Coincidence

I seriously found the following on a University of Minnesota website:

IV. HUMAN PORCUPINES POP OUR BUBBLES OF ILLUSION

     Some people frequently challenge our security-operations.
If we picture each of us encapsulated in a thin security-bubble,
these professional disillusioners are like human porcupines: 
They destroy all the security-bubbles that come near—including their own.
Everyone within range feels existentially insecurity.                         

     Such bubble-poppers are very intense people; 
they will not allow us to cling to our cultural evasions and escapes;
they undermine our security-operations and pull away our security-blankets.
In the presence of these spiny creatures, we must be serious;
they force us to ask ultimate questions about the meaning of life. 
At first we do not appreciate their bubble-popping function,
unless the eruption of our existential insecurity turns us toward Existential Freedom. 

     Whatever games, techniques, operations, & devices we invent,
these methods will never overcome our existential insecurity. 
The measures effective against ordinary perils and threats
simply do not work when applied to our existential precariousness.

Here is the website:
http://www.tc.umn.edu/~parkx032/CY-SAFE.html

Something to consider.

with love and affectation affection,
Anthony

San Francisco

I walked though the Tenderloin last night with happy feet, moving quickly.  With my buddy Nicolas at my side.  Crept up a side street to visit an alley at the end of which an ex-girlfriend used to live.  Herb Caen on my brain.  On the Main Street of Geary, passing a bar where I got absolutely shit faced in 2001 drinking beer and Jack Daniels after winning the San Francisco Class III Amateur Soccer League Championship with the Academy of Art Soccer Team.  Oh beer googles and the mistakes we make that end up being mistakes also when we wake up in the outerrichmond.  Oh to the clarity of good decision making.  Asking the question, what is San Francisco?  A geographic area, 49 square miles, north of San Mateo County and South of the Golden Gate Bridge, yes.  But also the idea, what is San Francisco?  Where does it exist in your imagination?  To simplify, what do you think of when you think of San Francisco?  I've been asking this question a lot, not just of San Francisco, other cities too, like Vegas.  Maps, Tenderloin, poverty, the Fairmont, gold.

A friend of mine refers to men who hit on her (and others) as baseball cards.  Although I don't completely understand her usage of this term, I deem it brilliant.  In the last 20 years, the world has been changed by technology.  You look at screens more than you look at the world.  This was not the case in 1215, the year the Magna Carta was signed into law.  Now our identity is understood, in part, by what we post on facebook.  Our identity is, in part, 2 dimensional, it exists on screens.  I like x movie, this communicates something about my identity.  I watch the San Francisco Giants on a tv screen.  I posted a video of me on youtube.  I'm crying because my Italian cousin was killed in a motorcycle accident.  In the youtube video I'm sobbing.  You will consider this, too, in your brain when you think of me, and if someone asked you to describe me, you would consider this video while you explain who I am.  And so, men that hit on my friend are baseball cards, twitter posts, facebook pages, youtube videos, big-screen-legitimate-$300-million-in-the-first-weekend-movies.   The man takes his family to Disneyworld and walks through Disneyworld looking at a the moveable screen of his video camera, watching his son and daughter get into a tiff and then sort if out, laughing, on the screen of his video camera.

But the topic of this posting is San Francisco.  And I want to know what you know.  What do you know about San Francisco?  Where do the black people live?  Is that a different place than the white people?  Do the rich people live in a different place? than the poor people?  What, if anything, is important about San Francisco?  Can you answer these questions by looking at the same computer screen you are looking at now?  Or do you have to walk through the Tenderloin with Nicolas and happy feet, passing an old apartment that once mattered a great deal and a bar where you ended up doing funny things?  Tonight, in the grand tradition of working your shit out through Opera, I leave you with this:

Puccini

I love all of you,
Anthony

Corch

This week I had three separate ideas for a blog entry.  I will use bullet points to help emphasize and clarify the differences:

• A recap of the three concerts I went to in the last week
• Revisiting the water buffalo in the garden (an idea from a previous posting)
• Palestine

So because of the similarity of the three subjects, I've decided to cover all of them.

No, actually, I've decided against that idea.  I would prefer to tell you about my friend Corch.

My friend Corch is a concept design artist.  He works mostly on video games.  He is famous.  Well, I think he is famous.  A few video-game-concept-art-bloggers (yes, they are out there, too) think he's the shit.  So he's famous.  Here's a link to his work:

http://josephacross.com (the a is for Arlen)

and here is the link to his blog:

http://josephacross.blogspot.com/

I actually recommend starting with his blog.  It's fucking cool (bart/muni inspiration!), and you get to see why he's famous.

Corch came up with a great idea.  He is going to send me good musics.  I am going to listen to good musics and review on my blog.  Right now, I'm listening to Co La, which is fantastic/brilliant.  But instead of writing about it, just check it out:

http://friendsrecordsbaltimore.com/releases/frcs014/

I hope everyone is feeling good, loving at least part of your life.  If you have some musics that you want me to listen to or you think I might like, please send it along.  If that makes part of your life more full of love.

I'm writing a short story.  It takes place in Vegas.  I'm going to Vegas soon to write the story better.  That's all I can say now.

love to all/that shit is important,

Anthony

ps - Co La album cover art:

Across the Loch (I found sadness)

This next week I will be going to three shows.  Tonight, Breathe Owl Breathe at the Bottom of the Hill.  Saturday night, Stornoway at the Independent.  And Tuesday night, a little known band out of Ireland, U2 at the Oracle Arena.  It's a solid lineup.  I'm pretty excited about Breathe Owl Breathe.  They are from East Jordan, Michigan, which is apparently near the top of Michigan, close to one of those big lakes.  My guess is that this is a forested area or if not forested then close to a forrest.  Their sound is forresty -- mellow, folksy, melodic but with enough electronic additions to make it contemporary and "cutting edge."  It's actually not at all "cutting edge" because that term is stupid.  But they do that thing where they sound retro and new at the same time.  They have this one song, "Across the Loch."  A loch is a Scottish word for lake, which makes sense given that Breathe Owl Breathe come from "lake country" although they may or may not be Scottish, I don't know, but would be willing to bet something insignificant not.

(Quick aside: as I'm writing this I'm eating a bag of Jolly Time Healthy Pop Popcorn which is getting all over my fingers and all over the keyboard.  The whole bag is only 3 Weight Watchers points.  I know this because "I'm fat."  Of course I'm not fat.  I weigh 213 pounds and I'm a 6'1 dude, but I'm one of those dudes who thinks he's fat.  Jesus, how pathetic -- I think that makes me a metrosexual.  Seriously, I could definitely loose 20 punds (ha!), my sister keeps telling me that men with bellies (me) have heart attacks and die all the time. But I know I'm not fat.  That's crazy!  Abbey won't let me say "I'm fat" because it is detrimental to my self-image, it makes me depressed and then I eat more fat.)

I once listened to "Across the Loch" 35 times in a row.  I'm not totally sure about that 35 number, but it was damn close, and it makes the damn point.  It's this amazing song that makes you feel like you are underwater and you have special perceptive receptors in your brain, and your brain is open and the music from the song goes through the water directly into the synapse between your most sensitive and intelligent neurons.  The song has this repetitive (a difficult word to spell) guitar riff and then some shakers and one chorus that goes, "I was afraid of loosing you, I was afraid of loosing you," which is genuinely sad.  I'm sad right now listening to the song again.  I don't know if listening to a song 35 times in a row is a good thing.  But sometimes I feel like I want to feel sad, which sounds weird but is also true, and weird.

Let me just say that I'm not a big fan of the name "Breathe Owl Breathe."  I mean I like breathing, I love breathing, and I'm also a fan of owls.  But it's so self-aware that it's a bit trite in my opinion.  But I think if you make really great music, your band name isn't that important.  I mean it's important but not that important.  Jesus, there's a topic for further discussion.  Oh, by the way, all 20 of you that I'm forcing to read this should feel free to email me your thoughts, disappointments, angers, suggestions for improvements at my email or for those of you reading who don't know me, you can email existentialporcupine@gmail.com.

So tonight Breathe Owl Breathe at the Bottom of the Hill.  Frankly, I hope it's good.  (That's a horrible use of frankly that is wrong, but I read someone write a good frankly yesterday i think and it sounded so smart, so I'm smart! because frankly, i use frankly.)

love to all, spread it around, seriously, man! (exasperation)
Anthony

ps - oh shit the link!: http://g-rad.org/breatheowlbreathe/ this is a blog in the year 2011, not providing a link is just classless.  (mudge, if you read this far, you are funny, but not for reading this far, just in general. : )

Complicated Genius: Anthony Leonard's Life and Family Adventures (and other Symbolic gestures)

I am a genius.  This hurts to say.  But it is true.  It feels like a piece of bacon sizzling in the pan and I am touching this bacon as it sizzles.  It's going to taste good, this bacon.  It smells so carnal!  the whiffs of tangy, salty meat with just enough buttered fat.  But this is the bacon of my genius.  Let me explain.  My genius sets fire to the bush, it rolls out of mountains and proclaims itself self-evident.  My genius lights up the san francisco skyline, each lighted sky scraper window a flame of self-evident genius.  Do you see all the lighted windows as you scan the san francisco skyline in the dark--you who sit on the street?  My genius is compatible, it strokes felines and festooned farmhouses.  My genius carries with it a caller id, so when I go out to eat at the restaurant, the elephante' man in charge of sitting tells me "I feel it in my belly, your genius.  It is a lamp, in my belly.  I know this lamp as your genius.  Would you like to sit next to the fire."  Ah yes, in fact, I would.

So I go to the fire with this man's lamp.  And the brilliance accorded to 47 carat diamonds refracts intuition and emotional self-knowledge.  For it is the emotional self-knowledge, the ability to connect and shape seahorses out of pretzels, it is this that startles your anxious face.  I light up and open up and let my water buffalo wander into your garden and munch on the leaves of your deciduous trees.  It is August and my water buffalo is munching, saying hello, "Do you like the fog? Do you like the hot dogs (italics mine)?"  We are bonding through my water, we touch, you are touched, saving face, crawling into the belly again, your own belly where now through my genius you feel safe and alive.  My buffalo led you into this open, eight-fold and not stopping there path.

The ninth fold, another term for my genius--used colloquially by my friends of lesser stature, friends failing in a hierarchy of fools, these miserable fiends formally fucked.  but that is okay! that too will come to pass.  Haven't you heard, "the ship that sets sail never stops."  Okay whatever, whatever!!! Shit Okay, so things are hard.  Yeah!  and what the fuck. i get that.  you can't all be the genius, or maybe...just maybe...if you open up your pants by zipping down the zipper, ALONE Asshole!  I'm not talking about anything social-relational-sexual-clairvoyant here, I'm just talking about taking off your pants alone in your room after work, that is all, so fucking innocent.  Leave it there on the floor the unzipped zipper (Symbols) crash!  a loud sound from another room! ahhhhh here it is my brilliance again coming into being in another room in my same house.  setting sail.

But if you were to ask my Mother about my genius, what would she say?  Hmm, now I am crawling to the couch to be opened and cut with sheers breast plate bone to belly button, some good ole abreaction.  what do you see in there mom?  stinking, smoky intestines falling out into liquid symphonies and symbolism, strands of human sausage connected.  she would say no.  no, tony, you are not a genius.  the tower is falling, beginning to crack and yes, crumbling violently. ah but i've been holding it up in the brilliant golden architecture of my mind, holding it up with precision, holding court with the debutantes and the blistered romps.  colliding with the falling particles, my mother, god of all inception, denies this existence.  denies my honest passions and sequesters the truth.  in the name of groundedness.

again, with love,
Anthony

ps - Andrew Bird, American Singer Songwriter, is much like me only not quite as good at music.  I don't recommend going to iTunes and listening to his song "Tenuousness" on his album "Noble Beast" released January 20th, 2009.

or watch this video, which really isn't fair.  this happened.

Tenuousness

Stornoway

If you haven't listened to Stornoway,
I think it might be a good idea to listen to them.
Just thirty seconds.
If it doesn't immediately register as real,
turn it off and never listen to Stornoway again.


I Saw You Blink


with love,
Anthony

Live Show

Inside a small club in the Lower East Side, a man plays a large, white, electric blues guitar, staring out beyond the audience with an insane look on his face.  His eyes are wide open, glazed over, lost.  But that expression is a ruse, a trick. His eyes quickly dart back down to meet the packed audience; the muscles in his face flex and relax to paint a portrait of calm and inviting warmth.  The quick contrast is immediately enjoyable and frightening.  He is dressed in a tight fitting, white, vintage, button down shirt, with black, skinny jeans, and a velvet boa.  Pleading and pained, his eyes dart to the right.  He sings, screams in a soulful falsetto, "Hipster Girl! why you always lookin past meee!  why you always hurt me!!"  To the man's right is another smaller man, handsome, possibly Latino and dressed in a grey pinstripe vest exposing his bare arms and much of his chest.  He plays a white bass guitar.  The two men move simultaneously, in choreographed dance steps while they play their guitars and the man to the right continues to sing.  The singing man's face contorts again, flashing that juicy pain, and then serious, staring right past the audience, drilling a hole in the back wall.  Soul flows out of his out his mouth and their guitars, while the white-boy, big-bird drummer, with high knees squished in the drum set, continues to keep strict time, tist tist tist on the high hat cymbal, then the powerful snap of the snare.  "Hipster Girl! you walked out the pages of a 2006 Cosmo magazine!  always hip never ever played out by the trains on 7th Street! Hipster Girl! you make me wanna smaaack you because you make me feel so blue when you make me want you!"  The club lights bleed reddish, bluish then white on the three man band.  The wooden stage is about four feet off the ground, and the audience numbers around 150.  The place is packed and smells of stale beer.  Pressed up against the wall, two men in the audience sit on high stools with bottles of Bud Light on the tall, small, round, wooden table.  Most of the audience is standing and many are drinking Stella.  The front man continues to screetch and get inside the stomachs and heads of the audience.  He has light, yellow skin, but possibly African-American or Afro-Caribbean features.  This ambiguity mixes with the shifting facial expressions.  He is in one moment insane and the next a model of rationality.  He is gay but obviously straight.  He wails black soul music, while playing white postpunk guitar.  The two front men are women, dancing, dressed effeminately, cocksure.  This is what the audience paid for, a little finger in the asshole, a little bit of spunk, a little bit of "I'm not sure." The music is two large black women in pink fish net stockings and Sex Pistols t-shirts, busty as hell, coming up and around, making it all feel so good.

with love,
Anthony