Heurism

This is a damn fine article about the governance of California. Fascinating, in depth, funny, scary, it has it all. Since I lived in Cali for nigh unto 20 years I feel every word. Highly recommended.

Link

and yes…that is Jerry Brown, aka Governor Moonbeam…

I remember the day I got the 12″ of this song. I remember playing it on my ancient turntable with my gigantic headphones on. Full volume. I remember the first listen to of the lyrics, the urgency, the barely controlled violence. I’ve always said that the Clash saved my life. And here it is the benevolence of Joe, the love of new music by Mick, the fury of Headron, and Paul Simonon’s call to reggae and beyond….

This is radio clash tearing up the seven veils
This is radio clash please save us, not the whales
This is radio clash underneath a mushroom cloud
This is radio clash

Margareth Thatcher on TV
Shocked by the deaths that took place in Beijing
It seems strange that she should be offended
The same orders are given by her

I’ve said this before now
You said I was childish and you’ll say it now
“Remember what I told you
If they hated me they will hate you”

England’s not the mythical land of Madame George and roses
It’s the home of police who kill black boys on mopeds
And I love my boy and that’s why I’m leaving
I don’t want him to be aware that there’s
Any such thing as grieving

Young mother down at Smithfield
5 am, looking for food for her kids
In her arms she holds three cold babies
And the first word that they learned was “please”

These are dangerous days
To say what you feel is to dig your own grave
“Remember what I told you
If you were of the world they would love you”

England’s not the mythical land of Madame George and roses
It’s the home of police who kill blacks boys on mopeds
And I love my boy and that’s why I’m leaving
I don’t want him to be aware that there’s
Any such thing as grieving.

It seems hard now, at times, to remember how full of menace the Stones were. Starting even as early as ’64 and culminating in the dark dark days of the ’70s, they were the band your mother warned you about. Could this song be any more sexually menacing? Really?

Randypanda and I used to joke about things that were Mega Meta. That is…beyond the scope of the meta. This article has so much meta in it…it couldn’t be anything *but* Mega Meta. Link

Quick recap: A comic book scripter writes a script about a think tank that comes up with ways the United States could be attacked, which then proceed to come true. The state becomes totalitarian, etc. Said comic book writer is detained by the TSA, who discover the script…..and then it’s turtles forever.

Turtles

All gods are homemade, and it is we who pull their strings, and so, give them the power to pull ours.

- Aldous Huxley

//rant on

I gave up my directv connection months ago, so pretty much the only TV I get is at bin’s place, and while eating sushi. But even I couldn’t escape the bombardment that was yesterday’s death march madness surrounding first Farrah Fawcett, then Michael Jackson. The media in America likes nothing better than celebrity. Except for celebrity debased, or celebrity destroyed, or celebrity on the funeral pyre.

Farrah had been America’s Sweetheart #30356.5a, the “embodiment” of wholesome ’70s sexuality, as opposed to Bo who I suppose was the embodiment of unwholesome ’70s sexuality. Or something. She did one season of Charlie’s Angels then struggled for the rest of her career with a stop in made for TV movie land or two. Her best role, by far, in my opinion was as Robert Duvall’s wife in The Apostle. An amazing piece of acting. She hadn’t really been on the cultural radar until she started to die. Sadly. Then for 6 or 7 hours she was famous again.

Then Michael.

Michael was the walking, talking, crystallized personification of the post MTV Celebrity as crazed, disabled deity. Michael made some of the great pop music of all time, and then paid for it. He paid for his brutal upbringing. He paid for never topping Thriller. He paid for it all. He lived a life of what seemed to be huge amounts of weirdness, insanity, discomfort, sad highs and lows. Michael’s talent can never, probably, be separated from his desperation to be something else, /anything/ else. He too had lost a great deal of his celebrity, reduced to a punch line, tainted by years of eyebrow raising hijinks with kids and money and sheiks and increasingly odd white women. Then he died. And now, he will be famous all over again.

I think Anderson Cooper is an ok media guy. He usually has something interesting to say about world events and can speak with clarity about whatever event has befallen whatever region. Listening to him try to mythologize Michael made me want to cut my ears off. Listening to the parade of hangers-on, minor celebrities, never wases, and talking heads babble on about his gift while the funereal flames stripped away the taboo of his supposed child molesting made me sad.

So there.

//rant off

Sunday afternoon bin and I took in the waning hours of the Nada Dada Motel Project. The project is a once yearly event that takes place at two “weekly” m(h)otels in Reno. The idea is that you rent a room for the week, set up your art (whatever it may be) and people come and browse. Because of the surroundings (the legendary El Cortez, and the less legendary Town House Motor Ledge) hijinks are bound to happen…are even *supposed* to happen. Since we got there a bit late, some of the crews were already cleaning up. Some highlights:

Joy Wong: a damn intriguing portraitist. Check her out.

Christopher Robin Blum: some nicely photoshopped photos. Here.

Christopher Umana: a terrifically talented illustrator. Here.

And yeah…the room of 1,000 dildos. Completely crazy. Oh…and the rose room. Even crazier. One thing that really struck both of us, however, was a room at the Town House Motor Lodge between two NadaDada rooms. Keep in mind that people continue to live in these spaces even during this art event. This room, full of boisterous teen somethings and perhaps an adult or two had a sign taped to the door…it said simply, “No Art Here.” Really? Isn’t that the modern definition of “art”? Sorta. Ish? I made bin take a surreptitious photo.

This past long weekend was one steeped in the arts for bin and I. Thursday we saw Up, Friday evening we saw Dick Dale, and Sunday we took in the NadaDada Motel art show. Amazing.

Dick Dale put on a pretty damn good show. He is 72, just recovered from cancer (a 2nd time) without the use of painkillers, and still capable of kicking out the jams. I’ve seen Dick a number of times and he was very much chattier Friday night than ever. He seemed to be having a complete ball playing older tunes (Miserlou of course), some of his tunes from his time in South America (Esperanza and Belo Horizante), oddball classics (The Hully Gully!), and even Hava Nagila (Hey!). I can’t believe he did trotted out The Hully Gully. Hilarious. Over the years he seems to have gotten over the fact that he really can’t sing and embraced it. Now, well…he is who he is. At those moment he locks into a groove and really plays, he is hard to beat. I’d go again in a heartbeat. Sharing that with bin was really something special.

bin and I went to the movies on Thursday for the first time in forever and watched Up. I can safely recommend this movie for nearly everyone. It’s a sad movie, to be sure, filled with genuinely moving moments and ruminations about growing old, wasted opportunities, and the tug of responsibility. But it is also a hopeful movie. Oh, and it has dogs in it. Wonderful, funny, tender dogs. Especially Doug…who says, “I have just met you and I love you very much.”