just because i'm paranoid doesn't mean they're not out to get me

last night i took doc40 to the skirball cultural center to see the press preview of an exhibit, "arnold mesches: fbi files." my main selfish motivation was that i wanted him to write about it, and, as he doesn't drive, i had to play chauffeur. (but i refuse to wear the hat, or let him sit in the back.) anyway, i am glad i went. the exhibition included works that mesches, a painter and professor, created using the pages of his fbi files, which he obtained, uh, not too long ago, under the freedom of information act. he was under surveillance from the late '40s through 1972, as he was a communist and pro-civil rights and anti-A-bomb, and against the vietnam war, etc. etc. you know, all the things that make an american unpatriotic and a potential enemy of the state.

he received more than 800 pages of documents, often with most of the info blacked out, but it compelled him to create painting/collages around various individual pages, using them as a focal point to reflect different flashpoints of those times, and the cultural contexts. the artist was there, and he spoke, and of the many things i found impressive about him, a really big one was, when someone asked him if he was angry with the people who had informed on him (who included students, models, friends, lovers...), he said it was a long time ago, and it didn't matter anymore. what was important to him was to remind people that this had happened, and it could happen again, and probably is happening right now. and also, aesthetically, he seemed to really like the way the pages of documents looked with all the heavy black lines and patches of black blocking out the words. and so he wanted to create art that reflected that or played off the beauty of the blacked-out pages. which i found somewhat puzzling, b/c the pages didn't look beautiful to me, but the art did.

i was really kind of touched by the old guy. i found his casual attitude of forgiveness to be somewhat awe-inspiring. there are people who have committed much lesser sins against me who i can't imagine forgiving. it is a little difficult to fathom having revelations, 30-50 years down the line, that certain friends or coworkers were narcing on me the whole time. i started thinking that maybe there was something personal in his motivation for making something out of those pages: exorcising the demons of betrayal. not just by putting them in the context of those times, with all the little paintings and detailed bits of things that he conjured up as being relevant to whatever his vision was for any given piece (they are all just titled "fbi files" and then have a number after them), but also, perhaps .... hmmm, how do i say? because the names of the informers are blacked out, no one looking at the documents could know who they were. except, doubtlessly, arnold mesches, and, of course, the people who informed. so, maybe, in an elliptical way, making art out of those pages was a subtle kind of j'accuse: i know who you-the-informer are, and, if you are looking at this painting, so do you.

a show of hands

later that same night i jetted off to the troubadour with agent 00soul to see a band called coheed and cambria. someone had described it to me as "emo-prog," which sounded like meaningless moniker-slinging until this quartet from upstate new york started playing. then it was like, "yeah. emo-prog!"

the place was teeming with young people, most not even old enough to drink. when we walked up to the door to give our tickets to the doorman (who is cool and always gives us passes to the loft, which we accept but never use), i heard some snot-nosed fucker who i am sure thought he was being huh-larious yelp, "look, it's keith richards of the rolling stones!" obviously referring to 00soul, whom people often say looks like this iconic guy or other -- something he hates a lot. (the list of comparisons includes: mick jagger, harrison ford, keith, paul westerberg, david johansen and/or buster poindexter, and more.) "or," continued the little fucker, "maybe rod stewart!" (which i think is a new one.) much snickering ensued, but funniest of all, i found out later, was that the agent didn't even hear what was said. heh.

anyway. coheed and cambria. it sounded like rush meets metallica, fugazi, and system of a down. which isn't as horrible as it sounds, although it was by no means wonderful. but it was actually fairly hilarious and fun, in a weird way. partly i just couldn't get over how all these youngsters were geek-rocking out to music that was a big thing when i was in high school. the show was sold out, and not in a major-label-papers-the-house kind of way -- these kids had all actually purchased tickets. (the band is on an indie label, anyway.) the mob up front was bouncing up and down and waving their arms with index fingers pointing skyward -- not sure what that's about, but i've seen it a lot lately. then in back, equally enamored, was hoodie nation, all the introverts standing with arms crossed, enraptured. a good pretty equal mix of boys and girls -- the first crowd-surfer was a chick, and she made it all the way to the stage before being promptly escorted back into the audience. everybody was singing along to all the songs, and that might have been the weirdest thing of all.

especially after i got home and read up on them, and realized that both of their long-players are concept albums that lay out the doomy sci-fi saga of two fictional characters (named, naturally, coheed and cambria), who are a married couple in some sorta fantastical situation. they apparently die in the first record, but then their son contines their quest, or adventure, or whatev. it's all played out on a churning musical landscape of 21st-century prog-rock/pop. and the kids ate it up. well, i suppose the venting of angst needs no justification, regardless of how high-concept that angst might be -- and this stuff was plenty angsty. unfortunately, the singer had a high voice like the singer of rush, and a declamatory delivery that flattened out the drama, although his vocals were emotive.

the hour-plus set was tight but expansive, full of complex minor-key riffs, pounding drumbeats, and those echoey vocals. playing to the old-time fans in the audience, they did a lot of stuff from their debut album, 2002's "the second stage turbine blade," and then the singer said, "now we're gonna play some stuff from the new album ["in keeping the secrets of silent earth: 3"] -- sorry!" which i thought was hilarious.

that lead singer had the biggest, most mushroom-headed afro i have ever seen. he was obviously really proud of it, as it was well taken care of. it reminded me of a lion's mane, all regal and fluffy. heh. and he had a pierced lipful of rings, i think maybe two on each side? anyway, despite some lighter pop moments that 00soul said were cure-esque, it all became a bit tedious by the end. but at least it didn't last three hours, like the rush show i saw a bunch of years ago.

purple rain

my wonderful friend rob was in town this weekend for a junket. he stayed with another friend last night, and we all met at this place in koreatown called orchid, a restaurant, bar, and karaoke joint at 6th and oxford. it seems to be relatively new, and it was definitely different. it had two floors, and the top floor was the karaoke, which we didn't check out. but they had private rooms available for parties and stuff, and the bartender told us that korean businessmen would come in, rent these places, and get pretty drunk and karaoke-crazy. oooo-kay, but downstairs the place was pretty much empty.

agent 00soul and i scored a free parking spot in the city lot at 6th and western, walked the block to the club. the outside wall curves around the corner, and all of the windows have been replaced by stainless steel, giving it a sort of elegant crackhouse appearance, i suppose. there was an awning, and a doorman, and a velvet rope (not in use). the agent was finishing his cigarette when rob came outside to greet us. the doorman swiped our driver's licenses through one of those little machines like they use at the palladium. 00soul observed that this was a record of us being there, should the police need to question anyone about a murder in the joint (hah hah). we all laughed nervously and went inside.

i had read about the place beforehand, but it was still pretty amazing. i can honestly say i've never seen anything like it. it was a long, low room, with the bar at the near end by the entrance. the vast dining area had an elevated island in the middle, surrounded by faux palm trees and white pillars carved or molded in this curvy way that was perhaps meant to be erotic but sort of reminded me of giant styrofoam peanuts. and the walls, three of the four at least, were waterfalls ... tall, broad panels of steel with water rushing down, separated by fat columns of light that slowly changed color. there were giant video screens above the bar and at the opposite end of the room from the bar. maybe other places. can't remember. on them they showed videos, complete with closed-captioning of the lyrics (appropriate, i suppose, for a karaoke joint), but NOT of the songs that were playing over the sound system. which proved disorienting. it was thankfully dim, but all that water made things feel a bit clammy. it would probably feel good in the summer, but in the winter ... ehh. it was kind of like being in a submarine.

the husband of rob's friend said that he had been to korea, as his wife's family was from there. and that orchid did evoke the sort of nightclubs he'd been to while there. hmmm. mebbe so, but it seems the local korean population ain't digging it. nor any population, really. maybe it's because it's just starting out, and word hasn't really built. somebody obviously put a lot of money into it; you'd think they'd promote it more. but the other problem may be that, despite how spectacular it is, it's also pretty cheesy. maybe a DJ scene could happen there; the lights and the water would make a cool background for a lotta spinners. i wonder if there is something like that going on there?

but as a casual hang, i dunno. the sound of the rushing water, the changing-color columns, the videos, the loud music, and the sheer emptiness of it all (we were one of about three parties inside the whole joint) was a nearly overwhelming combination of visual and aural stimulation. it made for a potentially damaging sensory experience. fortunately, there was alcohol (nice strong T&Ts, yay) and rob, with whom i got to have a good long talk.

waiters in black pants and red tops, with earpieces jauntily in place, roamed the room hopefully. but the place remained empty, and we had no desire to check out the karaoke rooms. around midnight, as rob had an early plane to catch, we said goodnight.

verse, chorus, verse

i do not write poetry very well, but here are some things i've written that i kind of like.

this one is just an exercise in repetition, but it's fun:

don't variations

don't make me cry
don't make me laugh
don't make me pity you
don't make me like you

don't be my hero
you can't take the fall
don't be a martyr
up against the wall

don't do me like that
don't do me no wrong
don't do what i say
just do what you do .... uh huh

don't say whatever
don't turn away
don't never say never
don't lose your way

(6/25/02)


this was written in anger, and no small measure of self-loathing, when drunk, in the aftermath of unwanted advances from a troll:

my pretty face is going to hell

do you know what it's like to be me?
no you don't. here's a sample:
"oh, you're such an amazing writer,
and you have incredible tits.
i've always been in love with you.
i want to fuck you
but i know that will never happen.
yet i feel no hesitation
in telling you all this.
because i am a man,
and every thought i have
is meaningful
valid
and worth sharing.
i never imagine how much
it might freak you out,
because why would you be freaked out
to know how much i want and love you?
in fact it would never even occur
to me to consider that."
right. and so it's left to me to deal
as usual.
hah. everybody knows i enjoy it.

(9/25/02)


and this is my best poem so far:

i saw the stars come out

the sky beckoned
a dark sapphire pulse at twilight
i looked up into it
like something was about to happen
i saw maybe a quarter moon
and all that blue
turning into cobalt
i just kept searching the ether
then a tiny flash broke the skin
a little flare from space
and all at once the heavens
were studded with glittering chips

(8/6/03)

drink me II

last night i went out for a drink after work with doc40. i think there are about three, maybe four, places we like to go. this one was the kibitz room at canter's on fairfax -- mostly b/c it is usually uncrowded, extremely mellow, reasonably priced, and close by. the other thing i like about it is that they have bands play there starting around 9, so we don't end up losing track of time, sitting there all night, and drinking too much.

first thing that happened was, a couple sat down at the bar next to us, shortly after we got there, and the woman started talking about someone i know. i just eavesdropped and didn't say anything, but that was weird. i will never get used to l.a. being a small town after all.

anyway, the lakers were losing on the tv, no big shock there. we were talking about work, my novel, the state of the world, his latest projects/prospects, music, my renewed desire to travel the world, etc. -- the usual stuff. the night bartender, eric, came on. he's this blond musician type, very nice and mellow guy. he arrived wearing an outrageous plush red coat ... very superfly. i was respectably nursing my second tanq & tonic, and doc was just drinking bud. (how he stands it, i don't know, but i hate beer anyway.) i played some tunes on the jukebox, which was a more complicated process than i might've imagined, and more musicians start coming in with their equipment and all. we're looking at our watches, going, hmmmm. we should probably get going. eric turns out the lights to make the bar really nice and dark. ahhh. then suddenly there appear before us twin glow-in-the-dark shots ... bright green and evil-looking. "have you ever had captain kirk's alien pussy?" eric asks. naturally, we had not. wtf, it was still early. we drank up.

eric wouldn't tell us what the ingredients were, except that vodka was in it. doc rightly pointed out that they weren't particularly strong, so we took off not too long after consuming them. i dropped him off and went home, spent the evening with my main man, agent 00soul, just hanging. definitely started feeling tired pretty early, however. time was doing that dragging thing, which is always so surprising since it usually moves so fast. i did not feel particularly drunk at all.

however, although i was tired and went to bed fairly early, i felt weirdly awake for a while. after i did fall asleep, i had the most evil dreams i have had in a long time. just sort of murky, shifting anxiety scenarios all strung together -- missing deadlines, not being able to make it to work, being in strange unsettling situations of all sorts. i can't really remember them now, but at the time they were vivid to the point of disorientation ... i kept waking up, thinking i was in some sort of trouble, or that i had things to sort out that i would never be able to unravel, etc.

ugh. so, that was no fun at all. i usually don't have that sort of insomnia or freaky dreams unless i have consumed a lot more alcohol. so ... it had to be the alien pussy. (i think it was spiked with some sorta energy drink ... a pox on the people who invented this shit!) which kinda gives a whole new meaning to the concept of "the first one's free." next time, i'll pass.

drink me

someone at work sold a new account, this malt liquor/energy drink. so there were samples, and so we tried it. it was pretty gruesome -- it tasted like a flat peach wine cooler (soooo '80s) -- but i drank the whole can. experiment. it made me almost instantly speedy (note: chemical compounds tend to hit me hard and fast), but also just ever so slightly disoriented, as alcohol will do. after a while i went off to the drugstore and to run errands. while shopping i felt a little confused at points, like i would if i'd had a quick beer, then run into a brightly lit place like that. but i also felt a bit jumpy, like my skin kept rearranging itself at its own whim. while checking out, the cashier was having problems dealing with the coupons i gave her, and usually i'm pretty mellow about that stuff. people who work in drugstores have it tough enough w/o me being a bitch b/c of some computer/human malfunction. but tonight i was totally irritated by it, feeling a weird combination of alcohol-induced-esque aggression and speed-induced-esque impatience.

anyway, i didn't make a scene or anything, just paid and took my stuff and said thanks and left. but as i walked out i began pondering the notion that these effects would doubtless be intensified if one were to consume more of this beverage. and this is being marketed to the youth of america?? (fortunately, the stuff tastes so dreadful i can't imagine it taking off. i mean, red bull is nasty enough ... this stuff is way worse.)

the killer

...is the name of this song by greg dulli (and someone). it's my current favorite on the new twilight singers album, a slightly buzzed, pulsing tune that starts out as hushed anxiety/reassurance, builds to a near-symphonic crescendo, and then fades from earshot. but then i am currently riding a massive bummer, so this type of thing appeals to me.


i think we're lost, don't worry
i've been here before
i'm sure i thought i knew the way
out of here yesterday
dove cuesto, mi dolce?
your driver called, it's time to go
your driver's waiting for you

and i caught a fever
a holy fire
'til i was crawling on the ceiling
come out of your hole
i know you know
you know i know
i wanna go

such a pretty thing, i've never seen
someone so perfectly deceive
i loved her smile
and her beguiling way with me
she smelled exciting, i wanted some
your driver's gone
like everybody

and that's why i need ya
to catch on fire
i want you to burn me 'til i feel it
i know you know which way to go
i wantcha to show me
so i can steal it
where should we go?
where should we go?
i know you know that i'm
gonna need it
i know you know which way to go
i know you know
i wanna go

so it's my latest obsession, this song, and indeed the whole album, currently the thing i play over and over, on my way to work and back home again. "i want you to burn me 'til i feel it" is the line resonating most. a sense of feeling so numbed by ... whatever might be numbing you -- life, the universe, everything? sex, drugs, rock n roll? manny, moe, jack? -- that you need something to eat away at you before it even registers.

i don't really feel that bad, but sometimes of late i do feel alarmingly numb. some of my elders would tsk sternly and tell me this is because i don't take their advice about not drinking so much, eating better, sleeping more, etc. but all of them have ruined themselves on the rocks of excess, and i find it alternately endearing and irritating that they want to save me from the same fate. that's sort of beside the point, at the moment, however.

so ... the album. it's called blackberry belle, and it is quite a good piece of sonic art. greg dulli is the architect of it, and the songs are all tethered together, i think, by the pain of him losing a friend, filmmaker ted demme, who had a heart attack following a celebrity basketball game a while ago. before i knew the backstory, i viewed this mainly as another skunk-on-the-make album, more tomcatting tunes from the mack daddy of alt-rock/soul. his persona -- which, from what i know of him, extends into real life -- is that sort of self-pitying compulsive lover-boy who alternately agonizes over and revels in his evilness. fairly irresistible on record; doubtless a nightmare to deal with in reality. but, as someone once said, "half the records in my house are made by people i wouldn't let into my house."

on that simplistic level, songs like "teenage wristband" and "decatur st." work quite well. the music weaves together fat electric guitar licks, gorgeous piano riffs, lilting strings, dramatic horns, and ambient noises with dulli's breathy, even overripe, growls, whispers, and moans of intimation. it's one long plea for attention, for action, for absolution from baser impulses, alternately taking pride in the very vices being lamented.

but the more i play it, the more i hear between the lines a lot of despair, melancholy, maybe even some regret. dulli's work has always acknowledged the human toll vice takes on those held in its grip, but here he sounds weary of it all, if not quite ready to chuck it -- maybe uncertain of what else there really is, anyway. i will refrain from tired analysis of the inner workings of the man's mind: these things seem obvious in the mix, but they are also my own projections, i suppose. at any rate, what fascinates me most is the image of the aging playboy, all fucked up once again, numb to the point of begging to be burned (even metaphorically). it is the very antithesis of youthful rock n roll, and yet, of course, it's the flip side -- especially in this day and age where no one cares to die before they get old, or, maybe more accurately, to get old before they die. i don't think anyone even sees the use in it, and certainly the urgency of that sentiment so succinctly expressed by the who way back when has been lost in the frenzy of maintaining eternal youth. when mick jagger et al. go on pumping 17-year-olds well into their 60s, acting like foolish teenagers but appearing more foolish than any lad, who could be expected to understand that what's alluring and animal-attracting at 25 is appalling and repulsive when pushing 40? i mean, iggy pop, trying to be a troubadour a few years ago, writing songs about what a bummer it is to fuck 25-year-olds b/c he has nothing in common with them: oh, my, and boofuckinghoo!!

uhm, anyway, again with the off topic. but i think what i'm trying to say is that there is a lot of pain on blackberry belle, and it's actually quiet desperation. the album is quite stark, despite the use of varied instrumentation, and though it regularly sprawls out in blasts of the funky, visceral, hypnotic alt-rock dulli used to make with his band the afghan whigs, i find the calm-before/after-the-storm moments very compelling. the opening track of piano and gutturally wistful vocals, "martin eden," and the aforenoted tune whose lyrics i have pasted above ... these are the things moving his art forward. in their own way, they are fearless, although i sense fear in this album as well. i sympathize with it, because i think i understand it, after a fashion. greg and i are the same age: i think we are in what xtc's andy partridge described in a song as "the hinterland between young and old." it is a vast territory, unknown terrain that changes even as we approach it. i'm not even sure where the borders lie. we live in the shadow of the baby boomers, who, bless them, altered a lot of perceptions about what is and isn't a grown-up thing to do. (before they mostly fucked off to the suburbs to raise their kids in an even more protective environment than the one they rebelled against -- can't wait for this generation to grow up.)

so on one level, we do what we want, because they already broke the barriers, the mold, the fucking wall. we don't have to fight those battles. no one's paying attention to us, anyway. there's no road map, so let's just go. on the other hand, sometimes i feel like there's a "where the hell are we?" quality to my micro-generation's meanderings. those of us who don't go the conventional marriage/kids route, in particular, although i know that acting normal is no guarantee that you are or can become normal. (whatever that is.) on this dim landscape it's easy to get lost, and i wonder if part of the aftermath of dulli's friend's death was not only the feeling of loss from losing him, but also a sense of being lost, coupled, perversely, with a desire not to be found. questioning, but also resignation. not even a resolve to change...fatalism is in play here, too. or maybe weariness, a freakish peace with his choices, a bone-exhaustion that makes it difficult to contemplate life-overhaul except on the most superficial levels before taking another hit of whatever it is that gets you through the nights and days of vague discontent.

hmm...am i talking about myself or my perceptions of greg dulli now? not sure. how it relates to me, the fear i hear is my own: fear of never doing anything significant. as i play these records by dulli or joe henry, i think about how they have such strong voices and use them so well (albeit so differently). so seemingly confidently, also. i am impressed and a little jealous, although i have no desire to be a songwriter, per se. or to perform on a stage, god forbid. it's an overarching sense that i have been lax in being the architect of my own life. this is a common theme. relying too much on the whims of fortune, or others, for the direction my life takes. spending too much time wishing something could be so instead of making it happen. i sense that i am falling behind, but i only know how to work at my own pace, which is damnably slow. (good thing i come from historically long-lived stock. *knocks wood*) but, yeah, i have that feeling that i will die before i get everything done. the killer, i suppose, of myself: slow, painful, angry death.

hey, i said i was riding a massive bummer.