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Love Missile

LaughingMatters.pngFinally got my comics working with the navigation scheme that I had in mind all along. Managed to do it without having to write any code--all I had to do was edit a few moveable type templates. I had been thinking that I would need to hunker down and write it in PHP, but then it came to me in a flash of light--hey, I can do that with MT.

The comics site is still pretty bare bones, but it's working the way I wanted it to and most importantly comments work too. I want to see what people think.

Go ahead. I can handle it.

I Feel Better When They're Not Around

Bukowski.pngReading a lot lately. I like reading. Using it to fill up any dead space in my life. Been a lot of that recently. Dead space. Is that the right way to put it? Probably not. I spend a lot of time waiting for stuff--bus, train, people. Waiting. When I'm reading I'm no longer waiting.

[As I'm writing this I'm having breakfast in a McDonald's in downtown Los Angeles. An old woman is yelling at one of the customers: "I thought you said you were going to eat that?" She's mad cause someone else got the leftovers.]

Just finished Charles Bukowski's: "The Captain Is Out To Lunch And The Sailors Have Taken Over The Ship". The book was assembled from a journal that he kept before bed. It's a collection of observations about his approaching death, adventures at the horse racing track, drinking, writing, his computer. Stuff like that. Most of it pretty funny. Some parts I thought were interesting:

"It was better when I was young. I was still looking. I prowled the streets of night looking, looking... mixing, fighting, searching... I found nothing. I never really found a friend. With women, there was hope with each new one but that was in the beginning. Even early on, I got it, I stopped looking for the Dream Girl, I just wanted one that wasn´t a nightmare."

"I wasn´t looking for justice and logic. I never have. Maybe that´s why I never wrote any social protest stuff. To me, the whole structure would never make sense no matter what they did with it. You really can´t make something good out of something that isn´t there."

"Simplicity is the key. In writing you must slide along. The words can be crippled and choppy but if they slide along then a certain delight lights up everything. Careful writing is deathly writing."

"I consulted some computer experts about the 'blue flash' but none of them could tell me anything. I´ve found out that most computer experts aren´t very expert."

[Oh man! I just got a look at that old woman's face--the screamer (she left, came back, now she's digging in the trash.) Something from "Night of The Living Dead. Honestly, the things you see downtown sometimes, it can make it hard to be down here.]

There are lots of things that I like about Bukowski's writing. Honesty, vulgarity, simplicity, elegance. My favorite though is how he ends his short stories. He always seems to be able to wrap a bow around them. How does he do that?

Time to go. Done here at McDonald's.

Techno and Gender Roles

TechnoAndGender.pngRe-read an anthropological analysis of the techno music scene recently. This quote stuck with me:

"Bradby describes the club scene as a place where one can hear and dance to music mostly produced by men which features mostly female vocal samples, a 'powerful restatement of traditional gender divisions [and] the association of men with culture, language, and technology, and of women with emotion, the body, and sexuality'"

Ok, it's not an earth shattering observation. I mean: dance and dance music have always been concerned with gender roles. But it got me wondering. Do gender roles arise out of cultural infuence? Or do they have some genetic basis?

Interesting article. Maybe a bit technical:

Futuresound: Techno Music and Mediation


invisiblog.pngI bet this will be posted on a lot of weblogs but this is mine and it's of personal interest. Besides, if you're reading more weblogs than mine shouldn't you just get a life? What other source of news do you need?

One of the things I got interested in when I first started using the internet was the cypherpunks. Basically cypherpunks are guys that think the world would be a better place if strong encryption was used for almost everything. Yeah. That's me. I still think that way, I just can't find anybody to send encrypted email to or from. Heh.

Used to drive down to San Diego to meet with these guys (for some reason there wasn't a big scene in El Lay.) Along the way I met the guy that wrote mixmaster and ran the anonymizer anonymous proxy.

Anyway, mixmaster is being used now to allow people to post anonymously to a weblog. Now you can have a weblog that is the internet equivalent of a swiss bank account. You post to it using anonymous encrypted email remailers. You can have a weblog where nobody knows who's weblog it is. Not even the people hosting it.

I have to think about this a while. I thought the whole idea of a weblog was to make the author famous. Yeah, I'm kidding, but then I'm still trying to figure out why I'm doing mine.

Not sure what I would do with a weblog where nobody knew it was mine. But the idea of being able to do one is cool. What would you write about that couldn't be used to suss out who you were?

If you start an Invisiblog don't tell me about it... (beta) - anonymous weblog publishing

Beyond My Control

ArtDJ.pngHow did my gig at Asto Gallery go [I hear you asking]? O.K. I guess. I was reminded of something I read somewhere--that all DJ's have hearing problems. The reason [it said] was that the DJ has little control over the layout of the club where he plays. Frequently they need to play with a stack of speakers blowing too close to one or the other of their ears. The performance space has usually been laid out by someone who isn't aware of everything that should be considered to get the best sound. To be fair, there are things to consider besides just getting the best performance/sound.

This wasn't like that. It wasn't too loud. The problem was I couldn't hear what was going out. The speaker was sitting on the floor in front of me pointing away into the space. What I could hear of what was being played "in the room" was all reflected. I always try to setup the speakers so they are pointed towards me. That way I can hear what's going on. This way, since I can hear how loud it is, I can set the volume at an appropriate level and I can hear to mix too.

The other problem I had was with the routing of my power cord. It was fairly exposed and naturally someone did step on it cutting the power to my computer. This is a fairly common problem with using a computer. I guess it happens with turntables too but you don't have to wait for a turntable to reboot. Using a laptop or a UPS would help ameliorate this issue.

Otherwise it went fairly well. I got a lot of compliments on the music. A few people even danced. I didn't want for people not to dance but I did want to put the focus on the art. And all the stuff that wasn't under my control was good practice. That's just the way it goes when you're DJ'ing. You're just not going to be able to control every factor. Being able to cope with that and work around it is part of the deal.

Thanks to Michael, Heather and George for getting me there and back again. It would have been interesting trying to get my gear there using the bus and train. Thanks also to the folks at Asto Gallery for letting me play and helping setup. I hope it was as good for you as it was for me.

Old McDonald

mcdonalds.pngHere's a picture of Anthony protesting the war (no, not that animated gif that comes with this post, click this link.) When I first saw it I was wondering where he got the sign from but I bet he made it himself. Including Photoshopping the image. Reminds me of that quote by Freidman which I keep thinking of in the context of this war:

"The hidden hand of the market will never work without a hidden fist. McDonald's cannot flourish without McDonnell Douglas... And the hidden fist that keeps the world safe for Silicon Valley's technologies to flourish is called the U.S. Army, Air Force, Navy and Marine Corps."
-- Thomas Friedman, The Lexus and the Olive Tree

Appreciating Pinball

pinball.pngReading another book by Murakami Haruki. Not sure if the title is "Pinball" or "Pinball, 1973". Whatever. It's terrific. Trying to describe why I like it makes me realize what a shitty book critic I would make--for the life of me I can't say what it is about the book that's so interesting. Like his other books though, it just seems to hit the spot. Here's a sample:

"There is precious little you can gain from a pinball machine. Only some lights that convert to a score count. On the other hand, there is a great deal to lose. All the coppers you'd ever need to erect statues of every president in history (provided, of course, you thought well enough to erect a statue of Richard M. Nixon), not to mention a lot of valuable and nonreturnable time.

While you're playing yourself out in lonesome dissipation in front of a pinball machine, someone else might be reading through Proust. Still another might be engaged in heavy petting with a girlfriend at a drive-in theater showing of Paths of Courage. The one could well become a writer, witness to the age; the others, a happily married couple.

Pinball machines, however, won't lead you anywhere. Just the replay light. Replay, replay, replay .... So persistently you'd swear a game of pinball aspired to perpetuity.

We ourselves will never know much of perpetuity. But we can get a faint inkling of what it's like.

The object of pinball lies not in self-expression, but in self-revolt. Not in the expansion of the ego, but in its compression. Not in extractive analysis, but in inclusive subsumption.

So if it's self-expression or ego-expansion or analysis you're after, you'll only be subjected to the merciless retaliation of the tilt lamps.

Have a nice game."


Furry.pngYears ago while looking for a free news server I ran across one devoted to all things "furry". Freaked me out. The server was full of pictures of people wearing animal suits. As Morpheus says in "The Matrix" I felt a little like Alice after she fell down the rabbit hole.

I was reminded of this just now as I read an article on the "furry scene" in the LA Alternative Press (it's also available online.) Interesting. Like the trekkie scene this is something that I probably will never be able to really understand.

I thought this was the most interesting line in the article:

"'It's rough if you're a transsexual -- it's even rougher if you try to explain that you're a cat in a human body,' says another Furry fan, who bemoaned the fact that Furries can't opt to surgically change their species in the way transexuals can change their gender"

Wow... sounds like something from a William Gibson novel eh?

Single Serving Friend

SingleServingFriend.pngI'm waiting at a bus stop. It's raining. I could walk the two blocks to the train station but don't want to get any wetter than I am already.

In front of me I notice a young woman crossing the street. Sweatshirt, no jacket, jeans that have laces on the side down by her calves. Her breasts are large. LARGE, but the thing I really noticed is that they are also too large for the bra she was wearing. Through the sweatshirt I see them spilling out around the edges of the bra's cups. She is wearing some kind of hard soled hiking boots. Cute with a kind of baby fat look that young girls have sometimes. She notices me noticing her.

I am sitting on one of those new metal bus benches that have the dividers on them. The kind that splits it up into three seats. The seat on the other end is wet. She sits in the middle. Next to me.

"Late for work I am." she says.

"Where's work?"

"The Mall. I work in a kiosk."

"What do you sell?" I ask as I check out the birthmarks on her arms.

"Skin cream. Most of my customers are men."

"I'm not surprised."

"Yep! Breasts sell! I give them a hand massage while they stare at my breasts, usually by the time I'm done they're ready to buy a jar."

A bus pulls up. Since she doesn't get on, neither do I. The bus is going where I need to go--two blocks, but the conversation interests me more than my need to be somewhere.

"If I were my boss I would fire me." she says.

"Maybe he's looking at the big picture." I offer.

"Waddya mean by that?"

"Don't get excited. Just a joke." I say, "Don't you feel guilty after a long day of using your body to manipulate poor helpless men into buying skin cream?"

"Oh no! not at all!" she replies, "Sometimes they even ask me for my phone number."

"What do you do when that happens?"

"I tell them: The skin cream comes in three sizes. The ten dollar size, the twenty dollar size and the forty dollar size. If you buy the ten dollar size you get my area code. If you buy the twenty dollar size you get the first three digit's. If you buy the forty dollar size you get the whole phone number."

"What do you do when they call you?"

"If they're cute I let them take me out."

"What happens otherwise?"

"I just don't answer the phone. Works pretty well." she says, "The only drawback is if they get pissed off, they know where I work. Sometimes the losers come and hassle me."

Another bus that would get me my two blocks pulls up. I steal a glance at her supersized chest and let it drive on.

"One time, a guy was staring at my breasts the entire time I was massaging his hands. When I asked what he thought he just kept saying 'great!' I squirted his face with skin cream and told him he was done. At least he bought a ten dollar jar."

Her bus finally arrives. It's going my way and I follow her on. I follow her to the back of the bus where she sits across three seats. It doesn't take long for the bus to get to my stop.

"Good luck selling skin cream today." I tell her as I'm opening the exit door.

"That's it?" she says, sounding disappointed.

"Yep, that's it."

Asto Gallery

ArtDJ.pngI'm going to dj at X/Pression--an art opening at Asto Gallery in the loft district. It's right behind Cafe Metropole.

Get the address, phone number, directions and stuff like that from the Asto Gallery webpage. Then come down and make faces at me.

Asto Gallery
Saturday April 19
7:30 to 10:00 p.m.

No Place Like Home

NoPlaceLikeHome.pngAt last year's burningman quite a few people greated me with a big: "welcome home". The first time I heard this it struck me that it was not hyperbole. We may only live at burningman for a week out of each year but when we leave it goes with us. This probably sounds nuts to anyone that hasn't been there. I was reminded of this tonight as I read the opening paragraphs of the Jack Rabbit Speaks newsletter.

Andie Grace wrote:

"In 135 days, I'll find myself at home again among all of you. I find myself now wondering what will be different this time, given the year that we're weathering together out here in the Default World. What will change? What will intensify?

What's heartening is that we're seeing unsurpassed enthusiasm in our office as volunteers, artists, theme camps, staffers, and participants make their playa plans. It seems that the darkness in the world hasn't come close to putting out this fire, and in fact it's made our connection to one another all the stronger and more necessary.

Here I sit, in a post-Town Hall glow, all riled up with the energy of new enthusiasm and returning volunteers, and I'm trying to imagine what it will be like to set foot on the empty playa this August as we begin to build the only city where I really know I'm home."

No place like home.


Oh man. Feel like crap this morning. I think I almost passed out just before I sat down in front of the computer. Had to go in the bathroom and throw cold water on my face.

Feels like low blood sugar. I'll try drinking a Coke and see if that helps.

Three Days of Cloud

ComputerNazi.pngBeen using the internet access at the library downtown a lot. The other day I got there early and was waiting for the library to open. A couple black kids were smoking a joint with a mexican kid. One of the black kids must have been about twelve years old. He had on those pants that can't stay up no matter what. The waist of the pants hanging around his knees. Mexican kid was doing a Marilyn Manson imitation (or maybe it was just really good pot--smelled like crap though.)

There are three separate entrances that open simultaneously at 10:00. Everybody runs in as guards drone: "No running please" or "Hey you! Stop running". They're all in a hurry to sign up for free internet access. It's has the feel of a blue light special at K-Mart or rush hour at grand central station.

I'm starting to recognise the various regulars that hang out there. There's the "Computer Nazi". You can hear him coming from far off. He walks very fast and stomping as he goes--as if he were wearing jackboots. The other day I was taking the elevator to Lower Level One and spaced a bit, not getting off right away when the doors opened. He yelled in my ear: "EL EL ONE!!! EL EL ONE!!!".

Couple days later the elevator [not going my way] stopped to let someone off. I could hear Computer Nazi inside telling everyone: "THIS IS LEVEL TWO".

There's "La Llarona". A woman that shuffles around with her head bent forward strangely. She glides around staring at the ground. Sometimes I see her smoking (still with head bent forward.) I heard one of the guards speaking to her once, asking if she thought it would rain. She replied: "three days of cloud then rain".

Once while awaiting the stampede I talked to "Vietnam Vet Tweaker Guy". He told me he escaped from a prison camp in Cambodia. That he had been held there between 1962 and 1975. "I was in charge of covert operations in the field" he told me, "while I was a POW."

p>"How does that work?" he asked.

Hey... You're Boring

boring.pngMan... this weblog thing is getting boring. I check the links I have to other weblogs just about everyday. Most of them are updated about once a week--if that frequently. I'm thinking about making another section on links. Frequently updated and rarely updated. What's the point of clicking a link everyday if the site is only updated once a week?

I'm wondering if I don't have a responsibility to the people that come to my site to only include links to sites that are updated frequently. Anybody have an opinion on this?

Tail Spin

TailSpin.pngI like this bit from the end of Slate Today's Papers:

"Most of the papers notice the latest virtuoso performance by everybody's favorite propagandist, Iraqi Information Minister Mohammed Saeed al-Sahaf. 'They say they brought 65 tanks into center of city. I say to you this talk is not true. This is part of their sick mind,' he explained from the roof the Palestine Hotel. 'There is no presence of American infidels in the city of Baghdad at all.' He had to speak loudly—to project over the noise of gunfire."

Tale of Two Murakami's

stairs.pngReading Haruki Murakami's "Dance Dance Dance". Like the other book of his that I have read it has that feeling of familiarity. Like it was written for or about me. It was strange reading his other book: "The Wind-up Bird Chronicle". I had this fascination for the space near the train station in Harajuku [a district in Tokyo.] Mainly from photos I had seen of the way the kids dress there on Sundays. I have written about it extensively in an earlier incarnation of my weblog. Someday that stuff will be back online... hey, it's on the web site on my laptop... hah!

Anyway, this character in the wind-up book hangs out in that train station everyday for months. Waiting. It was strange to have the character in the book I was reading hang out in some place I have never been but had thought about going to. Someplace halfway around the world.

"Dance Dance Dance" has that same feel about it. As if it was written for me. Makes me wonder about the guy that recommended these books to me in the first place. Who was that guy? And what was it about what we spoke about that made him think these books were for me? I guess the important thing is... he was right. It feels like the books found me through him. Here's a passage from "Dance Dance Dance" that I relate to:

"In the taxi we talked about nothing in particular. The snow and chill, her work hours, things in Tokyo. Which left me wondering what was going to happen next. One little push and I could probably sleep with her. I could feel it. Naturally I didn't know whether she wanted to sleep with me. But I understood that she wouldn't mind sleeping with me. I could tell from her eyes, how she breathed, the way she talked, even her hand movements. And of course, I knew I wouldn't mind sleeping with her. There probably wouldn't be any complications either. I'd have simply happened through and gone off. Just as she herself had said. Yet, somehow, the resolve failed me. The notion of fairness lingered somewhere in the back of my mind. She was ten years younger than me, more than a little insecure, and she'd had so much to drink she couldn't walk straight. It'd be like calling the bets with marked cards. Not fair.

Still, how much jurisdiction does fairness hold over sex? If fairness was what you wanted, your sex life would be as exciting as the algae growing in an aquarium."

Don't You Hate That?

HateItWhenThatHappens.pngWalking through the library this morning I noticed a girl with exceptional auburn hair. Nice butt. Chest seemed ok too but the color of the hair was terrific. She sat in an internet kiosk adjoining the one I was using. I peeked over the top long enough to see brown roots. Dye job, but a good one. Later when the clock had run down on our respective internet sessions I followed along behind her checking out her ass. Startled from my reverie when she spoke to someone and I realized it was a guy--or what used to be a guy.

Ran into my buddy Maynard in the library too. Was worried about him. It's been a couple years since I saw him last. He was living on the steepest street in Los Angeles--Baxter Street. I had called him and went by his place, but he had pulled up stakes. Good to get in touch with him again.

Just came from this club "Rumours" in the "SoSo Art District" on Magnolia--[North Hollywood, some people call it NoHo]--like Mister T's the clientele is a mix of locals, rednecks, bikers and college age bohemians. As we walked in the all girl band "Go Betty Go" was setting up. We stayed for their set, which I thought was pretty good. Cute girls. Small indian bass player wearing a tartan skirt. The singer with hip hugger jeans and a blue t shirt with a yellow santa fe logo. Fun watching her dance around. Baby fat cute chubby guitarist constantly working her effects pedals. Skinny blond drummer cooking like a P.R. Gene Krupa.

Clearly inspired by "Sleater-Kinney", but so what? Sleater-Kinney is cool. They're playing tonight at the West Chester Bar and Grill. Recommended for anybody that digs all girl punk bands. Fun.

Three Monkeys

NoEvil.pngIn the movies when some character doesn't want to hear something somebody is saying they'll put their fingers in their ears and repeat loudly: "I can't hear you..." I've seen Pee Wee Herman doing this.

That's how I feel about the war. I've had it. My brother tells me they've been pre-empting 'Morning Becomes Eclectic' with NPR's war coverage. The never ending pledge week from hell.

Camera crew from "Life and Times" stopped me on a street corner to interview me about the war. I told them I didn't have an opinion. They insisted on talking to me. The interviewer's eyes opened wide a few times as I answered her questions. Afterward she told me: "for a guy that doesn't have an opinion you sure had a lot to say". I don't think she got that I was being critical of the media's coverage of the war. Not actually speaking about the war itself.

Her eyes opened the widest when I said: "it would be nice to see real discussion about the situation in iraq--not just a sound bites and marketing slogans sandwiched between commercials". Right after I said it I flashed on them running this as an ad for KCET. As if they were any different than the networks.

My fingers are in my ears. I can't hear you.

Art Walk at Brewery

dada3.pngEleven a.m. to six p.m. Saturday and Sunday April 12 and 13. Might be fun. Nothing will beat the time they had DADA there but it's probably better than a poke in the eye with a sharp stick.

Both Oars In Orlando

Orlando.pngFinished reading Virginia Woolf's "Orlando". It reminded me of something I read recently about learning to write. The author was talking about how one develops a personal style. Each writer having a certain mix of content and style. Virginia Woolf was pointed out as an example of a writer who was nearly 100% style. I forget where I read this but now I know what was meant.

Beautiful book. Found myself enjoying the language but wondering frequently: "just what the heck is this about?"

Here are some quotes I found exciting [enough to bookmark]:

"For when anybody comes to a conclusion it is as if they had tossed the ball over the net and must wait for the unseen antagonist to return it to them."

"The nerve which controls the pen winds itself about every fibre of our being, threads the heart, pierces the liver."

"For what more terrifying revelation can there be than that it is the present moment?"

I Dreamed I Could Fly

IDreamedICouldFly.pngSaturday before last I took the metro downtown to the civic center station then walked to Little Tokyo to check out Supi's art. This was at the height of my recent illness so it was a workout (and that's why I didn't write about it till now.)

The civic center metro station is the one with the Jonathan Borofsky installation: "I Dreamed I Could Fly". When the station opened in 1991 I did a walking tour of the art downtown that included a half hour of laying on my back on this station's linoleum floor. We had the "gallery" virtually to ourselves. Try doing that now...

From there I walked downhill to Little Tokyo. I was sick, but it was good to get out. Spent some time admiring Noguchi's "lightly sculpted" rocks in the plaza at the Japanese American Cultural and Community Center. It struck me that it's one of those architectural spaces that further the distance between people--make us feel smaller and further apart. Or rather in bringing it out in a more pronounced fashion (since it's always there anyway). The japanese word for wander (meiso) also came to mind.NoguchiStones.png

Supi's art was interesting. Also interesting were two old japanese women sitting there guarding everything. I wish I could have made more of an effort to try and sit and talk with them. Distance again--age, culture, gender. I wonder what stories they could tell [if they cared to.]

Journalist Fired For Telling It The Way He Sees It

I'm pretty disappointed with the television coverage of the war. Seems to be mostly about providing entertainment rather than hard news. All this embedded reporting is entertaining but leads to a tree level view. I want to see the forest. Please... no more of those blocky video phone tank shots.

So this american journalist was fired for telling it the way he saw it. Maybe he shouldn't have given an interview to the opposition.

What's the story? He's fired for allowing himself to be interviewed by Al-Jeezira? And then to have the nerve to actually give his opinion... Peter Arnett: THIS WAR IS NOT WORKING

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