ears like I was at a rock concert just to avoid long-term, serious auditory damage from this bitch. But it was still fun.
The next class meeting she was all demure. She even told the professor she could no longer grade my work because of what had transpired although she didn’t mention the yelling. My ears were still ringing.
After I learned some more shit, I said fuck school and just started to read a lot of books. Read this great novel about a college advisor who worked at 17 different universities and came to the conclusion that nobody has a fucking clue what they’re doing. Faculty argue everywhere about the curriculum, no one knows what to teach undergrads or how; graduate students spend 11 years on average in every program; the most prestigious faculty are the worst people; and every year seven new forms are introduced to departments, on average.
So the college advisor left his university and went out on his own. He started an international consulting business. His first client was a school in Saudi Arabia where the male faculty, by law, could not be in the same room as the female students. The male faculty member had to sit in a room all alone in front of a video camera and skype his lectures into a big auditorium filled with female students all watching a big video screen of the male faculty member. And this was at a progressive Saudi school.
The fucked up thing was that there was only one mic for the female students to ask questions of the male teacher. The mic was up front and center in the auditorium. So the most obnoxious chics would sit in front, close to the mic and hog it whenever there was a chance for students to speak, which was rare because it was Saudi Arabia. This advisor made a million dollars for suggesting the school buy a boom mic so anyone could speak and be heard. With the advisor/consultant’s help, they initiated the raising your hand policy. After that consulting job, he got many others, they were all related to college advising.
Reading this novel as a 15 year old changed my life. I went back to the New York School of Technology in Brooklyn and walked down the hallway of one of the Business buildings until I found a graduate advisor. His name was Nick. He had long hair and he wore jeans and black, button-down shirts, not tucked in. Super nice guy. I talked to him for four hours about my plans for opening a new business, about football, he turned out to be a huge Patriots fan and actually loved Tom Brady. I was a huge 49ers fan having grown up watching Joe Montana. I couldn’t really forgive his love of Brady (a douche bag who does not compare to Joe Montana). But he was a great guy, totally chill, said, “no worries man, it’s all gonna work out” multiple times. Loved Simon and Garfunkel. He was from western massachusets, small town full of Portugese immigrants. He himself, Nick, wasn’t Portugese, but he knew a shit load about Portugese culture, all about how they serve small sausages on small plates during Easter. He had a beautiful girlfriend, he showed me her picture on his iPhone. She was portugese, a super successful fashion executive headhunter and rich.
We talked about my childhood and how my mother would never forgive me. Not for leaving when I was 9, but for refusing to tell her I loved her when we talked on the phone, which was frequently. I was too hard. My shell couldn’t condone such a soft soufflé. I told Nick, “I can’t be bothered. My balls are man balls. They are not woman balls. They are made of diamonds, and we both know diamonds are hard as fuck.” Nick thoughtfully agreed, "yes, man balls are diamond balls and they are very hard."
After our discussion, I decided I didn’t want to be a college advisor. And I decided I’d had enough of new york. My weed operation functioned for four years and during that time I saved close to four million dollars. I had money but I didn’t care about in the following manner: my life still needed purpose; I had to take action and do something; I needed to feel like I was giving something to humanity, serving some higher purpose. The money was great because it made everything smooth and if I decided to hop on a plane to Bangladesh and help start the Grameen Bank and microloan the shit out of some poor, country, Bangladeshi bitches, then by god, that’s what I did.
I got off the plane in Dhaka and was greeted by my good friend Ishtiak. I had met Ishtiak at Pianos, tried to sell him some weed, but he wasn’t buying. He had enough cocaine on him to send a small horse, emptied of all its innerds and filled with cocaine, to the promised land. That doesn’t make any sense. He had a backpack full of cocaine.
When I first met him, he was dressed in long white tube socks with two blue circle stripes at the top of the socks, fake Reebok sneakers, short, khaki shorts, a fake navy blue Polo polo shirt, and a black vest. He was balding and couldn’t have been older than 22. And he was like 180 pounds overweight, roughly 280. He looked like supernerd straight off the boat, the cops just laughed as he walked by with 4 kilos of coke in his backpack. Laugh on you coppers. Cue the Strokes, “New York City cops, New York City cops, New York City cops, they ain’t too smmarrt!” The Strokes are amazing. But this fool Ishtiak was the life of the motherfucking party that night. Girls were doing like 9 lines of coke off Ishtiaks fat ass. It was pretty sweet to watch. Ishtiak would wiggle his fat ass and make it hard for the hot chics to snort the coke. Ishtiak and I hit it off like childhood friends meeting in kindergarten and discovering a mutual love of legos.
When I landed in Dhaka, Ishtiak had paid all the authority figures, so instead of going through customs, I learned the custom of having Bangladeshi authorities carry my bags, push through all the beggars and help me into a armored Land Rover.
Ishtiak and I sat in the back and the driver took off at a speed that did not correspond to the amount of space available on the road. He went from 0 – 90 in six seconds, knifing by goats, small children and huge busses carrying loads of people on the top of the bus. We flew past cattle and baby taxis and authentic rickshaws and I guess there were lanes, but the driver was weaving like it was a basketball drill. I am not easily scared. However, during this jet propulsion entry into the chaos of the Bangladeshi streets, I was momentarily terrified. Ishtiak wasn’t wearing a seatbelt and looked bored. Ishtiak’s driver honked and violently motioned with his hand and people just succumbed to his will and moved. I told myself, “you must not hold this fear as you cannot control this circumstance.” I accepted the chaos and speed and cattle and came to the center of my mortality. I accepted everything, every moment of my life, being borne, to the present moment, to the time I would die, which seemed soon. I accepted it all and understood it as one moment trapped in amber, the entirety of my life, the entirely of time beyond my own birth and death, all one moment trapped in amber.
I let go.
My mind was like water. When we arrived at Ishtiak’s palace (there were columns), I was relaxed.
The next day I had a meeting with Muhammad Yunus. He had just returned from schooling in the States and wanted to go on a walk with me in the country side. Ishtiak had told Yunus about me and my business idea and thought the two of us should meet and walk in the country. So we met and walked in the country. We found that the women were being treated like indentured servants by the village loan sharks. The village loan sharks would lend a village woman enough money to buy a goat, but they would charge an insane amount of interest and the woman, on her own, could never pay it back. I had a light bulb moment and told Yunus, “why don’t we give little bitty loans to these women in groups. Charge them very little interest, do it on a huge scale and see what happens.” Yunus was down. He and I put the wheels in motion. Turns out if you loan a tiny bit of money to a group of women, they buy a goat, they start making money off their goat, they pay you back, and you get the small interest. And if you do this times a billion, you make hellof money. Fortunately, there are HELLOF Bangladeshis. The Grammen bank was borne, which made Yunus and me (and Ishtiak who got a cut) extremely rich. So we enslaved some women from the villages to clean our houses.
Once again I had been victorious, only this time vs. the poorest country in the world, Bangladesh, and now I was super rich. But still the question nagged: what am I meant to do. The question haunted me. By haunted I mean it occasionally interfered with my having a good time.
So I left Ishtiak and Yunus and flew back to California to confront my parents (and check out the "giant ass" art installation some Yale MFA grad had constructed on a freeway in Fresno).
to be continued…
with love,
Anthony
[Author's note: ps - As much as I wanted to, I did not send this to the kind folks in my program.]
New York City Cops
Wednesday, November 23, 2011
how long/thanksgiving
Charles Bradley
I wish I could say everything that needed to be said all in one facebook posting read by everyone in the world in the same moment. “Did you read that shit?!”“Christ that shit was solid.”
That is all. All that needed to be said.The etymology of the word “Occupy.” The reversal of the European colonial project. The melody of Martin Luther King's soul. A link to a perfect song (for is this not text, too?), a song that would pluck every listener’s intimate heartstrings, creating internal glory, each being exploding with self-love.Words that carried with them the power to heal the demons of schizophrenia, to turn the dragons into princesses, all of the dragons touched and unmasked for their true princess selves. No evil, no regimes, no end games. Simplicity and folk, Somalian pirates sailing the seas for peace, to fix France and rid it of its racism. Somalian pirates pulling up on the American shore, teaching us how to play baseball and bake apple pies. Secret pleasures found by shy men who up til the moment of the post could only think of the ways they would woo the women with their talents. The end of the death penalty, the end of economic disparity, the rise of racial equality, a woman with complete authority over her body and the decisions that affect her body, in perpetuity.
I give thanks for what is possible.
In the holiday spirit, I offer up these fine songs. I hope you feel loved and are surrounded by family, however defined:
The Everly Brothers:
Cathy's Clown
As my friend Corch said, "don't sleep on the brothers."
The Tallest Man on Earth:
The Drying of the Lawns
"I'm leaving cause you don't fear what you're dreaming of"
Camera Obscura
Lunar Sea
The song ends at around 5 minutes. After that it's just quiet. Good opportunity to contemplate the best parts of your life.
happy thanksgiving,
Anthony
I wish I could say everything that needed to be said all in one facebook posting read by everyone in the world in the same moment. “Did you read that shit?!”“Christ that shit was solid.”
That is all. All that needed to be said.The etymology of the word “Occupy.” The reversal of the European colonial project. The melody of Martin Luther King's soul. A link to a perfect song (for is this not text, too?), a song that would pluck every listener’s intimate heartstrings, creating internal glory, each being exploding with self-love.Words that carried with them the power to heal the demons of schizophrenia, to turn the dragons into princesses, all of the dragons touched and unmasked for their true princess selves. No evil, no regimes, no end games. Simplicity and folk, Somalian pirates sailing the seas for peace, to fix France and rid it of its racism. Somalian pirates pulling up on the American shore, teaching us how to play baseball and bake apple pies. Secret pleasures found by shy men who up til the moment of the post could only think of the ways they would woo the women with their talents. The end of the death penalty, the end of economic disparity, the rise of racial equality, a woman with complete authority over her body and the decisions that affect her body, in perpetuity.
I give thanks for what is possible.
In the holiday spirit, I offer up these fine songs. I hope you feel loved and are surrounded by family, however defined:
The Everly Brothers:
Cathy's Clown
As my friend Corch said, "don't sleep on the brothers."
The Tallest Man on Earth:
The Drying of the Lawns
"I'm leaving cause you don't fear what you're dreaming of"
Camera Obscura
Lunar Sea
The song ends at around 5 minutes. After that it's just quiet. Good opportunity to contemplate the best parts of your life.
happy thanksgiving,
Anthony
Wednesday, November 16, 2011
tits and mistakes
Warning: This post may contain explicit language (it does) and may be offensive (it is).
I've found in my life that tits and mistakes pretty much go hand in hand, or hand in glove, or hand on tits, or face covered in tits, or shove the spear up my virginal asshole. ouch. I could write about tits for days because I have never cheated on my fiancee. I came very close when we first started dating, before we were technically boyfriend and girlfriend. But before the girl came over, I called her and said no! I knew it would ruin my integrity (underlined three, not one, times). That's all I cared about, because a relationship must have integrity (underlined three, not one, times). It must go to the depths of Moby Dick's Ocean. A relationship must have a solid foundation, and my fondling some large-breasted young woman in that ambiguous time before we had explicitly, with words, committed to one another, would not have contributed to the type of mature relationship I wanted and continue to want with the woman I love. I've done this kindof thing in the past: used the ambiguous pre-formal-committment-time to splinter off and shack up with a sex pot. For those who know me, this should come as no surprise. I learned, however. I learned that what I wanted for myself was this integrity. I wanted a relationship built on integrity and other pillars like love and support. And I can say with integrity that it is, our relationship is beautiful, so much better than any huge-breasted unfamiliar woman working hard to unbuckle my belt.
But back to tits and mistakes! And alcohol, lot's of alcohol! Big tits are great. So are small tits. It often doesn't matter. Bigger tits are great, too. I will provide an example: it was my 29th birthday. I had been dating a girl, we'll call her Sara, for about 7 months. Cute little Indian girl, ex-tennis player, really thick hips, perfectly proportioned breasts on the smaller to medium side. I had already pulled the shagging another girl during the ambiguous beginnings and had been "caught". I faithfully argued that I had not committed any crime; the mutual, carnal, fantastic sex had occurred with a woman during a time when things between Sara and I had not been formally clarified. I was innocent, if a little sleazy, possibly. But not really. I'm a good guy. Sara was furious and pouted a great deal, but eventually came around.
Four or five months later, it's October 22, 2006, and I'm at a bar drinking Guinness, PBR, Stella and Jack Daniels in the lower east side, 13th Street and Avenue A. The place was called the Drop Off Service, which sounds worse than it was. It was actually just a preppy bar. A bunch of Sara's Columbia friends were there, not for my birthday, for some other reason. But among these other friends was one of Sara's close friends. Sara didn't really have close friends, as it turned out she was far too psycho (I must tell you that right now, as I write, I am listening to a nice little ditty called Snow Day by Matt Pond. It's a song that Starbucks purchased for an advertisement, which was televised, commonly called a commercial. The song is about a snow day, no school, no work, happy fun fun fun!), but she did have this friend whose name I can't recall, so I'll call her Laura because that was her name. Just kidding! In any case, I had a grand time that evening at the Drop Off Service. Many of my new york friends stopped by for a drink, my sister and her boyfriend were in town to celebrate, I was riding that perfect intoxicated wave, waltzing around the bar singing Smiths songs in one minute and fiercely attacking some Guns n Roses Slash air guitar in the next. I was the life of the party. (I'll let you in on a little secret: I may or may not have been the life of the party.) Eventually, things got to the point when it was time to go. People were pulling me out of the bar and into a cab filled with Sara, my sister and her boyfriend and other friends and acquaintances. But no! I was not finished. My brilliant mind thought this was the perfect time to chat up Sara's good friend Laura. Laura's tits will not win awards, but they were above average in size, and by God! that night I was ready to become THE HULK for a chance at suckling on them, stripping off that horrible shirt, horrible only because it stood in the way of my mouth and whatever other undergarments, they all needed to be torn to shreds, so my mouth could taste the nipple. OH GOD HER NIPPLES! HOW I WANTED TO BRUSH MY FACE ACROSS HER NIPPLES! And so I moseyed up to the bar where she and a friend were still sitting, drinking. I don't remember what I said, but I do remember that nuance and subtlety may have broken down a bit and I think I made it clear that I had intentions of doing some wonderful things in the restroom. I'm not sure how my mind was processing the fact that, Sara, my girlfriend of 7 months, and many other loved ones were waiting for me in a taxi, just outside. The timing wasn't perfect. I was really drunk, but I remember Laura looking a bit turned off when my message may have become clear. I'm still not sure exactly what I communicated, but she didn't overreact, thankfully. She only moved away and began talking again to her friend. It's really strange today not knowing what I said and not knowing how Laura felt about the whole situation. If I did make my intentions clear, Laura never said anything to Sara. Because if she had, Sara would have done some crazy shit, which she ended up doing later anyways when I broke up with her on legitimate grounds, mainly on the grounds that she was crazy. I'm happy the whole thing didn't blow up fecally in my face although I probably deserved it.
The shitty thing about me is that I'm pretty sure, given some better circumstances, I could have closed the deal with Laura. I won't bore you with details, but during my single days, I was pretty fantastic. Aside from being a natural at the art and social science of seduction, I also understood magic. Magic is such a critical part of seduction, so often misplaced or left at home or trampled on in favor of "What's up girl, damn you look good!"
I should be more disappointed in my behavior that night with Laura, Sara waiting in the taxi. But my disappointment stems mostly from the fact that I couldn't pull it off. But only slightly disappointed. As I said, I'm a natural.
(Listening to the remaining Matt Pond songs on his album have not impressed. Snow Day, however, remains a winner.)
with so much love and bursting adoration,
Anthony
This Charming Man
I would go out tonight but I haven't got a stitch to wear.
Snow Day!
We can want more.
I've found in my life that tits and mistakes pretty much go hand in hand, or hand in glove, or hand on tits, or face covered in tits, or shove the spear up my virginal asshole. ouch. I could write about tits for days because I have never cheated on my fiancee. I came very close when we first started dating, before we were technically boyfriend and girlfriend. But before the girl came over, I called her and said no! I knew it would ruin my integrity (underlined three, not one, times). That's all I cared about, because a relationship must have integrity (underlined three, not one, times). It must go to the depths of Moby Dick's Ocean. A relationship must have a solid foundation, and my fondling some large-breasted young woman in that ambiguous time before we had explicitly, with words, committed to one another, would not have contributed to the type of mature relationship I wanted and continue to want with the woman I love. I've done this kindof thing in the past: used the ambiguous pre-formal-committment-time to splinter off and shack up with a sex pot. For those who know me, this should come as no surprise. I learned, however. I learned that what I wanted for myself was this integrity. I wanted a relationship built on integrity and other pillars like love and support. And I can say with integrity that it is, our relationship is beautiful, so much better than any huge-breasted unfamiliar woman working hard to unbuckle my belt.
But back to tits and mistakes! And alcohol, lot's of alcohol! Big tits are great. So are small tits. It often doesn't matter. Bigger tits are great, too. I will provide an example: it was my 29th birthday. I had been dating a girl, we'll call her Sara, for about 7 months. Cute little Indian girl, ex-tennis player, really thick hips, perfectly proportioned breasts on the smaller to medium side. I had already pulled the shagging another girl during the ambiguous beginnings and had been "caught". I faithfully argued that I had not committed any crime; the mutual, carnal, fantastic sex had occurred with a woman during a time when things between Sara and I had not been formally clarified. I was innocent, if a little sleazy, possibly. But not really. I'm a good guy. Sara was furious and pouted a great deal, but eventually came around.
Four or five months later, it's October 22, 2006, and I'm at a bar drinking Guinness, PBR, Stella and Jack Daniels in the lower east side, 13th Street and Avenue A. The place was called the Drop Off Service, which sounds worse than it was. It was actually just a preppy bar. A bunch of Sara's Columbia friends were there, not for my birthday, for some other reason. But among these other friends was one of Sara's close friends. Sara didn't really have close friends, as it turned out she was far too psycho (I must tell you that right now, as I write, I am listening to a nice little ditty called Snow Day by Matt Pond. It's a song that Starbucks purchased for an advertisement, which was televised, commonly called a commercial. The song is about a snow day, no school, no work, happy fun fun fun!), but she did have this friend whose name I can't recall, so I'll call her Laura because that was her name. Just kidding! In any case, I had a grand time that evening at the Drop Off Service. Many of my new york friends stopped by for a drink, my sister and her boyfriend were in town to celebrate, I was riding that perfect intoxicated wave, waltzing around the bar singing Smiths songs in one minute and fiercely attacking some Guns n Roses Slash air guitar in the next. I was the life of the party. (I'll let you in on a little secret: I may or may not have been the life of the party.) Eventually, things got to the point when it was time to go. People were pulling me out of the bar and into a cab filled with Sara, my sister and her boyfriend and other friends and acquaintances. But no! I was not finished. My brilliant mind thought this was the perfect time to chat up Sara's good friend Laura. Laura's tits will not win awards, but they were above average in size, and by God! that night I was ready to become THE HULK for a chance at suckling on them, stripping off that horrible shirt, horrible only because it stood in the way of my mouth and whatever other undergarments, they all needed to be torn to shreds, so my mouth could taste the nipple. OH GOD HER NIPPLES! HOW I WANTED TO BRUSH MY FACE ACROSS HER NIPPLES! And so I moseyed up to the bar where she and a friend were still sitting, drinking. I don't remember what I said, but I do remember that nuance and subtlety may have broken down a bit and I think I made it clear that I had intentions of doing some wonderful things in the restroom. I'm not sure how my mind was processing the fact that, Sara, my girlfriend of 7 months, and many other loved ones were waiting for me in a taxi, just outside. The timing wasn't perfect. I was really drunk, but I remember Laura looking a bit turned off when my message may have become clear. I'm still not sure exactly what I communicated, but she didn't overreact, thankfully. She only moved away and began talking again to her friend. It's really strange today not knowing what I said and not knowing how Laura felt about the whole situation. If I did make my intentions clear, Laura never said anything to Sara. Because if she had, Sara would have done some crazy shit, which she ended up doing later anyways when I broke up with her on legitimate grounds, mainly on the grounds that she was crazy. I'm happy the whole thing didn't blow up fecally in my face although I probably deserved it.
The shitty thing about me is that I'm pretty sure, given some better circumstances, I could have closed the deal with Laura. I won't bore you with details, but during my single days, I was pretty fantastic. Aside from being a natural at the art and social science of seduction, I also understood magic. Magic is such a critical part of seduction, so often misplaced or left at home or trampled on in favor of "What's up girl, damn you look good!"
I should be more disappointed in my behavior that night with Laura, Sara waiting in the taxi. But my disappointment stems mostly from the fact that I couldn't pull it off. But only slightly disappointed. As I said, I'm a natural.
(Listening to the remaining Matt Pond songs on his album have not impressed. Snow Day, however, remains a winner.)
with so much love and bursting adoration,
Anthony
This Charming Man
I would go out tonight but I haven't got a stitch to wear.
Snow Day!
We can want more.
Thursday, November 10, 2011
Diamond Rings
This kid was in a band called The D'Urbervilles. Pretty much your standard fare indie band from Canada. But in 2009, after dealing with some health problems, he decided to cover his eyelids with colorful makeup and go off on his own. This side project, Diamond Rings, is basically just him, John O'Regan. The video below is the first one I heard. Thanks be to Emilie Raguso, friend and editor in chief at the Albany Patch, who posted this video on her facebook. I did some research on Diamond Rings and found out that he used to be somewhat of a jock. You can see him wearing an old Seattle Supersonics jersey in the video below. In some other of his videos, he plays up his sports background (no pun intended), and appears to be a pretty good basketball player. For example, he can make a reverse lay-up. In one video he and some back-up dancers perform a flamboyant, choreographed dance on a basketball court. By performing this dance in the hyper-masculine space of a basketball court, Diamond Rings creates the best kind of cultural confusion. It forces us to think about masculinity and femininity, hetero and homosexuality, and the titles "man" and "woman". Many of the articles I read about Diamond Rings discussed the androgynous nature of his look and performance. There are many references to David Bowie, Grace Jones, Boy George, etc. Bottom line is the music is really, really good, but the cultural conflict created by Diamond Rings is also very compelling. As a straight ally of the lgbt community, it's always important to remember that we live in a hyper-hetero-normative society. Therefore, it's so important to embrace artists that create space for queer and/or potentially queer expression. Diamond Rings doesn't answer the question, "are you gay or straight?", citing the lack of binary oppositions in relation to human sexuality. In one interview, he said, binary code works with computers, but not with humans.
Diamond Rings
much love,
Anthony
Diamond Rings
much love,
Anthony
First Guest Post: Saba Moeel!
Saba Moeel is the glittery literary buckshot that just left the cannon and adjusted your world view. She is also the younger sister of one of my close friends and favorite people, Shaffy "Shafierson" Moeel. Absolutely love the Moeel's. Saba works as a (brilliant) designer during the day, but here I want to highlight her writing. She has more pure writing talent than anyone I'm reading today. Her writing is hot, bizarre, shape-shifting, mystical, Ayn Rand confident, and honest. She grew up in El Cerrito and now lives in Brooklyn.
Guest Blog:
Day 95
Oh so let me guess u got a pot belly but still wear a mid riff revealing shirt no problem? WELL SO DO I so you cannot judge another person.
Oh so you drink chlorophyll and kombucha like there's no tomorrow for your 'health' but then again you eat something sweet everyday? WELL I GUESS I CANNOT CAST ANY STONES YOUR WAY
So..you have a long list of advice for every person in your life except for yourself? Join the club on this!
The last time you went to the club, did you have the time of your life and plus the owner had a crush on you so you got into the secret downstairs part WITH your whole crew INCLUDING all 7 of dudes, but then it was the worst night because at 4am you lost your key and had to call a locksmith, he ripped you off but you were so enraged and just done that u paid it and ended up paying 700 dollars that night, all in al? Wow me too thats weird
Did you, offer a Ganesh puja which means you cracked a coconut in a fiery camphor burning ritual in your Bushwick apartment, only to auspicously have your BRAND NEW ganesh necklace snap off your neck as you were dutifully taking out the trash like an adult, only to have some flukey student loan fiasco happen where u thought u had to pay 3 g's by next week, then out of creepy morbid, morbid curiosity u asked your shady pimp acquaintance how much his ho's get paid and this motherfucker said $25,000 A MONTH. Then he gently solicited you to join his prostitution ring, then you didn't respond? And this was all on text. Then you thought, let me delete this fools number then you were like, but NO I need to know the number so I accidently don't evr pick up, like EVER cuz this fool is so shady thank god I found it out before I worked with his producer friend. But did you then get so enraged at everyone trying to use you, which is hella imaginary anyway, that you texted the dude your dating demanding what the status was on ur relationship after a year of being too terrified to even call him on the phone? Then after he gave u the thumbs up, after first taking the opportunity to torture and tease you and pretend to be a 'handcuffed bachelor', which you loved because it was all very fake and annoying and much like a wayans movie, did the student loan situation dissapear 2 minutes later cuz your mom called and reminded you gently that your dad was helping you settle it with an agency and u just forgot, and then all the main things that were bugging you for the past year were instantly solved and you realized GANESH works in mysterious, angry, aggressive ways, but ALWAYS INSTANTLY IF YOU make a prayer to a coconut, crack that shit w a hammer on the ledge, PLUS 'accidently' break your spiritually energized piece of jewelry even tho the damn thing was brand fucking new!!! it served its purpose and you couldnt even repair it cuz you LOST THE DAMN THING THE NEXT DAY AT WORK!
That last paragraph wasn't a question that shit happened!!! And it was wack as hell!!! But hey, that is Ganesh for you. So Dont let your mouth make a prayer that your ass cant cash! Because I cashed it and it was awful, but it all worked out marvellously didnt it
Guest Blog:
Day 95
Oh so let me guess u got a pot belly but still wear a mid riff revealing shirt no problem? WELL SO DO I so you cannot judge another person.
Oh so you drink chlorophyll and kombucha like there's no tomorrow for your 'health' but then again you eat something sweet everyday? WELL I GUESS I CANNOT CAST ANY STONES YOUR WAY
So..you have a long list of advice for every person in your life except for yourself? Join the club on this!
The last time you went to the club, did you have the time of your life and plus the owner had a crush on you so you got into the secret downstairs part WITH your whole crew INCLUDING all 7 of dudes, but then it was the worst night because at 4am you lost your key and had to call a locksmith, he ripped you off but you were so enraged and just done that u paid it and ended up paying 700 dollars that night, all in al? Wow me too thats weird
Did you, offer a Ganesh puja which means you cracked a coconut in a fiery camphor burning ritual in your Bushwick apartment, only to auspicously have your BRAND NEW ganesh necklace snap off your neck as you were dutifully taking out the trash like an adult, only to have some flukey student loan fiasco happen where u thought u had to pay 3 g's by next week, then out of creepy morbid, morbid curiosity u asked your shady pimp acquaintance how much his ho's get paid and this motherfucker said $25,000 A MONTH. Then he gently solicited you to join his prostitution ring, then you didn't respond? And this was all on text. Then you thought, let me delete this fools number then you were like, but NO I need to know the number so I accidently don't evr pick up, like EVER cuz this fool is so shady thank god I found it out before I worked with his producer friend. But did you then get so enraged at everyone trying to use you, which is hella imaginary anyway, that you texted the dude your dating demanding what the status was on ur relationship after a year of being too terrified to even call him on the phone? Then after he gave u the thumbs up, after first taking the opportunity to torture and tease you and pretend to be a 'handcuffed bachelor', which you loved because it was all very fake and annoying and much like a wayans movie, did the student loan situation dissapear 2 minutes later cuz your mom called and reminded you gently that your dad was helping you settle it with an agency and u just forgot, and then all the main things that were bugging you for the past year were instantly solved and you realized GANESH works in mysterious, angry, aggressive ways, but ALWAYS INSTANTLY IF YOU make a prayer to a coconut, crack that shit w a hammer on the ledge, PLUS 'accidently' break your spiritually energized piece of jewelry even tho the damn thing was brand fucking new!!! it served its purpose and you couldnt even repair it cuz you LOST THE DAMN THING THE NEXT DAY AT WORK!
That last paragraph wasn't a question that shit happened!!! And it was wack as hell!!! But hey, that is Ganesh for you. So Dont let your mouth make a prayer that your ass cant cash! Because I cashed it and it was awful, but it all worked out marvellously didnt it
Monday, November 7, 2011
Love Songs to Troy Davis: A Small, Free Concert to End the Death Penalty
Sunday, November 20, 1 to 2:30 pm, at Solano-Peralta Park (across the street from the 7-11 on Solano Ave., near the Albany/Berkeley border)
http://g.co/maps/kzjav
The execution of Troy Davis on September 21, 2011, made a great many of us feel sick and brokenhearted. Our government injected deadly poison into the bloodstream of a vital, breathing man and ended his life. For those of us not involved in the every-day effort to end the death penalty, the execution created feelings of helplessness, sadness and the sense that we could do nothing to stop these brutal acts of violence. In response to these feelings of helplessness and sadness, a group of us have come together and organized a small, free concert. The goal of this concert is very modest. Everything will be acoustic; there will be no amplification. This will be a peaceful vigil, not a protest. It is our hope that the music played for a short time in a small park in front of a small crowd will ripple out and send a clear message that business as usual must not be allowed to continue. Our belief is that the death penalty is racist, immoral, cruel and unusual and therefore not allowable under the U.S. Constitution.
We want to emphasize that this will be a peaceful vigil. There is a time for loud, direct action, but on this Sunday, our hope is that the sound of acoustic and unamplified voices will speak louder than a bullhorn.
We are so fortunate to have three local, up-and-coming performers share their musical gifts for this event. I encourage you to check out their websites or just show up and be ready to be impressed. The music will inspire.
Performing:
Anthony Martinez - website under construction
Starr Saunders - www.starrsaunders.com
Aerin Monroe - http://www.reverbnation.com/aerinmonroe
We hope to see you there.
much love,
Anthony
http://g.co/maps/kzjav
The execution of Troy Davis on September 21, 2011, made a great many of us feel sick and brokenhearted. Our government injected deadly poison into the bloodstream of a vital, breathing man and ended his life. For those of us not involved in the every-day effort to end the death penalty, the execution created feelings of helplessness, sadness and the sense that we could do nothing to stop these brutal acts of violence. In response to these feelings of helplessness and sadness, a group of us have come together and organized a small, free concert. The goal of this concert is very modest. Everything will be acoustic; there will be no amplification. This will be a peaceful vigil, not a protest. It is our hope that the music played for a short time in a small park in front of a small crowd will ripple out and send a clear message that business as usual must not be allowed to continue. Our belief is that the death penalty is racist, immoral, cruel and unusual and therefore not allowable under the U.S. Constitution.
We want to emphasize that this will be a peaceful vigil. There is a time for loud, direct action, but on this Sunday, our hope is that the sound of acoustic and unamplified voices will speak louder than a bullhorn.
We are so fortunate to have three local, up-and-coming performers share their musical gifts for this event. I encourage you to check out their websites or just show up and be ready to be impressed. The music will inspire.
Performing:
Anthony Martinez - website under construction
Starr Saunders - www.starrsaunders.com
Aerin Monroe - http://www.reverbnation.com/aerinmonroe
We hope to see you there.
much love,
Anthony
Sunday, October 30, 2011
Holland, 1945
(best to turn your volume down)
Holland, 1945
(now you can slowly turn your volume up)
A little background: the song was inspired by and/or is about Anne Frank's life.
Consider these lyrics:
"now she's a little boy in Spain
playing pianos filled with flames"
I'd like to ask you to do a little writing exercise, no more than 30 minutes. I know you are super busy, but I'd still like to ask you to do the following: Think about these lyrics in relation to your life and then start writing. Think about these lyrics in the context of the song and these lyrics alone. Of course, there is no right answer. Are the lyrics confusing? Do they make you feel something? Are they about a relationship, a woman, history, war, life, death, music, creativity, meaning? If you decide to do this, you can use my prompt about these lyrics to get started and then just write wherever it takes you. 10 minutes, 20 minutes, 30 minutes, whatever amount of time works. If you do this freewrite, please email me whatever you finish with. I'd love to read your reaction.
much love,
Anthony
Holland, 1945
(now you can slowly turn your volume up)
A little background: the song was inspired by and/or is about Anne Frank's life.
Consider these lyrics:
"now she's a little boy in Spain
playing pianos filled with flames"
I'd like to ask you to do a little writing exercise, no more than 30 minutes. I know you are super busy, but I'd still like to ask you to do the following: Think about these lyrics in relation to your life and then start writing. Think about these lyrics in the context of the song and these lyrics alone. Of course, there is no right answer. Are the lyrics confusing? Do they make you feel something? Are they about a relationship, a woman, history, war, life, death, music, creativity, meaning? If you decide to do this, you can use my prompt about these lyrics to get started and then just write wherever it takes you. 10 minutes, 20 minutes, 30 minutes, whatever amount of time works. If you do this freewrite, please email me whatever you finish with. I'd love to read your reaction.
much love,
Anthony
Monday, October 24, 2011
#Broke my camera
I dropped my brand new camera on the sidewalk. It scratched the lens. Now there is a black splotch in the middle of all the pictures I take. This is depressing. I haven't called Amazon, but I'm pretty sure they're not going to give me a new one. I bought it a week ago. If they don't, I'm probably going to buy the same camera again: the Canon Powershot A1200. It costs about $100.
Also, the world is changing. #occupywallstreet. http://www.adbusters.org/
with sadness and hope,
Anthony
Also, the world is changing. #occupywallstreet. http://www.adbusters.org/
with sadness and hope,
Anthony
Thursday, October 20, 2011
Unspectacular Musings and Then...
My mind is kindof blank at the moment. It's not really coming up with anything significant to write about. I could write about #occupywallstreet. (What the fuck does the # mean?) My baby just got home, that's a good thing. She's going to make dinner. a stir fry with vegetables and cajun style sausages. That sounds delicious. Things have been a little crazy of late. I became famous when my first professional piece of writing was published on the Albany Patch. The link is in the blog posting just below. I've had to deal with a whole new level of celebrity. My friends all ask, "How did it happen? How did you do it?" all eyes staring at me with this enthusiasm and curiosity, sparkling, and me comfortable in my new level of celebrity, answering, "well, it happened like this...blah blah blah (but very confident/laid back, funny, witty and self-effacing), so they all think, "yes, he is a good writer!" just by the way i talk about my writing. it's all been a bit much. and then my parents, who I wrote about, are being recognized now on their Solano walks. they are now famous, too. I have to come back down to the earth, the earth of New Mexico, the dusty red, earth of Taos, where the snake shaman is practicing for the ceremony. He will keep the bullet-noesed-rattler snake, indigenous to southern New Mexico, in his mouth, bitting softly around the mid-point of the snake, coaxing the snake into a mild trance. And I will sit and chant as the sun burns away in the south-western skyline, dark edging out the burnt hues of the light, now comes eagle and lands to take the snake out of the mouth of my celebrity coach. The shaman. And the eagle flies away.
But I must remain rooted in the earth. I cannot let the winds of change, albei-them positive winds, i cannot let these winds of change ruffle my feathers. I must not let the new connections and conversations allow my brain to self induce serotonin labor, and spike goes the euphoria, which i've discussed enough to make you nauseous. As i go from your average sailor to Moby-fucking-Dick, I must keep the little people in mind and remember i get sad. I do get sad, all the time. For no "reason" yes there are reasons, but not reasons for making people sad. I get sad and need to cry because I went to a work retreat and I didn't know anyone and it felt weird. I get sad and need to cry because i feel overwhelmed with good things. I'm already working on Patch article number 2 and i've got the interview for Patch article number 3 lined up with my doctor. Does it get any more significant or miraculous, this new level of fame and fortune, writing for the Albany Patch? The patch pays me between $25-100 per piece depending on if it's good and if it has a lot of photos. I'm fucking rich. I don't know what to do with the money. I invested the money from the first article in a new camera, which makes hellof sense because i get paid more when i take more pictures, i think, but then i interviewed my Patch #2 guy and felt too awkward to take pictures even though i had my brand new camera right there.
But the point of this article/post is I need to stay grounded otherwise, best case scenario i get sad, worst case i have a physiological panic attack, meaning i have horrible chest pains which i interpret as the beginning of death, the clear, incontrovertible, absolute beginning of quick death, and so i panic and there is a horrible hysteria. That I would like to avoid. So i have to remember that even though I want to open my soul to the stars and make little connections like a kite with all the stars from my soul, i can't make a connection with every fucking star. There are hellof fucking stars. Just Think About It. So, my guts are open and I'm trying;
FUCK EARTHQUAKE!!! AHHHHH I"M GONNA DIE!!! I"M 21 FLOORS UP!!! okay, I'm okay, seriously, but gotta go put away my laundry.
love you guys,
Anthony
But I must remain rooted in the earth. I cannot let the winds of change, albei-them positive winds, i cannot let these winds of change ruffle my feathers. I must not let the new connections and conversations allow my brain to self induce serotonin labor, and spike goes the euphoria, which i've discussed enough to make you nauseous. As i go from your average sailor to Moby-fucking-Dick, I must keep the little people in mind and remember i get sad. I do get sad, all the time. For no "reason" yes there are reasons, but not reasons for making people sad. I get sad and need to cry because I went to a work retreat and I didn't know anyone and it felt weird. I get sad and need to cry because i feel overwhelmed with good things. I'm already working on Patch article number 2 and i've got the interview for Patch article number 3 lined up with my doctor. Does it get any more significant or miraculous, this new level of fame and fortune, writing for the Albany Patch? The patch pays me between $25-100 per piece depending on if it's good and if it has a lot of photos. I'm fucking rich. I don't know what to do with the money. I invested the money from the first article in a new camera, which makes hellof sense because i get paid more when i take more pictures, i think, but then i interviewed my Patch #2 guy and felt too awkward to take pictures even though i had my brand new camera right there.
But the point of this article/post is I need to stay grounded otherwise, best case scenario i get sad, worst case i have a physiological panic attack, meaning i have horrible chest pains which i interpret as the beginning of death, the clear, incontrovertible, absolute beginning of quick death, and so i panic and there is a horrible hysteria. That I would like to avoid. So i have to remember that even though I want to open my soul to the stars and make little connections like a kite with all the stars from my soul, i can't make a connection with every fucking star. There are hellof fucking stars. Just Think About It. So, my guts are open and I'm trying;
FUCK EARTHQUAKE!!! AHHHHH I"M GONNA DIE!!! I"M 21 FLOORS UP!!! okay, I'm okay, seriously, but gotta go put away my laundry.
love you guys,
Anthony
Thursday, October 13, 2011
Thursday, September 29, 2011
Cupcakes
Last week a group of college republicans at UC Berkeley had a bake sale to represent their views on affirmative action. In their view, affirmative action gives special treatment to African-Americans, Latinos, Native Americans and Women. To highlight this "injustice", the college republicans sold cupcakes to African-American students for 25 cents, to Latinos for 50 cents and to White students for $2 (or some variation of this). The implicit argument of this bake sale is that it replicates the system of allowing African-Americans into universities when there are better white student applicants, again the idea of special treatment. The fundamental problem with this bake sale is that it fails to take the history of our country into consideration.
If you were to hold a bakesale that truly reflects the history of race and ethnicity in the United States, you would have to do this: Let's say the bake sale is going to last for 4 hours. For 3 hours and 59 minutes you would give the cupcakes away free to all the white students, and then you would give the cake mixer machines and batter to the white students' white friends, so they could make free cupcakes for their white friends. Very quickly the white students would become the presidents of all the cupcake associations, they would become the CEOs of all the cupcake companies, and the principles of all the cupcake schools. A bunch of white kids with a bunch of cupcakes and a bunch of cupcake power. You would then force the black students to make cupcakes for 3 hours and 59 minutes in the hot sun, while being whipped and occasionally hung for asking for a cupcake. After 3 hours and 59 minutes of laboring in the cupcake fields, for 40 seconds you would sell the African-American students cupcakes at $500,000 each, forcing them to take out loans to pay for the cupcakes from white student cupcake bankers. For the last 20 seconds, someone with sense of history and justice would step in and say, okay, for the last 3 hours, 59 minutes, and 40 seconds, black students have paid a severe price and have received no cupcakes. This person would say, "I can see that the white students have all the cupcakes and the means to make cupcakes and now occupy all of the important cupcake positions. To attempt to give black students the opportunity to make and enjoy some cupcakes, we'll give you some of the shitty cake mixer machines and batter." And with the fucked up cake mixers and batters, the black students would go out and make hellof good cupcakes.
At the end of 4 hours, the African-American students would be busting their ass to make cupcakes, trying to compete with all the white kids who already have hellof cupcakes.
And if you get all in twist about the words "with a sense of history and justice," consider the Civil Rights Movement. Just consider the Civil Rights Movement for a moment, the greatest form of Affirmative Action our country has seen. Think of all the African-American women and men who put themselves in harms way to change an oppressive system. Think of the leaders of the Civil Rights movement who were assassinated, jailed, and beaten. I don't think the college republicans who hosted this bake sale would argue that the Civil Rights Movement was a mistake, that things were better under Jim Crow, when the KKK was running around hanging African-Americans. I think the college republicans would say "yes, the Civil Rights movement was a good, necessary thing." But then they will say but that's in the past, today Obama is the President, everything's cool.
Nope. Look at the numbers: the percent of African-Americans on death row, the percent of African-Americans not going to college, the percent of African-Americans with less wealth than whites, the percent of African-Americans stopped by police. This is not because African-Americans are bad people. These numbers are the result of our history. The brutal history of enslaving African-Americans, and then "freeing" them into separate but equal, water fountains, backs of buses, violence and murder has fundamentally shaped neighborhoods today, shaped the population of political, business and educational leaders.
Changes have been made and things are better now than when African-Americans were slaves. But the history of brutality and oppression, hundreds of years of this, has left us with a situation today where affirmative action must be taken to rectify a disgraceful past. And it is a disgraceful past. And it is all of our responsibility to work towards greater equality. It is not about guilt, it is about equality. It is about justice.
If you were to hold a bakesale that truly reflects the history of race and ethnicity in the United States, you would have to do this: Let's say the bake sale is going to last for 4 hours. For 3 hours and 59 minutes you would give the cupcakes away free to all the white students, and then you would give the cake mixer machines and batter to the white students' white friends, so they could make free cupcakes for their white friends. Very quickly the white students would become the presidents of all the cupcake associations, they would become the CEOs of all the cupcake companies, and the principles of all the cupcake schools. A bunch of white kids with a bunch of cupcakes and a bunch of cupcake power. You would then force the black students to make cupcakes for 3 hours and 59 minutes in the hot sun, while being whipped and occasionally hung for asking for a cupcake. After 3 hours and 59 minutes of laboring in the cupcake fields, for 40 seconds you would sell the African-American students cupcakes at $500,000 each, forcing them to take out loans to pay for the cupcakes from white student cupcake bankers. For the last 20 seconds, someone with sense of history and justice would step in and say, okay, for the last 3 hours, 59 minutes, and 40 seconds, black students have paid a severe price and have received no cupcakes. This person would say, "I can see that the white students have all the cupcakes and the means to make cupcakes and now occupy all of the important cupcake positions. To attempt to give black students the opportunity to make and enjoy some cupcakes, we'll give you some of the shitty cake mixer machines and batter." And with the fucked up cake mixers and batters, the black students would go out and make hellof good cupcakes.
At the end of 4 hours, the African-American students would be busting their ass to make cupcakes, trying to compete with all the white kids who already have hellof cupcakes.
And if you get all in twist about the words "with a sense of history and justice," consider the Civil Rights Movement. Just consider the Civil Rights Movement for a moment, the greatest form of Affirmative Action our country has seen. Think of all the African-American women and men who put themselves in harms way to change an oppressive system. Think of the leaders of the Civil Rights movement who were assassinated, jailed, and beaten. I don't think the college republicans who hosted this bake sale would argue that the Civil Rights Movement was a mistake, that things were better under Jim Crow, when the KKK was running around hanging African-Americans. I think the college republicans would say "yes, the Civil Rights movement was a good, necessary thing." But then they will say but that's in the past, today Obama is the President, everything's cool.
Nope. Look at the numbers: the percent of African-Americans on death row, the percent of African-Americans not going to college, the percent of African-Americans with less wealth than whites, the percent of African-Americans stopped by police. This is not because African-Americans are bad people. These numbers are the result of our history. The brutal history of enslaving African-Americans, and then "freeing" them into separate but equal, water fountains, backs of buses, violence and murder has fundamentally shaped neighborhoods today, shaped the population of political, business and educational leaders.
Changes have been made and things are better now than when African-Americans were slaves. But the history of brutality and oppression, hundreds of years of this, has left us with a situation today where affirmative action must be taken to rectify a disgraceful past. And it is a disgraceful past. And it is all of our responsibility to work towards greater equality. It is not about guilt, it is about equality. It is about justice.
Wednesday, September 28, 2011
Done Got Old!!!
My god. This is an order: Go to iTunes and buy Junior Kimbrough's "First Recordings." Six songs, $6. This shit is amazing. I can't even describe how good this shit is. This is the best blues music I have ever heard. On Junior's wikipedia someone is quoted as saying he is "the beginning and end of music," and I swear to god this person is right. The song keeps ending, and I have to keep starting it again. It's so bluesy and so beautiful. I just apologize to all of you for not knowing, not telling you about Junior Kimbrough before. I am terribly sorry. And to those of you have known all along, why have you not shared this with me! That is okay, you are forgiven. We are imperfect, but sometimes the music is not.
Here:
Meet Me in the City
On First Recordings, he has a song called, "Done Got Old." at one point he sings, "I can't do the things I used to do, I'm an old man...I can't love like I used to, now things done changed, I done got old."
with love love love love love love love,
Anthony
Here:
Meet Me in the City
On First Recordings, he has a song called, "Done Got Old." at one point he sings, "I can't do the things I used to do, I'm an old man...I can't love like I used to, now things done changed, I done got old."
with love love love love love love love,
Anthony
Monday, September 26, 2011
more music from the streets: Burnt
In my last post, I talked about my experience hearing a great, young musician at the Downtown Berkeley BART station. On Sunday, I was walking in North Beach and I came across this band, Burnt. I shot a quick video. My apologies for the camera lens rotation towards the end. I'm still learning. It's kindof funny.
Burnt
You can find out more about them here:
http://www.reverbnation.com/burntmusic
with sincere love for white guys who love and play reggae (this is not always the easiest form of love to allow yourself to feel, but in my case, it is a form of self-love),
Anthony
Burnt
You can find out more about them here:
http://www.reverbnation.com/burntmusic
with sincere love for white guys who love and play reggae (this is not always the easiest form of love to allow yourself to feel, but in my case, it is a form of self-love),
Anthony
Saturday, September 24, 2011
Aerin Monroe
I was at the Downtown Berkeley BART station on Friday looking forward to the ride home after work, taking the escalator down from the street to the first level of the station. I was standing, allowing the escalator to do the work, and I had my earphones in. When I got to the bottom of the escalator I see in front of me a guy playing the guitar and singing. There are very often musicians of some type playing in this spot right in front of the escalator, and I usually make a quick effort to listen. So I popped out my standard issue iPhone earphones and gave this guy a shot. I'm not totally sure, but even before removing my earphones, I may have heard something from this guy that compelled me to remove the earphones. I don't know. In any case, I listened to the song he was playing, just him singing and playing an acoustic guitar. He was sitting on a chair and he had his black, soft guitar bag in front of him with a few burned cds and quite a few dollar bills. He was African-American, looked about 20 years old, and had kindof a reaggae vibe in terms of his clothing and cap, with one little lock of hair peeping out. His song was folksy. It sounded like this:
Fuck. This guy is good. So I stood about five feet away in my bright yellow, button down work shirt, people filing by to get from the escalator to the bart gates and the stairs down to the tracks. So I'm like okay, this is really fucking good. But what about song #2? Is this guy a one hit wonder or can he come up with the goods again. And his second song was great, totally great. I stood and listened to the whole song, maybe four minutes. After he finished, I went over to him, dropped a $10 bill in his guitar case and picked up a burned cd. I said something like:
"Good shit, man. Are you gigging?"
He was real cool and said, "well yeah, but nothing big, just coffee shops and open mics and shit. Not really trying to play the Warfield or anything." and he laughed.
And I said, "Why not?" and I smiled, then I said, "keep playin' man." and I left.
I'm so happy I stopped to listen. I'm now in the process of trying to bring his music to the world. But that's not really off the ground yet; I'll keep you posted.
with so much fucking love for people who go out to bart stations and play music, it's still the right thing to do,
Anthony
Fuck. This guy is good. So I stood about five feet away in my bright yellow, button down work shirt, people filing by to get from the escalator to the bart gates and the stairs down to the tracks. So I'm like okay, this is really fucking good. But what about song #2? Is this guy a one hit wonder or can he come up with the goods again. And his second song was great, totally great. I stood and listened to the whole song, maybe four minutes. After he finished, I went over to him, dropped a $10 bill in his guitar case and picked up a burned cd. I said something like:
"Good shit, man. Are you gigging?"
He was real cool and said, "well yeah, but nothing big, just coffee shops and open mics and shit. Not really trying to play the Warfield or anything." and he laughed.
And I said, "Why not?" and I smiled, then I said, "keep playin' man." and I left.
I'm so happy I stopped to listen. I'm now in the process of trying to bring his music to the world. But that's not really off the ground yet; I'll keep you posted.
with so much fucking love for people who go out to bart stations and play music, it's still the right thing to do,
Anthony
Thursday, September 22, 2011
ducks in a row
I included the following in my weekly update email to the grad students in Psychology. I sent out the email this afternoon:
"Hi all,
In my unrelenting campaign to provide on-campus, off-campus, and, now, theoretical and English language resources, I would like to call into question the phrase, “get all my ducks in a row”. I hear this often in my position as a bureaucratic representative of the University. Many students, faculty and staff come into my office and say, “I need to start getting all my ducks in a row” or, “I need to get all my ducks in a row.” I guess my first question is who has all these ducks? Where do they live? Are they kept underground with the other secret animals? Do these ducks have post-it notes, posted to their green feathers with items from a to-do list? How long have you had your ducks? Is it hard for you to get your ducks in a row (it seems like if you have ducks, it shouldn’t be that hard to get them in a row, but maybe it is! I have no idea)? Do your ducks tend to line up in curvy fashion? And, here, I’m just curious, is there like a Mother Duck with a row of little ducklings?
I have no problem with the phrase, “get all my ducks in a row” per se. However, I have recognized that certain phrases get used by people in academia to signify some deeper intelligence. Take for example the graduate student who hears her professor say, “I need to get all my ducks in a row.” Now this graduate student immediately attributes certain positive qualities to this phrase. She will think, “Since my extremely successful and esteemed professor has used this colloquial phrase to indicate she is trying to take some set of necessary steps that will lead to some hoped for outcome, I too should use this colloquial phrase when I find myself in a similar situation. Using this phrase will make me sound smart.” My question is, is the phrase “get all my ducks in a row,” an inherently sophisticated and erudite collection of words?
No, I don’t think so. Any writing instructor worth her weight in salt of the earth will tell you to avoid using clichés and try to be original with language. Therefore, I would like to offer some alternatives to “getting all your ducks in a row”. How ‘bout, “I need to gather all my buffaloes in a line,” or if you want to stick with the feathered friends angle, “I need to get all my pigeons in their boxes” or “I’ve got to get all my pelicans in a floating column” or if you want to leave the animal kingdom behind “I need to put all my laundry in the washing machine and then take it out and put it in the dryer and then take it out and fold all the clothes and put them in the proper drawer.” That might be too long.
Of course, the rejoinder to my “argument” might be: this is how language works. People use the phrase, “I need to get all my ducks in a row” because there is a common understanding of what it means. If you were to go into your faculty advisor’s office and say, “I need to gather all my buffaloes in a line,” you might encounter some confusion, at best. I do not recommend using the buffalo phrase as a substitute without first pointing out the arbitrary nature of “ducks in a row” and clarifying your desire to offer something original and fresh.
“I need to get all my ducks in a row” is an arbitrary use of language. My point is that the same idea could be communicated in a different and possibly more original manner. HOWEVER, if you like the phrase, “I need to get all my ducks in a row,” by all means, keep using it! It’s kindof cute thinking of the little ducks and you scurrying around to make them line up and the ducks waddling in whatever direction they like. No negative judgment here, just a desire to offer up other possibilities."
with lots of Bon Iver love,
Anthony
"Hi all,
In my unrelenting campaign to provide on-campus, off-campus, and, now, theoretical and English language resources, I would like to call into question the phrase, “get all my ducks in a row”. I hear this often in my position as a bureaucratic representative of the University. Many students, faculty and staff come into my office and say, “I need to start getting all my ducks in a row” or, “I need to get all my ducks in a row.” I guess my first question is who has all these ducks? Where do they live? Are they kept underground with the other secret animals? Do these ducks have post-it notes, posted to their green feathers with items from a to-do list? How long have you had your ducks? Is it hard for you to get your ducks in a row (it seems like if you have ducks, it shouldn’t be that hard to get them in a row, but maybe it is! I have no idea)? Do your ducks tend to line up in curvy fashion? And, here, I’m just curious, is there like a Mother Duck with a row of little ducklings?
I have no problem with the phrase, “get all my ducks in a row” per se. However, I have recognized that certain phrases get used by people in academia to signify some deeper intelligence. Take for example the graduate student who hears her professor say, “I need to get all my ducks in a row.” Now this graduate student immediately attributes certain positive qualities to this phrase. She will think, “Since my extremely successful and esteemed professor has used this colloquial phrase to indicate she is trying to take some set of necessary steps that will lead to some hoped for outcome, I too should use this colloquial phrase when I find myself in a similar situation. Using this phrase will make me sound smart.” My question is, is the phrase “get all my ducks in a row,” an inherently sophisticated and erudite collection of words?
No, I don’t think so. Any writing instructor worth her weight in salt of the earth will tell you to avoid using clichés and try to be original with language. Therefore, I would like to offer some alternatives to “getting all your ducks in a row”. How ‘bout, “I need to gather all my buffaloes in a line,” or if you want to stick with the feathered friends angle, “I need to get all my pigeons in their boxes” or “I’ve got to get all my pelicans in a floating column” or if you want to leave the animal kingdom behind “I need to put all my laundry in the washing machine and then take it out and put it in the dryer and then take it out and fold all the clothes and put them in the proper drawer.” That might be too long.
Of course, the rejoinder to my “argument” might be: this is how language works. People use the phrase, “I need to get all my ducks in a row” because there is a common understanding of what it means. If you were to go into your faculty advisor’s office and say, “I need to gather all my buffaloes in a line,” you might encounter some confusion, at best. I do not recommend using the buffalo phrase as a substitute without first pointing out the arbitrary nature of “ducks in a row” and clarifying your desire to offer something original and fresh.
“I need to get all my ducks in a row” is an arbitrary use of language. My point is that the same idea could be communicated in a different and possibly more original manner. HOWEVER, if you like the phrase, “I need to get all my ducks in a row,” by all means, keep using it! It’s kindof cute thinking of the little ducks and you scurrying around to make them line up and the ducks waddling in whatever direction they like. No negative judgment here, just a desire to offer up other possibilities."
with lots of Bon Iver love,
Anthony
Sunday, September 18, 2011
fucked up Elvis song
This is me fucking up a great Elvis song. (But maybe that's the right thing to do?)
Mem 3 (Elvis) by tonyleonardmusicquestion
Mem 3 (Elvis) by tonyleonardmusicquestion
Thursday, September 15, 2011
Nick and the mems
I have decided to call my musical outputs "mems". This is a combination of the word "memo", discussed in the last post, and the word "meme" (pronounced meem), which is a sticky thing in culture, like a youtube video that goes viral. The "memo" portion implies something more basic, down to earth, a small part of a large organization. The "meme" implies a possibility that this music will spread and make people happy all over the world.
Mem 2
-----------------------------------
Every week on Thursday, I send an email with events and other info to the grad students in Psychology. The following is the introduction to an email I sent today (has nothing to do with mems):
"Hi all,
In my ongoing effort to provide you with both on-campus and off-campus resources, this week I would like to highlight Nick. Nick cuts hair. He is a genius. I first started getting my hair cut by Nick maybe three years ago, and it was obvious from the first snip that he had raw talent. I will ask you now to do a little exercise to help demonstrate my point: a) take your pointer finger and middle finger and put them together; b) then take your thumb and begin moving your two fingers and thumb up and down as fast as you can, this should look a bit like a little mouth chewing rapidly; c) now imagine that your fingers are actually in the holes of a pair of scissors and, at this grate rate of speed, you are cutting someone else’s hair. This is what Nick is capable of.
Nick just moved across the street to a new Salon, “La Tour”, at 2941 College Ave., near Ashby (not far from campus). The best way to reach him is by phone 510-848-8828. Getting your hair cut with Nick is not inexpensive. It’s around $50. I realize this is a bit steep for grad students. Honestly, it’s a bit steep for staff. But if you space it out, say one hair cut a year, then maybe it gets more affordable. Remember that old adage, you get what you pay for. Well in this case, you get a damn fine haircut, that’s what you get (when you pay for it). And if $50 is just too much, well maybe you can wait for a special occasion, like Commencement.
Nick is a family man, he has a wife and two kids, and he is a great guy. He’s always got an interesting perspective on things. He was born in China but moved here when he was young. I think the genius haircutting gene runs in his family. But I get the impression his talents surpass those of his other family members in the business, and there may be a little jealousy. You can ask him more about that.
Now, some may observe that my hair currently does not have that “you spent $50 on a haircut” look. True. But this is no fault of Nick’s. I haven’t been to see him in a while. But when the time comes, you can bet your bottom dollar that I will be returning to his comfortable chair to bear witness and watch the sculptor create.
Best,
Tony"
with additional love,
Anthony
Mem 2
-----------------------------------
Every week on Thursday, I send an email with events and other info to the grad students in Psychology. The following is the introduction to an email I sent today (has nothing to do with mems):
"Hi all,
In my ongoing effort to provide you with both on-campus and off-campus resources, this week I would like to highlight Nick. Nick cuts hair. He is a genius. I first started getting my hair cut by Nick maybe three years ago, and it was obvious from the first snip that he had raw talent. I will ask you now to do a little exercise to help demonstrate my point: a) take your pointer finger and middle finger and put them together; b) then take your thumb and begin moving your two fingers and thumb up and down as fast as you can, this should look a bit like a little mouth chewing rapidly; c) now imagine that your fingers are actually in the holes of a pair of scissors and, at this grate rate of speed, you are cutting someone else’s hair. This is what Nick is capable of.
Nick just moved across the street to a new Salon, “La Tour”, at 2941 College Ave., near Ashby (not far from campus). The best way to reach him is by phone 510-848-8828. Getting your hair cut with Nick is not inexpensive. It’s around $50. I realize this is a bit steep for grad students. Honestly, it’s a bit steep for staff. But if you space it out, say one hair cut a year, then maybe it gets more affordable. Remember that old adage, you get what you pay for. Well in this case, you get a damn fine haircut, that’s what you get (when you pay for it). And if $50 is just too much, well maybe you can wait for a special occasion, like Commencement.
Nick is a family man, he has a wife and two kids, and he is a great guy. He’s always got an interesting perspective on things. He was born in China but moved here when he was young. I think the genius haircutting gene runs in his family. But I get the impression his talents surpass those of his other family members in the business, and there may be a little jealousy. You can ask him more about that.
Now, some may observe that my hair currently does not have that “you spent $50 on a haircut” look. True. But this is no fault of Nick’s. I haven’t been to see him in a while. But when the time comes, you can bet your bottom dollar that I will be returning to his comfortable chair to bear witness and watch the sculptor create.
Best,
Tony"
with additional love,
Anthony
Wednesday, September 7, 2011
Inchoate
I have it. I finally found the right perspective, the right way to view, the right way to think about my musical output. I can see from the correct place and interpret correctly. I am a beginner. I am learning how to play the guitar and sing. What an epiphany! So the musical outputs I publish are the sounds of a beginner learning to sing and play the guitar. One could question the use of the word "learning" as no one is "teaching" and learning implies getting better. I have to assume that by playing and singing I will get a little better over time. It is in this brilliant new light, from this brilliant new perspective that I offer yet another recording from my iPhone. It bears no title, simply the words given to it by my iPhone, "Memo-1". What perfect language! So completely apropos! It's not even a song, only a memo, just a brief note of little to no consequence in the organization of music.
In the memo below, I am riffing, if one were to be so generous, off of one of my favorite tunes, Stir It Up by Bob Marley and The Wailers. Peep the guitar solo at the end (oh shit, he didn't. yes he did.):
Memo-1
The word inchoate comes to mind. Inchoate (from the Oxford English Dictionary): "Just begun, incipient; in an initial or early stage; hence elementary, imperfect, underdeveloped, immature."
I'd like to highlight "elementary, imperfect, underdeveloped, immature." I like how the OED ends the definition with a period. Nice emphasis, like you really suck, boom! period. Done.
I provide you fair reader/listener with a subaltern sample of my inchoate musical transgressions. There may be some pain involved, you may feel pain and embarrassment listening to these inchoate transgressions. It may hurt to hear someone you love in the throws of shame. But are we not a species that takes great pleasure in pain? Are not the things that hurt us the things that we love, sometimes become desperate for, the most? Do we watch the train wreck?
Yes, we watch the train wreck and the bodies squished in the steel, and we listen to the music of a broken Ferris wheel, screeching to a halt (chocolate malts!). Thanks to George Washington Gale Ferris, Jr., graduate of Rensselaer Polytechnic Institute and a Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, bridge-builder.
I wanted to mention a couple other things tonight, totally unrelated.
1. I love Cal Bears Football. I have since I was born. Both of my parents graduated from Cal. My father taught me the love of Cal Bear Football (and Basketball) when I was still a babe in arms. I remember being four years old, sitting on a Cal blanket in the pre-game afternoon sun on the sloping lawn just west of the Faculty Club. Growing up a Cal Football fan has taught me a great deal about failure and disappointment, in many, many different varieties. But we do have The Play, and for that I am forever grateful.
2. I love the San Francisco Baseball Giants. I have to admit my love was renewed last September and October when the pure magic transpired and the Giants actually won the World Series. These are the halcyon days of San Francisco. But I am not a bandwagon jumper in the absolute. Robby Thompson was my favorite baseball player when I was 8 years old, playing for the Albany Little League Senators, in our black uniforms with yellow trim. I think I had a small, good-luck, stuffed-animal lobster. I think I took it to my games. I was good at bunting.
Love you all,
Anthony
ps - The Good Shit (If I joined AA and someone prodded me to choose a higher power, Peter Tosh's guitar solo at the end of this song would be it.)
In the memo below, I am riffing, if one were to be so generous, off of one of my favorite tunes, Stir It Up by Bob Marley and The Wailers. Peep the guitar solo at the end (oh shit, he didn't. yes he did.):
Memo-1
The word inchoate comes to mind. Inchoate (from the Oxford English Dictionary): "Just begun, incipient; in an initial or early stage; hence elementary, imperfect, underdeveloped, immature."
I'd like to highlight "elementary, imperfect, underdeveloped, immature." I like how the OED ends the definition with a period. Nice emphasis, like you really suck, boom! period. Done.
I provide you fair reader/listener with a subaltern sample of my inchoate musical transgressions. There may be some pain involved, you may feel pain and embarrassment listening to these inchoate transgressions. It may hurt to hear someone you love in the throws of shame. But are we not a species that takes great pleasure in pain? Are not the things that hurt us the things that we love, sometimes become desperate for, the most? Do we watch the train wreck?
Yes, we watch the train wreck and the bodies squished in the steel, and we listen to the music of a broken Ferris wheel, screeching to a halt (chocolate malts!). Thanks to George Washington Gale Ferris, Jr., graduate of Rensselaer Polytechnic Institute and a Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, bridge-builder.
I wanted to mention a couple other things tonight, totally unrelated.
1. I love Cal Bears Football. I have since I was born. Both of my parents graduated from Cal. My father taught me the love of Cal Bear Football (and Basketball) when I was still a babe in arms. I remember being four years old, sitting on a Cal blanket in the pre-game afternoon sun on the sloping lawn just west of the Faculty Club. Growing up a Cal Football fan has taught me a great deal about failure and disappointment, in many, many different varieties. But we do have The Play, and for that I am forever grateful.
2. I love the San Francisco Baseball Giants. I have to admit my love was renewed last September and October when the pure magic transpired and the Giants actually won the World Series. These are the halcyon days of San Francisco. But I am not a bandwagon jumper in the absolute. Robby Thompson was my favorite baseball player when I was 8 years old, playing for the Albany Little League Senators, in our black uniforms with yellow trim. I think I had a small, good-luck, stuffed-animal lobster. I think I took it to my games. I was good at bunting.
Love you all,
Anthony
ps - The Good Shit (If I joined AA and someone prodded me to choose a higher power, Peter Tosh's guitar solo at the end of this song would be it.)
Sunday, August 28, 2011
love what is love
I recorded this “song” on my iPhone. I don’t even play the guitar or sing, but I recorded myself playing the guitar and singing. I don’t know what it is, but it came from inside me and I felt a fever tonight and I had to post it on facebook, I needed it to be out in the world in some small way, I couldn’t hold on to it or keep it a secret any more, it needed to be outside of me. But do you have any idea how terrifying this is?! (not “that is”, but “this is” because it’s happening right now.) Sometimes I listen to the “song” I just posted and think, jesus that is really shitty, just serious crap, but then I listen to it again and hear something beautiful. I’m not sure which is scarier, the shit or the beauty. Either way it had to come out.
again with love,
I’m sorry don’t apologize.
Is it really that hard? Or is it really just this easy? I don’t know. I know what I like and what I like isn’t liked by everyone, but it’s also not not liked by everyone. There is some balance, right? Some justice in the cosmos turning towards infinity, but simple. I still don’t know. Some ying yang bullshit that is more real than infinity. But doesn’t it all carry on, and don’t we just float in the bullshit hoping for the stars and night. There is something so raw and alive in my yearning for the infinite night, by which I mean the safety and comfort of home.
And so what if the earth is the ID? So what if we don’t know that the earth is actually sentient with an unconscious, our unconscious, desperate yearning for sexual and intellectual and existential blast-release-fall-comfort-safety. Turn it on that shit eating grin. Turn it on.
In the fear my cousin tells me that we will regret the creative impulses we suppress not those that we release into the world, suffering the cruelty of criticism and possibly the indignity of shame, BUT still it is in the world and it is safe and you, too, are safe, and you, too, are beautiful, more beautiful than you know. And I know you’ve heard this before, but I’m not afraid to say it again.
Here is the song:
again with love,
Anthony
ps - The Middle East "Blood" Thursday, August 25, 2011
paragraph
In the spring of 2006, maybe it was early summer, i went to a dive bar in Staten Island called "martini red." i went to hear my buddy and his friends play an open mic. I wasn't expecting much, but i was looking forward to hearing my friend play a couple songs. he is a really good guy, and is genuine about music. so I expected things to be low key but cool.
i think it was before my friends went on that a group of what looked like 16-17 year old skinny guys in skinny jeans got up on the "stage". the "stage" was just the room further back, maybe it was elevated a couple inches, maybe the wood was a bit darker. in any case, this group of four guys is getting ready to play, and the dive bar is pretty full, maybe 75 people. the guy who is setting up the lead singer mic, likely the lead singer, is wearing a tour de france hat with the brim flipped up, a lose fitting tank top and probably some plaid pants.
these young guys plug their guitars in and tune the stings with the electronic modules at their feet. the drummer sets up the kit with a beat-up snare and a tambourine attached with duct tape to the top of the high-hat. the skinny, tallish-but-not-that-tall lead singer does a quick mic check. and within a couple minutes they brake into this song:
from the first few notes, i'm lovin it. the lead singer reminds me of an effeminate Jim Morrison. he sings so exposed and soft, but still so confident and a bit out of control. he seems so vulnerable, but so okay with it. it's weird, kinda crazy. their music reminds me of some of the bands I love: my first thought was modest mouse, but I also heard some talking heads in there, as well. I was really impressed, shocked really, totally not prepared to encounter such talented kids at martini red. the crowd was really into them, too. they were like little staten island rock stars. a whole row of girls was hootin' and hollerin' during their brief set. i'm 28 years old at the time, and all of their fans might be 18. but i'm still like damn, that's some good shit. so after the "show," they played two other songs, I walk up to the lead singer and just tell him how much i liked the music. he was really cool, nice guy, super young. i ask, "what's the name of your band," and he says "paragraph." i didn't hear the "para" i only heard the "graph" so I'm thinking, "cool, a graph" and I'm imagining a 3D graph on a computer screen, the kind that shows with criscrossing lines a cone shape, going down like something to fill. i'm enjoying this image of the graph in my head, but i realized i didn't really hear what he said, so I asked again, "what was the name?" and he's like "paragraph" and i'm like oh, okay cool, and now i'm thinking, "paragraph, literary, storyline, narrative, i like it" and i tell him, "well cool, i really liked your gig" and he's like "cool, thanks man!" super happy.
much love,
Anthony
i think it was before my friends went on that a group of what looked like 16-17 year old skinny guys in skinny jeans got up on the "stage". the "stage" was just the room further back, maybe it was elevated a couple inches, maybe the wood was a bit darker. in any case, this group of four guys is getting ready to play, and the dive bar is pretty full, maybe 75 people. the guy who is setting up the lead singer mic, likely the lead singer, is wearing a tour de france hat with the brim flipped up, a lose fitting tank top and probably some plaid pants.
these young guys plug their guitars in and tune the stings with the electronic modules at their feet. the drummer sets up the kit with a beat-up snare and a tambourine attached with duct tape to the top of the high-hat. the skinny, tallish-but-not-that-tall lead singer does a quick mic check. and within a couple minutes they brake into this song:
from the first few notes, i'm lovin it. the lead singer reminds me of an effeminate Jim Morrison. he sings so exposed and soft, but still so confident and a bit out of control. he seems so vulnerable, but so okay with it. it's weird, kinda crazy. their music reminds me of some of the bands I love: my first thought was modest mouse, but I also heard some talking heads in there, as well. I was really impressed, shocked really, totally not prepared to encounter such talented kids at martini red. the crowd was really into them, too. they were like little staten island rock stars. a whole row of girls was hootin' and hollerin' during their brief set. i'm 28 years old at the time, and all of their fans might be 18. but i'm still like damn, that's some good shit. so after the "show," they played two other songs, I walk up to the lead singer and just tell him how much i liked the music. he was really cool, nice guy, super young. i ask, "what's the name of your band," and he says "paragraph." i didn't hear the "para" i only heard the "graph" so I'm thinking, "cool, a graph" and I'm imagining a 3D graph on a computer screen, the kind that shows with criscrossing lines a cone shape, going down like something to fill. i'm enjoying this image of the graph in my head, but i realized i didn't really hear what he said, so I asked again, "what was the name?" and he's like "paragraph" and i'm like oh, okay cool, and now i'm thinking, "paragraph, literary, storyline, narrative, i like it" and i tell him, "well cool, i really liked your gig" and he's like "cool, thanks man!" super happy.
much love,
Anthony
Sunday, August 14, 2011
chasing good new music
I love new music. I love how it makes me feel. It's exciting and inspiring. Good new music heals the parts of my emotional stomach that are all fucked up. I feel good new music in my emotional stomach with warmth and happiness. I picture parts of my stomach lighting up, like sections of the brain in an MRI machine. I imagine my stomach split into various regions. I imagine a chart that shows dotted lines demarcating the different areas of my stomach. It's like a picture of a cow that shows all the various cuts of meat: rump roast, rib, sirloin, brisket, flank, shank.
Unlike the cuts of meat, the image of my dotted-line demarcated stomach shows regions of my own personal fucked up history. For example, one demarcated section of my stomach would have the header, "nyc: January 2007 to May 2007." Music lights up these various areas of my demarcated stomach, and when the music lights up these areas, i feel healing happening. Sometimes the happiness is overwhelming.
The problem is that I also respond to good new music a bit like a drug addict. Because the feeling for me can be so euphoric, I have a tendency to over-listen to individual songs. I feel that I need the healing happiness of the song, so I will listen to the song like 35 times in a row. This isn't always healthy. I don't exactly know why.
The other problem with good new music is that I'm also constantly on the look-out. Well not always, thankfully. But I do get into this mode of perpetually searching. Once you discover a great new song and listen to it a hundred times, it begins to lose its appeal. And the chase for a new song continues, which creates an insatiable feeling along with emptiness. Then there's whole thing about trying to be cool and be the first to broadcast new music. That's why there are so many blogs about new music. Everyone wants to be the first to tell everyone about a great band. Part of this is really positive. If by exposing a friend to a new band, I bring a new joy to my friend's life, then I have done something wonderful. But the chase for new good music can turn into something akin to addiction, at least for me. So with all of that out of the way, here are a few great tunes you may not have heard!!!!!!!!!
Magic Bullets "Lying Around" (San Francisco band. Go Giants! Really good.)
Ponytail "Flabbermouse" (Baltimore band. I recommend checking out the band members' side projects, as well.)
Here We Go Magic "Collector" (Peter Hale, the drummer in this band, used to be in Trick and the Heartstrings, one of my favorite bands of all time.)
Yellow Alex (Alex was the lead signer of Trick and the Heartstrings. In this video he's talking about his own creative process. Check out his new band Yellow Alex and the Feelings:
Yellow Alex and the Feelings
Elvis "Don't Be Cruel" (I'm working on a post documenting all the reasons why Elvis sucks. But goddamn he was one talented son of a bitch even though he stole all his songs from black people.)
Much love and tranquility in the quest for good music,
Anthony
ps - got the postcard Maria! enjoy your travels!
Unlike the cuts of meat, the image of my dotted-line demarcated stomach shows regions of my own personal fucked up history. For example, one demarcated section of my stomach would have the header, "nyc: January 2007 to May 2007." Music lights up these various areas of my demarcated stomach, and when the music lights up these areas, i feel healing happening. Sometimes the happiness is overwhelming.
The problem is that I also respond to good new music a bit like a drug addict. Because the feeling for me can be so euphoric, I have a tendency to over-listen to individual songs. I feel that I need the healing happiness of the song, so I will listen to the song like 35 times in a row. This isn't always healthy. I don't exactly know why.
The other problem with good new music is that I'm also constantly on the look-out. Well not always, thankfully. But I do get into this mode of perpetually searching. Once you discover a great new song and listen to it a hundred times, it begins to lose its appeal. And the chase for a new song continues, which creates an insatiable feeling along with emptiness. Then there's whole thing about trying to be cool and be the first to broadcast new music. That's why there are so many blogs about new music. Everyone wants to be the first to tell everyone about a great band. Part of this is really positive. If by exposing a friend to a new band, I bring a new joy to my friend's life, then I have done something wonderful. But the chase for new good music can turn into something akin to addiction, at least for me. So with all of that out of the way, here are a few great tunes you may not have heard!!!!!!!!!
Magic Bullets "Lying Around" (San Francisco band. Go Giants! Really good.)
Ponytail "Flabbermouse" (Baltimore band. I recommend checking out the band members' side projects, as well.)
Here We Go Magic "Collector" (Peter Hale, the drummer in this band, used to be in Trick and the Heartstrings, one of my favorite bands of all time.)
Yellow Alex (Alex was the lead signer of Trick and the Heartstrings. In this video he's talking about his own creative process. Check out his new band Yellow Alex and the Feelings:
Yellow Alex and the Feelings
Elvis "Don't Be Cruel" (I'm working on a post documenting all the reasons why Elvis sucks. But goddamn he was one talented son of a bitch even though he stole all his songs from black people.)
Much love and tranquility in the quest for good music,
Anthony
ps - got the postcard Maria! enjoy your travels!
Wednesday, August 3, 2011
Walk Away From the Euphoria
The hipsters dashed out of their tiny apartments. They ran from Williamsburg, Park Slope, Bed Sty, Red Hook, Fort Greene and streamed like rivulets into the streets. They ran towards the buses, hundreds of buses in the middle of Brooklyn. As the buses filled, the bus drivers were overwhelmed by the fedoras, the skinny jeans, the keffiyehs, the shirts of unknown bands, at least three guys had a shirt that said "unknown band as identity". Inside the buses the mood was beyond euphoria, laughing, drinking, smoking cigarettes, joshin', high fivin'. There were skinny people, heavier people with tattoos, and one incredibly large young american-indian woman with a yellow and white trucker hat that said "Vermont" yelling "i just love you all!!!" the woman took up four seats, the seats in front of her had to be removed, but she was accepted, as all the others, wearing a HUGE black t shirt with a photograph, black and white, of a modern building with horizontal lines. african-american men with skater shoes and gray American Apparel hoodies, white girl pin-up bowlers from the 50s, latinas singing Smiths songs, young indian-american men born in the upper east side wearing headbands with bud light logos. long male hair, stylized, unshaven beards and tank tops with diamond shaped patterns. at least three young women had a shirt on that said "nothing" The crowd continued to grow and grow and buses were overflowing. Hanging out the windows, the huge crowd of racially inclusive hipsters began to chant, "On to Detroit! On to Detroit! On to Detroit!" thousands of voices calling for the buses to roll into motion. some on the edge of their seats, the music blasting out of the bus speakers, the coolest, most esoteric bands in the world! -- Coldplay, Snow Patrol, Neon Trees, Lady Gaga, Adele, even U2! when the first bus driver turned the key and revved the engine, the hipsters went berserk, just berserk, squishing out of the windows so full of excitement and excess, chanting, screaming, pounding of sensitive chests, jumping and bashing heads into tops of buses, the hipsters were ready to ride to their death in this euphoria, but fortunately, they were not heading to their death, they were heading to Detroit for a free concert in a park.
not 10 days ago, a band had released its third album. this band with three members from Calabasas, one from Woodland Hills and two others from Pasadena (an L.A. outfit) had with this third album done something absolutely magical. seriously, no joke, they had created an album that from the first track makes you feel good, excited, you say "shit this is different," but you're already smiling, eyes get wider, "yes, yes this is good shit" right from the first song, one synth starts in alone and then is met by notes from a second synth riffing off one another and then an incredibly catchy and staccato lead guitar riff, a few intro bars of this then the rhythm guitar strumming stunning chords, and finally the drums and bass drop hard, a punch to your gut bucket, and after you recover you can't help but start dancing crazy in the street, and this man's voice is from Church fed through a vein spiked with Heroin into the corridor of the Lungs up and out the Vocal Chords, sounds reflecting off the blood and internal flesh, out into the World, Sonorous, and capable of catching you off your feet and lifting you across the street to the third floor window where the speaker is playing Happiness. oh the joy of this first song! oh the joy! and it doesn't stop. the second track is a little weirder at first, unidentifiable instrumentation, but then morphs into this reggae inspired bouncy anthem. the tracks after the second unimaginably continue to get better and better. when Jeff heard the second song he just fell over on the side walk. Jeff listened to the remainder of this shocking album from the comfort of the sidewalk, giddy, exhausted, in love like a 17 year old poet.
this third album was different from the first two. the band had matured in the right way, escaped convention somehow, while maintaining a strong link to the popular, the uptempo, the joy. even the asshole reviewer from pitchfork, shocked as the rest of us, drew immediate comparisons to the Talking Heads, Modest Mouse, the Strokes, Arcade Fire, Animal Collective, Clap Your Hands Say Yeah, Trick and the Heartstrings, Beirut, TV on the Radio, Pavement, Yo La Tengo, even Bright Eyes and Bon Iver. pitchfork gave it an 11 on a scale of 1 to 10, a higher score than the Beatles, Radiohead, Otis Redding, and most spectacularly Kanye West. the blogging community was in shock, NOBODY could write anything mocking, or sarcastic, or witty in a negative way. (of course, New Yorker music critic sasha frere-jones would have found something to complain about on some ridiculous grounds, but he caught himself earlier in the week at a Fall Out Boy show and summarily committed suicide, shot himself in the head at the show, after realizing he liked the music.) the music from this new album was too perfect. it had come out of nowhere. a decent band, now inspiring masses to venture forth into the unknown, afternoon sun falling into persimmon skyline, chasing Detroit. here we come.
*******
BV: You have done something magical. I assume you are aware of the reaction this record has already caused. The obvious question is how did you do it?
ET: I'm just as shocked as anyone. I started writing this album after we finished our european tour supporting the second record. i made a point not to write while we were on the road. i wanted to pour everything i had into that tour. no distractions, no bleeding of efforts. when we got back, i went to my parents house in LA, grabbed an old Gibson acoustic guitar of my dad's and went into "my room" [ET makes quotes with his fingers]. i grew up in Ventura, but my parents have since moved to L.A proper. it's so trendy now. "downtown L.A." [quotes again with fingers]. So I went into my room, just fucking exhausted from the tour. Yeah, actually, i didn't start playing or writing right away; i just fell over into the bed and slept for a week. when i woke up, i just grabbed the old guitar, remained laying down on the bed and started playing and singing whatever came into my heart and into my head.
BV: Were you in contact with the other guys at this point?
ET: Not really. We were all a little sick of each other post-tour. in a healthy way. So I started writing alone.
BV: I've heard you wrote most, if not all, of the music.
ET: I did. It was strange. after about a month, the guys and I all met up in our practice space in the Santa Monica. i played them some of the stuff i had. they were blown away. didn't even know what to say. from then on it was just like, "dude, that is seriously some of the best shit i have ever heard." they were so cool, so supportive. of course they all contributed significantly, but they really just tried to get out the way and let me do my thing. i mean writing. their support was huge. it's cliche, but the record wouldn't have been made if not for their support.
BV: That's different from the first two records, right? My understanding was it was a more collaborative process.
ET: That's true. It definitely was more...what did you say?--
BV: Collaborative
ET: Yeah, sorry, collaborative. Sorry, what was i saying. Oh, so the first two records, yeah we all added pieces to the puzzle.
BV: What do you make of it, your almost singular composition of the songs. And can I say, like everyone else I know, this album, your album, is impossibly good. I'm still in the throws of the euphoria, ironically. Similar experiences with "In the Aeroplane..." "Is This It" and "Funeral". Life changing.
ET: Thank you. I really don't know what else to say except thank you. I am so grateful that people, that the record has made an impact on people's, on your life. I think that's why I write music. It's mind-fucking, I don't understand it yet, probably never will.
BV: Let's talk about the album's name, "Walk Away From the Euphoria". Funny that a record with this title could summon tsunamis of euphoria on the eastern seaboard, on the western seaboard, even Detroit.
ET: Ha! Yeah, Detroit. That's where it's all going down.
BV: But about the title, can you talk about its origin?
ET: Sure. I'm the kind of person who deals with highs and lows difficultly. Jesus. That doesn't make any sense. I should say it like this: I'm totally bi-polar. I have been since about 16. I'm 28 now. I've had to learn, many times the hard way, that chasing the euphoria doesn't lead to long term happiness. I'm into all that meditation and buddhist shit, got to be. i've found that being neutral, i would venture to say indifferent, actually sustains happiness better than existing in a state of euphoria. for me, and i can't speak for anyone else, for me, euphoria is quickly followed by depression, serious, fucked up, evil, i hate my fucking self, worthless, shit for internal organs, sometimes suicidal depression. It blows me up each time. like that dude from Terminator 3, I have to put my shit back together. But i'm nowhere near as cool as that bad dude from Terminator 3, with all that silvery, liquid shit melting in reverse, putting his body back together. i just blow up and have to put pieces of flesh back together, little bloody scraps of flesh. Anyways, from the beginning i was thinking about making it more personal than the first two records, opening myself up. You know that same old bullshit.
BV: Yeah, I'm familiar with that bullshit. Except this time, it didn't come out as bullshit, it came out as magic, that's the best I can do to describe it. Did you end up writing most of the music at your parent's house? That's kind of funny.
ET: Yeah, I did, and it is funny. My mom is so funny. She still gets all weird about me performing in front of people. I'm like Mom, it's okay, I'm comfortable. We've played Bonaroo, SXSW, Glastonbury and a bunch of other European festivals, hundreds of shows, but she still feels protective, like people are judging me, and she hates that. I love her for that. My dad is so shy. It's hard for him to come to the shows, too.
BV: Wow, so not a lot of parental modeling of rock-stardom--
ET: Seriously! When I was little, I thought I would grow up to be a burrower, one who burrows, just hides from people and listens to music in a hole.
BV: That's funny.
********
800 buses filled with hipsters from Brooklyn rambled on moving ever closer to Detroit. The drive only took an hour and a half. When they arrived, the hipsters poured out into Belle Isle Park more frenetic than when they boarded the buses. Alcohol consumption reached an all time high, Guinness Book of World Records stuff. Seriously, no joke, more PBR had been consumed by people in one bus in a 1.5 hour period than at any time before in History. The sloshed happy hipsters fell out into the parking lot and ran around frantically for a spot in front of the bandshell. thousands of hipsters poured in from all over the country, Grand Rapids, Sioux Falls, Minnesota, Des Moines, Austin, Athens, Las Vegas, Albuquerque, Portland, San Francisco, and of course Los Angeles. There must have been around 400,000 hipsters falling off buses into the park. Maybe 5,000 people had a good view of the stage, the rest were just spread throughout the park. Imagine the colors of the hipster clothes: purple, gold, black, white, gray. and then all the shades of the accessories: red, orange, pink, yellow, magenta, turquoise, deep ocean blue...can you imagine the view from directly above the park, blimp view, just spectacular, Matisse-like. and although the buses didn't smell that great, the park smelled like fresh trees and lake water with a nice breeze.
Jeff had boarded a bus in Brooklyn, worried about his identity vis-a'-vis the hipsters. He felt he didn't completely fit in. On the ride over, he sat next to a young gay man who kept drinking from a flask in a paper bag, as if that was necessary. The young man was dressed in red capri pants and a yellow tank top. he had very short, blond hair and spoke incessantly of how charming the lead singer of the band was in interviews, how much charisma he had on stage. the boy felt seriously that he was in love and that if he could get through to the lead singer via facebook, the lead singer would fall in love with him. Jeff was actually quite touched, didn't even feel sad for the young man. felt the phrase, "this too shall pass." the boy must have been about 18, and he would surely move on to real life lovers in the not-too-distant-future.
Jeff was a Christian from Columbia, Missouri. He moved to Williamsburg three years ago and immediately made friends. he was charismatic himself, full of love, and self-doubt. the atheist hipsters ate him up. they all recognized his sensitivity but also his inherent strength. they often chided him about his "leadership qualities". but they also expected him to one day rule the non-amphibious world. plus he qualified as diversity. they could all talk about having a Christian friend. they loved Jeff, and Jeff loved them back.
Jeff worked in advertising at a firm with offices all over the country. Jeff's office was in Murray Hill, 3rd and 38th. he liked his job, went to a church in the upper east side every Sunday, identified as a pro-lifer, masturbated to pornographies of guilt, usually of asian women with gigantic tis (he had dated a few women, mostly waspy, but never anything serious) and believed the anxiety of living in new york would eventually ware off. in three years, it hadn't. his atheist hipster friends had turned him on to all kinds of bands. they mostly liked local groups, even a band or two from Staten Island. Jeff quickly learned what constituted good music and what constituted bad music. according to his friends, Bruce Springsteen was emo, true emo, not that bullshit teenage emo from southern california. that's why jeff was so surprised when the word started to rip through hipster neighborhoods. a levee succumbed to forces greater than itself and katrina-like jet-streams of music rushed through Brooklyn. everyone, it seemed, was downloading the album from the same sharing network (log-in required, you needed a friend, which Jeff had, to let you in to the exclusive group of file sharers) at the same time. (too bad the band wouldn't make any money.) people kept falling out of windows, ears attached to ipods, landing on the mattresses left on the sidewalks by vagabond hipsters unsuccessful on craigslist. nobody was hurt, well, they were hurt, but hurt so good and so bad by this music that had penetrated their flesh and left bruises, the kind you covet as a middle-schooler around your neck, only these musical bruises were inside their soul.
jeff stumbled out of the bus in Detroit and followed his new friend with the yellow tank top and paper bag. Chester, his new buddy, was pushing through the crowd and having amazing success. he kept pushing, and side-stepping, and communicating, "oh please forgive me" "oh jesus, i'm sorry, just a little scootch to your right" "oh my gosh, there are soooo many people" kept side-winding, and straddling and soft-toeing, and when necessary literally knocking people over out of the way. "move, you fucking ass!" boom, lowers the shoulder. combination of violence and careful diplomacy, Jeff thought about Kissinger. this young man in a yellow tank top was impressive. jeff just followed in Chester's wake. Jeff could see the bandshell in the distance and had a feeling they would be close when the music started.
*******
BV: So are you dating anyone? I hate to ask, but they'll kill me if I don't.
ET: Fuck, I expected more from you. (laughs) Well, yes, I've found the girl of my dreams, kindof. Except this whole new album, and yes it's been less than 10 days, but this new album energy is making me kindof horny -- crazy for every attractive female on the rich earth. all these budding flowers, in so many shapes and sizes and colors. i'm going to get killed saying this, but i'm a rock star, so fuck it. no, seriously, i'm in an incredible relationship with a woman who supports me to the core, without whom this record would not have been made. she is talented in her own right. waaaaaay smarter and waaaaay more talented than i am.
BV: Is she a musician?
ET: No, she's an academic. That's all I can say.
BV: Interesting. How long have you been dating?
ET: Can't say.
BV: Don't remember or can't say?
ET: Can't say.
BV: Okay, so tell us about this concert in Detroit. Did you know it would turn into posh spice woodstock?
ET: Ha! No way! We just wanted to launch this spacecraft -- building the spacecraft is recording the record -- launching the spacecraft and flying it is playing live. The practice sessions have gotten to the point where we feel like the live music is better than the album. It took a while to get there.
BV: Why Detroit?
ET: Why not Detroit?
BV: Seriously, why Detroit?
ET: Seriously, why not Detroit?
BV: Okay, so we'll just go with the mystery.
ET: No mystery, I just want people to experience it as they experience it. I don't want to tell people what Detroit is or what it isn't. I can say I have no real personal connection to Detroit, and that played a part in the decision. As for the audience, I have no control over that. I put out music, and whoever likes it likes it. I'm just happy people like it.
BV: Let's talk for a minute about the label situation.
ET: Okay.
BV: So your first two records were put out on Majordomo but when the majors got a whiff of the demos they went ape shit, am i right?
ET: Pretty much.
BV: Okay, so the majors are going ape shit and there's a prolonged bidding war, and Majordomo let you off the hook. I assume they were compensated handsomely, yes?
ET: Yes, they were. They did okay.
BV: So you guys had no problem signing with Capitol.
ET: No way. I've driven past that weird, round building so many times, I knew if I had the chance I would always sign with Capitol. I love that building, that era. I realize it's gone, but it still means something to me.
BV: Lots of creative control?
ET: Absolutely, and lots of cash up front. It worked out well.
BV: The album is special.
ET: Capitol thought so.
*******
Chester had maneuvered his way to within ten feet of center stage. Jeff hadn't come through the mass of hipster bodies completely unscathed, but he felt physically fine. Emotionally, he was a wreck. He had planned to ride on the same bus as his group of friends, but had been separated in the rush through Brooklyn streets. Eventually, he just had to push his way on to a bus with an opening. Now he felt alone and somewhat terrified. He prayed to Jesus, "Jesus, please don't let these people begin to spin completely out of control. Please make sure there is enough order to ensure safety. My only desire is to return home to the comfort of my small living/dinning/kitchen room." By this time the sun had completely disappeared and it was officially night. Lights were on, illuminating the hipster crowd lucky enough to be standing in close proximity to the stage.
There would be no opening band. The headliner was to come on stage and play all the new songs on the album, in order of the record. This had been released on various blogs. Someone in the back, a man, shouted, "Man and music!" a roar went up in the audience. the hipster, slacker who yelled, unknown, later dubbed El Savoir Vivre, yelled again, "I am defiant in the face of political oppression! I cultivate peace! I will not back down to terror or violence! I live to end human suffering! Obama, you will hear my voice! Obama, you will hear my voice! Obama, YOU WILL HEAR MY VOICE!" 400,000 hipsters began to howl, only a few thousand at first, then spreading like a sore throat to voices across the park. Howling wolves in the public night. And the lights began to flash, and the howl turned again to a roar, hysterical life affirming swamp echos from the golden marshes of social and political justice. The hipsters felt the power of each other's bodies, the simple energy that existed in the hipster to the right and to the left. (hipsters are human, too.) None of this new age energy, but the simple energy of the heart beating, pumping blood, the simple energy of the human body. Everyone was touching, not enough room not too touch. And the touch carried a pulse, lights flashing, stage lights flipping out, the creation of righteous hysteria boomed into the world.
The lights shut off instantly, and blackness was complete. The hysteria of hipster sound flexed toward fear until they all heard it, heard it together, a collective hearing of the first note of the synthesizer. One note, the first note of the record, held in the dark. When the lights came back on 6 men stood on stage, one holding down a black key near the middle of a Korg synthesizer. And then into the song, the young man playing the synth began floating his fingers up and down, pressing, producing music that expanded to fill the full park. the crowed went absolutely insane. everyone dancing, thrashing about, screaming. the world's greatest sound engineer, Bob LaFontaine, had been hired to make the music live for the hipsters in every nook and cranny of Belle Isle Park, many on colorful rafts, inflatable boats and inner-tubes in the water surrounding the park. This is how the music began, and the lights of various colors moved with pulse of music.
It was immediately obvious that the live music was infinitely better than the record. Incomprehensible utopia. the men and women in the audience, everyone mystified, never feeling such warmth or human connection. a wave of light and sound rippled off of the stage, repeatedly. The lead singer sang and forcefully removed all of their small hesitations. They felt his sincerity and his genius. He was not a person, he was a conduit, channeling the History of every second of every great song ever produced. His mouth was moving, but the music came from his stomach. The band operated in this glowing symphonic grandeur. During the fourth song, the connection of 400,000 loving souls woke Obama up in D.C. He startled. Their combined message was clear: Lay down your political mask and become a surgeon for the suffering. Follow Cesar Chavez, Malcom X, Martin Luther King, Nelson Mandella, go beyond the confines of the white house into the place of real peace and action. change the world Mr. Obama and stop the bullshit. The music coming from Detroit powered by one man, one band, one group of 400,000 hipsters was in the process of shifting the world, like the European "exploration" of the "new world" in reverse. The Chancellor in Germany, the Prime Minister in Russia and the Head of State in Ghana heard the music, heard this man's album played live and could not be the same again, nothing could be the same again, a sacrifice had been made, the lamb slaughtered, sanity restored. Human suffering again the focus, not the politics of the nation state and its profiteers.
Jeff and Chester felt it. They, too, would be different after this show.
*******
BV: How did you create something so different, so unlike anything before it, using the same tools that have been handed down for sixty plus years? Guitars, drums, vocals. okay throw in the synths, but it's basically the standard issue. How did you do something that sounds so different, so wonderful?
ET: I don't know.
BV: Would you change anything at this point? Do you have any regrets?
ET: Sure there are always little things I would adjust. Nothing's ever finished. But no, I don't have any regrets. I put out the record when I felt it was ready. Ready implies not ever really being finished. I just have a great deal of love. I feel love from all over. It pours out of my body, I can't dump it fast enough, it's coming in and out, in and out, in and out, it's love and it's all over and I can't ever feel the distance again between my thoughts and actions, my ideas and my realities, i love, i sincerely love. So, no, no regrets.
just love,
Anthony
"Red Red Rose"
not 10 days ago, a band had released its third album. this band with three members from Calabasas, one from Woodland Hills and two others from Pasadena (an L.A. outfit) had with this third album done something absolutely magical. seriously, no joke, they had created an album that from the first track makes you feel good, excited, you say "shit this is different," but you're already smiling, eyes get wider, "yes, yes this is good shit" right from the first song, one synth starts in alone and then is met by notes from a second synth riffing off one another and then an incredibly catchy and staccato lead guitar riff, a few intro bars of this then the rhythm guitar strumming stunning chords, and finally the drums and bass drop hard, a punch to your gut bucket, and after you recover you can't help but start dancing crazy in the street, and this man's voice is from Church fed through a vein spiked with Heroin into the corridor of the Lungs up and out the Vocal Chords, sounds reflecting off the blood and internal flesh, out into the World, Sonorous, and capable of catching you off your feet and lifting you across the street to the third floor window where the speaker is playing Happiness. oh the joy of this first song! oh the joy! and it doesn't stop. the second track is a little weirder at first, unidentifiable instrumentation, but then morphs into this reggae inspired bouncy anthem. the tracks after the second unimaginably continue to get better and better. when Jeff heard the second song he just fell over on the side walk. Jeff listened to the remainder of this shocking album from the comfort of the sidewalk, giddy, exhausted, in love like a 17 year old poet.
this third album was different from the first two. the band had matured in the right way, escaped convention somehow, while maintaining a strong link to the popular, the uptempo, the joy. even the asshole reviewer from pitchfork, shocked as the rest of us, drew immediate comparisons to the Talking Heads, Modest Mouse, the Strokes, Arcade Fire, Animal Collective, Clap Your Hands Say Yeah, Trick and the Heartstrings, Beirut, TV on the Radio, Pavement, Yo La Tengo, even Bright Eyes and Bon Iver. pitchfork gave it an 11 on a scale of 1 to 10, a higher score than the Beatles, Radiohead, Otis Redding, and most spectacularly Kanye West. the blogging community was in shock, NOBODY could write anything mocking, or sarcastic, or witty in a negative way. (of course, New Yorker music critic sasha frere-jones would have found something to complain about on some ridiculous grounds, but he caught himself earlier in the week at a Fall Out Boy show and summarily committed suicide, shot himself in the head at the show, after realizing he liked the music.) the music from this new album was too perfect. it had come out of nowhere. a decent band, now inspiring masses to venture forth into the unknown, afternoon sun falling into persimmon skyline, chasing Detroit. here we come.
*******
BV: You have done something magical. I assume you are aware of the reaction this record has already caused. The obvious question is how did you do it?
ET: I'm just as shocked as anyone. I started writing this album after we finished our european tour supporting the second record. i made a point not to write while we were on the road. i wanted to pour everything i had into that tour. no distractions, no bleeding of efforts. when we got back, i went to my parents house in LA, grabbed an old Gibson acoustic guitar of my dad's and went into "my room" [ET makes quotes with his fingers]. i grew up in Ventura, but my parents have since moved to L.A proper. it's so trendy now. "downtown L.A." [quotes again with fingers]. So I went into my room, just fucking exhausted from the tour. Yeah, actually, i didn't start playing or writing right away; i just fell over into the bed and slept for a week. when i woke up, i just grabbed the old guitar, remained laying down on the bed and started playing and singing whatever came into my heart and into my head.
BV: Were you in contact with the other guys at this point?
ET: Not really. We were all a little sick of each other post-tour. in a healthy way. So I started writing alone.
BV: I've heard you wrote most, if not all, of the music.
ET: I did. It was strange. after about a month, the guys and I all met up in our practice space in the Santa Monica. i played them some of the stuff i had. they were blown away. didn't even know what to say. from then on it was just like, "dude, that is seriously some of the best shit i have ever heard." they were so cool, so supportive. of course they all contributed significantly, but they really just tried to get out the way and let me do my thing. i mean writing. their support was huge. it's cliche, but the record wouldn't have been made if not for their support.
BV: That's different from the first two records, right? My understanding was it was a more collaborative process.
ET: That's true. It definitely was more...what did you say?--
BV: Collaborative
ET: Yeah, sorry, collaborative. Sorry, what was i saying. Oh, so the first two records, yeah we all added pieces to the puzzle.
BV: What do you make of it, your almost singular composition of the songs. And can I say, like everyone else I know, this album, your album, is impossibly good. I'm still in the throws of the euphoria, ironically. Similar experiences with "In the Aeroplane..." "Is This It" and "Funeral". Life changing.
ET: Thank you. I really don't know what else to say except thank you. I am so grateful that people, that the record has made an impact on people's, on your life. I think that's why I write music. It's mind-fucking, I don't understand it yet, probably never will.
BV: Let's talk about the album's name, "Walk Away From the Euphoria". Funny that a record with this title could summon tsunamis of euphoria on the eastern seaboard, on the western seaboard, even Detroit.
ET: Ha! Yeah, Detroit. That's where it's all going down.
BV: But about the title, can you talk about its origin?
ET: Sure. I'm the kind of person who deals with highs and lows difficultly. Jesus. That doesn't make any sense. I should say it like this: I'm totally bi-polar. I have been since about 16. I'm 28 now. I've had to learn, many times the hard way, that chasing the euphoria doesn't lead to long term happiness. I'm into all that meditation and buddhist shit, got to be. i've found that being neutral, i would venture to say indifferent, actually sustains happiness better than existing in a state of euphoria. for me, and i can't speak for anyone else, for me, euphoria is quickly followed by depression, serious, fucked up, evil, i hate my fucking self, worthless, shit for internal organs, sometimes suicidal depression. It blows me up each time. like that dude from Terminator 3, I have to put my shit back together. But i'm nowhere near as cool as that bad dude from Terminator 3, with all that silvery, liquid shit melting in reverse, putting his body back together. i just blow up and have to put pieces of flesh back together, little bloody scraps of flesh. Anyways, from the beginning i was thinking about making it more personal than the first two records, opening myself up. You know that same old bullshit.
BV: Yeah, I'm familiar with that bullshit. Except this time, it didn't come out as bullshit, it came out as magic, that's the best I can do to describe it. Did you end up writing most of the music at your parent's house? That's kind of funny.
ET: Yeah, I did, and it is funny. My mom is so funny. She still gets all weird about me performing in front of people. I'm like Mom, it's okay, I'm comfortable. We've played Bonaroo, SXSW, Glastonbury and a bunch of other European festivals, hundreds of shows, but she still feels protective, like people are judging me, and she hates that. I love her for that. My dad is so shy. It's hard for him to come to the shows, too.
BV: Wow, so not a lot of parental modeling of rock-stardom--
ET: Seriously! When I was little, I thought I would grow up to be a burrower, one who burrows, just hides from people and listens to music in a hole.
BV: That's funny.
********
800 buses filled with hipsters from Brooklyn rambled on moving ever closer to Detroit. The drive only took an hour and a half. When they arrived, the hipsters poured out into Belle Isle Park more frenetic than when they boarded the buses. Alcohol consumption reached an all time high, Guinness Book of World Records stuff. Seriously, no joke, more PBR had been consumed by people in one bus in a 1.5 hour period than at any time before in History. The sloshed happy hipsters fell out into the parking lot and ran around frantically for a spot in front of the bandshell. thousands of hipsters poured in from all over the country, Grand Rapids, Sioux Falls, Minnesota, Des Moines, Austin, Athens, Las Vegas, Albuquerque, Portland, San Francisco, and of course Los Angeles. There must have been around 400,000 hipsters falling off buses into the park. Maybe 5,000 people had a good view of the stage, the rest were just spread throughout the park. Imagine the colors of the hipster clothes: purple, gold, black, white, gray. and then all the shades of the accessories: red, orange, pink, yellow, magenta, turquoise, deep ocean blue...can you imagine the view from directly above the park, blimp view, just spectacular, Matisse-like. and although the buses didn't smell that great, the park smelled like fresh trees and lake water with a nice breeze.
Jeff had boarded a bus in Brooklyn, worried about his identity vis-a'-vis the hipsters. He felt he didn't completely fit in. On the ride over, he sat next to a young gay man who kept drinking from a flask in a paper bag, as if that was necessary. The young man was dressed in red capri pants and a yellow tank top. he had very short, blond hair and spoke incessantly of how charming the lead singer of the band was in interviews, how much charisma he had on stage. the boy felt seriously that he was in love and that if he could get through to the lead singer via facebook, the lead singer would fall in love with him. Jeff was actually quite touched, didn't even feel sad for the young man. felt the phrase, "this too shall pass." the boy must have been about 18, and he would surely move on to real life lovers in the not-too-distant-future.
Jeff was a Christian from Columbia, Missouri. He moved to Williamsburg three years ago and immediately made friends. he was charismatic himself, full of love, and self-doubt. the atheist hipsters ate him up. they all recognized his sensitivity but also his inherent strength. they often chided him about his "leadership qualities". but they also expected him to one day rule the non-amphibious world. plus he qualified as diversity. they could all talk about having a Christian friend. they loved Jeff, and Jeff loved them back.
Jeff worked in advertising at a firm with offices all over the country. Jeff's office was in Murray Hill, 3rd and 38th. he liked his job, went to a church in the upper east side every Sunday, identified as a pro-lifer, masturbated to pornographies of guilt, usually of asian women with gigantic tis (he had dated a few women, mostly waspy, but never anything serious) and believed the anxiety of living in new york would eventually ware off. in three years, it hadn't. his atheist hipster friends had turned him on to all kinds of bands. they mostly liked local groups, even a band or two from Staten Island. Jeff quickly learned what constituted good music and what constituted bad music. according to his friends, Bruce Springsteen was emo, true emo, not that bullshit teenage emo from southern california. that's why jeff was so surprised when the word started to rip through hipster neighborhoods. a levee succumbed to forces greater than itself and katrina-like jet-streams of music rushed through Brooklyn. everyone, it seemed, was downloading the album from the same sharing network (log-in required, you needed a friend, which Jeff had, to let you in to the exclusive group of file sharers) at the same time. (too bad the band wouldn't make any money.) people kept falling out of windows, ears attached to ipods, landing on the mattresses left on the sidewalks by vagabond hipsters unsuccessful on craigslist. nobody was hurt, well, they were hurt, but hurt so good and so bad by this music that had penetrated their flesh and left bruises, the kind you covet as a middle-schooler around your neck, only these musical bruises were inside their soul.
jeff stumbled out of the bus in Detroit and followed his new friend with the yellow tank top and paper bag. Chester, his new buddy, was pushing through the crowd and having amazing success. he kept pushing, and side-stepping, and communicating, "oh please forgive me" "oh jesus, i'm sorry, just a little scootch to your right" "oh my gosh, there are soooo many people" kept side-winding, and straddling and soft-toeing, and when necessary literally knocking people over out of the way. "move, you fucking ass!" boom, lowers the shoulder. combination of violence and careful diplomacy, Jeff thought about Kissinger. this young man in a yellow tank top was impressive. jeff just followed in Chester's wake. Jeff could see the bandshell in the distance and had a feeling they would be close when the music started.
*******
BV: So are you dating anyone? I hate to ask, but they'll kill me if I don't.
ET: Fuck, I expected more from you. (laughs) Well, yes, I've found the girl of my dreams, kindof. Except this whole new album, and yes it's been less than 10 days, but this new album energy is making me kindof horny -- crazy for every attractive female on the rich earth. all these budding flowers, in so many shapes and sizes and colors. i'm going to get killed saying this, but i'm a rock star, so fuck it. no, seriously, i'm in an incredible relationship with a woman who supports me to the core, without whom this record would not have been made. she is talented in her own right. waaaaaay smarter and waaaaay more talented than i am.
BV: Is she a musician?
ET: No, she's an academic. That's all I can say.
BV: Interesting. How long have you been dating?
ET: Can't say.
BV: Don't remember or can't say?
ET: Can't say.
BV: Okay, so tell us about this concert in Detroit. Did you know it would turn into posh spice woodstock?
ET: Ha! No way! We just wanted to launch this spacecraft -- building the spacecraft is recording the record -- launching the spacecraft and flying it is playing live. The practice sessions have gotten to the point where we feel like the live music is better than the album. It took a while to get there.
BV: Why Detroit?
ET: Why not Detroit?
BV: Seriously, why Detroit?
ET: Seriously, why not Detroit?
BV: Okay, so we'll just go with the mystery.
ET: No mystery, I just want people to experience it as they experience it. I don't want to tell people what Detroit is or what it isn't. I can say I have no real personal connection to Detroit, and that played a part in the decision. As for the audience, I have no control over that. I put out music, and whoever likes it likes it. I'm just happy people like it.
BV: Let's talk for a minute about the label situation.
ET: Okay.
BV: So your first two records were put out on Majordomo but when the majors got a whiff of the demos they went ape shit, am i right?
ET: Pretty much.
BV: Okay, so the majors are going ape shit and there's a prolonged bidding war, and Majordomo let you off the hook. I assume they were compensated handsomely, yes?
ET: Yes, they were. They did okay.
BV: So you guys had no problem signing with Capitol.
ET: No way. I've driven past that weird, round building so many times, I knew if I had the chance I would always sign with Capitol. I love that building, that era. I realize it's gone, but it still means something to me.
BV: Lots of creative control?
ET: Absolutely, and lots of cash up front. It worked out well.
BV: The album is special.
ET: Capitol thought so.
*******
Chester had maneuvered his way to within ten feet of center stage. Jeff hadn't come through the mass of hipster bodies completely unscathed, but he felt physically fine. Emotionally, he was a wreck. He had planned to ride on the same bus as his group of friends, but had been separated in the rush through Brooklyn streets. Eventually, he just had to push his way on to a bus with an opening. Now he felt alone and somewhat terrified. He prayed to Jesus, "Jesus, please don't let these people begin to spin completely out of control. Please make sure there is enough order to ensure safety. My only desire is to return home to the comfort of my small living/dinning/kitchen room." By this time the sun had completely disappeared and it was officially night. Lights were on, illuminating the hipster crowd lucky enough to be standing in close proximity to the stage.
There would be no opening band. The headliner was to come on stage and play all the new songs on the album, in order of the record. This had been released on various blogs. Someone in the back, a man, shouted, "Man and music!" a roar went up in the audience. the hipster, slacker who yelled, unknown, later dubbed El Savoir Vivre, yelled again, "I am defiant in the face of political oppression! I cultivate peace! I will not back down to terror or violence! I live to end human suffering! Obama, you will hear my voice! Obama, you will hear my voice! Obama, YOU WILL HEAR MY VOICE!" 400,000 hipsters began to howl, only a few thousand at first, then spreading like a sore throat to voices across the park. Howling wolves in the public night. And the lights began to flash, and the howl turned again to a roar, hysterical life affirming swamp echos from the golden marshes of social and political justice. The hipsters felt the power of each other's bodies, the simple energy that existed in the hipster to the right and to the left. (hipsters are human, too.) None of this new age energy, but the simple energy of the heart beating, pumping blood, the simple energy of the human body. Everyone was touching, not enough room not too touch. And the touch carried a pulse, lights flashing, stage lights flipping out, the creation of righteous hysteria boomed into the world.
The lights shut off instantly, and blackness was complete. The hysteria of hipster sound flexed toward fear until they all heard it, heard it together, a collective hearing of the first note of the synthesizer. One note, the first note of the record, held in the dark. When the lights came back on 6 men stood on stage, one holding down a black key near the middle of a Korg synthesizer. And then into the song, the young man playing the synth began floating his fingers up and down, pressing, producing music that expanded to fill the full park. the crowed went absolutely insane. everyone dancing, thrashing about, screaming. the world's greatest sound engineer, Bob LaFontaine, had been hired to make the music live for the hipsters in every nook and cranny of Belle Isle Park, many on colorful rafts, inflatable boats and inner-tubes in the water surrounding the park. This is how the music began, and the lights of various colors moved with pulse of music.
It was immediately obvious that the live music was infinitely better than the record. Incomprehensible utopia. the men and women in the audience, everyone mystified, never feeling such warmth or human connection. a wave of light and sound rippled off of the stage, repeatedly. The lead singer sang and forcefully removed all of their small hesitations. They felt his sincerity and his genius. He was not a person, he was a conduit, channeling the History of every second of every great song ever produced. His mouth was moving, but the music came from his stomach. The band operated in this glowing symphonic grandeur. During the fourth song, the connection of 400,000 loving souls woke Obama up in D.C. He startled. Their combined message was clear: Lay down your political mask and become a surgeon for the suffering. Follow Cesar Chavez, Malcom X, Martin Luther King, Nelson Mandella, go beyond the confines of the white house into the place of real peace and action. change the world Mr. Obama and stop the bullshit. The music coming from Detroit powered by one man, one band, one group of 400,000 hipsters was in the process of shifting the world, like the European "exploration" of the "new world" in reverse. The Chancellor in Germany, the Prime Minister in Russia and the Head of State in Ghana heard the music, heard this man's album played live and could not be the same again, nothing could be the same again, a sacrifice had been made, the lamb slaughtered, sanity restored. Human suffering again the focus, not the politics of the nation state and its profiteers.
Jeff and Chester felt it. They, too, would be different after this show.
*******
BV: How did you create something so different, so unlike anything before it, using the same tools that have been handed down for sixty plus years? Guitars, drums, vocals. okay throw in the synths, but it's basically the standard issue. How did you do something that sounds so different, so wonderful?
ET: I don't know.
BV: Would you change anything at this point? Do you have any regrets?
ET: Sure there are always little things I would adjust. Nothing's ever finished. But no, I don't have any regrets. I put out the record when I felt it was ready. Ready implies not ever really being finished. I just have a great deal of love. I feel love from all over. It pours out of my body, I can't dump it fast enough, it's coming in and out, in and out, in and out, it's love and it's all over and I can't ever feel the distance again between my thoughts and actions, my ideas and my realities, i love, i sincerely love. So, no, no regrets.
just love,
Anthony
"Red Red Rose"
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