J.G. Ballard dies

Of all the writers I've read, this guy was the biggest influence on my own artwork. His science fiction stories always take place in the present and bring into focus a creepy side of life caused by industry, tv, psychosis, neurosis, & the machines we build.

The UK Guardian does a nice job eulogizing Ballard, his contributions, & his unique genius in these two articles:

How JG Ballard cast his shadow right across the arts : JG Ballard's influence on culture went far beyond literature. We look at his lasting impact on film, pop, architecture, TV and visual art

Crash author JG Ballard, 'a giant on the world literary scene', dies aged 78

Quoting from the second article:

The young science fiction author "wasn't interested in the far future, spaceships and all that", he explained; rather he was interested in "the evolving world, the world of hidden persuaders, of the communications landscape developing, of mass tourism, of the vast conformist suburbs dominated by television – that was a form of science fiction, and it was already here".

After reading Ballard more than 20 years ago when I was in college, I never saw things the same way again. Abandoned buildings, empty swimming pools, highway overpasses, machinery, and tv always make me think of Ballard and the creepy side of modern life.

Josh Olson on lonliness

Yes, I read about in on the lovely Boing Boing.

I will quote writer Josh Olson's words and add a link and a brief comment after:

We spend much of our lives alone. Some cope with it better than others. The ones who don’t are primed and ready for victimhood. You have to learn to be with yourself, because if you don’t, there’s a whole world of drugs, booze and rotten people who will be your friend until you’ve been sucked dry. Beware of what loneliness makes you do; and beware of this creature [the lady in the photo above], because she is out there, she is real, and Janna St. James is only one of her pustulant manifestations.

This is the last paragraph from a fascinating story that appeared here in the L.A. Weekly.

Basically the story is about someone who was active in internet message boards for writers, and what happened to her. In short, why I don't chat or meet people over the internet. What really struck home for me was the paragraph above- the sentence in bold especially. We are born alone. I have always liked spending time alone. But. Abusive elements can really fuck things up. What a fascinating story. There's a lesson here for anybody's who's ever been had.

Charles Bowden sums up America in one paragraph

Bowden also does a good job assessing the illegal immigration scene in the Southwest in this article in Mother Jones.

Here is the paragraph that sums up the U.S. and the world at large these days:

In America

The birds can no longer be trusted. Our government suspects a duck or a goose, perhaps that rare swan, will bring plague to our shores. The ice is melting, also. The polar bears are fated to die, the seas are guaranteed to rise and flood our coasts. The skies have mutinied and new monster winds whip off the ocean. We've already lost one city and there is concern about future storms. We worry about nuclear weapons that are not controlled by white people. The government eavesdrops on many people and says this is necessary for our protection. The enemies can be anywhere and appear as almost anything.

Bowden is the author of about a dozen books, mostly on the Southwest, and used to be a reporter here in Tucson.

So far I've read Desierto, Frog mountain blues, and am now reading Blood orchid : an unnatural history of America. All highly recommended reading for anyone interested in the West, Mexico, that whole nexus of cultures and related past present and future.

"The kind of taco you don't look up from"

I've always liked the idea of a journey where you make your way from point to point doing something you love. The journey is defined and mapped out by activity at its stops, like Burt Lancaster swimming his way pool by pool across the county in The Swimmer, or the journey through Dublin in James Joyce's Uylsses, or a downtown Tucson pub-crawl, on foot, pub to pub, (with a cab ride home after). One day I am going to spend a day in L.A. shooting photos, making a vector across the city, and organizing the work to reflect that journey.

In this article by Cindy Price of the New York times, the journey is a strech of the California coast and the purpose is tacos. I happen to make great (usually vegetarian) tacos almost every day, and I love California, so I can relate. Price and her boyfriend start in an obscure L.A. neighborhood, and munch their way north along the coastal highway all the way to San Franciso's Mission district. Nice article, nice journey.

For more on the taco experience, see Bandini's excellent Tacohunt blog.

Do you feel loquacious, punk?

Here is the runner-up entry in an annual bad-literature contest held at San Jose State:

"I know what you're thinking, punk," hissed Wordy Harry to his new editor, "you're thinking, 'Did he use six superfluous adjectives or only five?' — and to tell the truth, I forgot myself in all this excitement; but being as this is English, the most powerful language in the world, whose subtle nuances will blow your head clean off, you've got to ask yourself one question: 'Do I feel loquacious?' — well do you, punk?"

My friend Shake (his name's Scott, but his friends call him "Shake-" he winks and does a funny "male model" expression when I explain this to women in bars) could win the annual the Bulwer-Lytton "bad writing" literary prize. (Read the article here in the Arizona Daily Star.)

You just have to write the open lines of a shitty book, and you can make as many entries as you want.

This year's winning entry:

"Detective Bart Lasiter was in his office studying the light from his one small window falling on his super burrito when the door swung open to reveal a woman whose body said you've had your last burrito for a while, whose face said angels did exist, and whose eyes said she could make you dig your own grave and lick the shovel clean."

Ha! What a riot! Here is, in its entirity is Shake's "Plymouth Furey: Private Investigator"

The days passed by like heavy traffic in a bad neighborhood,
and brother I knew, I'd seen a lot of both.
As I walked down the dark, dank alley
towards my low-rent office,
I felt the night clinging to the cold brick building walls
like a wet rabid cat on the back of a fleeing Doberman.
I had that cheesy, itchy feeling that something was up-maybe the fact that I
hadn't showered in two days had something to do with it.

I stopped, looked over my shoulder, lit a cig and walked on.
My worn heels echoed on the concrete like rocks falling down an abandoned well.
I've been told that Baltimore used to be an ugly city,
I saw tangible proof that parts of it still were.
A rat the size of a groundhog scurried behind an overstuffed trashcan.
I flicked a butt in its general direction and walked in to the tall, quasi-art deco brownstone
where I kept my office.
I didn't usually visit my office that late, but I didn't usually forget
to take my rotgut with me either,
and besides; I'd left the window open.
As usual the stairs were filthy with grime,
and dammit, I had just waxed my wingtips.
As I climbed the five flights I loosened my tie
and wondered how I'd ever gotten into such a state of affairs.

See, I had once heard that private detectives slept well at night. That they
had so much dirt on other people that it let them wink right off into that
thing they call sleep. Me, I guess I was an exception, because I was on a
first name basis with every crack in my hotel room ceiling. But hell, that
was yesterdays news blowing down the boulevard.

Finally, I reached the tired brown door to my office, the one with the
frosted white glass that stated my name and occupation. I turned the key in
the tin plated doorknob-Christ, why bother, you could open that lock with a
toothpick. It was unlocked! I sensed almost immediately that I had company,
and this time it wasn't just mice. I flicked on the lights. "Hey, they still
work!" I thought with surprise. I was a little behind on the bill.

She was sitting in the ugly, green overstuffed chair, facing my desk.
Staring straight ahead, looking like a beautiful little girl, awaiting the
news of some glorious, yet tragic event. A dusty light bulb hung from a
tangled cord, unshielded, dangling over her head.

"How did you get in here?" I demanded (God I was so quick with words). "I
used a toothpick to pick the lock," she shyly responded.

I couldn't help but notice she was a looker. A classy, sharp, pretty face,
dark eyes, long auburn hair-neatly tied back, a charcoal jacket and skirt,
white blouse, soft red lipstick, and sheer stocking legs that would've
stopped Hitler's army outside Warsaw. "There are laws against breaking and
entering," I said coolly, as I walked towards my desk and then tripped over
an empty box that once contained legal size envelopes. I did a quick dance
as I careened into my filing cabinet.

"I only broke a toothpick," she said, as I stood up and righted the cabinet.
She was quick, I liked that. "Are you a drinker?" I inquired, squinting and
trying to look cool at the same time.

"Did you forget your glasses Mr. Furey?" she asked. I poured myself a drink.
Suddenly, and very loudly, the phone rang, like an act of God. A teenager's
voice was on the line, "Uh, I'm looking for some Plymouth parts and uh."
"Lookit, slim jim," I cut him off, the name's F-U-R-E-Y, Private
Investigator!" I let the ensuing silence tell the punk the rest of the
story, as I dropped the phone into the large metal, empty, bottom desk
drawer;

like an unwanted pair of old shoes, into an hollow Dumpster.


I lit a cig. "I need help," she said. "That's my job" I responded. She had
beautiful brown eyes that pierced my brain and flashed movies of the good
life on my mind. God, I was a sucker. "It's my husband," she told me,
absently fingering her gold wedding band.

"He's." She began to cry. It was the kind of weeping that took practice,
like driving a hearse. I reached out and offered my handkerchief, but like
most things I offered, it went unnoticed. She calmed herself. "I think I
know where he's been," she said softly. Off in the distance, through the
open window, I could hear a dog barking. "Where?" I asked- this was my job.
"Can you go there for me?" she asked in earnest. "I don't know, money
talks.uh." "Bullshit walks," she added. "Yes, that's it" I said. She
carefully laid down a pile of U.S. Grants onto the top of my desk. "That'll
do for starts," I said, as I thought gleefully about getting a used car, and
finding a better hotel.

"I believe that you'll find him in a sport's bar, C. J. Fooldoons, about
three blocks from here. He's got some kind of sports addiction or
something." From deep within my desk the phone suddenly rang, like a long
distance call from a dead relative in Iowa. I ignored it- but I resented its
potential. I was sick of calls for auto parts. If my father was still
kicking we might talk it over- my name that is. But if's and but's are like
chasing taxis in rush hour. And besides, tombstones don't talk.

I poured myself another shot. "Wanna hit?" I asked her. "What?" she
distractedly responded. "Nothin'" I said. "All right, I'll find him" I told
her. "I'll find him, and then what? Crowbar massage? Nose job? Sorry, I don't
pull the rough stuff. I'm a peaceful man," I said, and with that I kicked
back, my feet almost coming to a rest on my desk blotter as I recoiled
backwards over into a large, dead potted plant. "I don't want violence," she
said over my prone form. "Just tell him, tell him that I hired you, that I'm
worried and I want him home." She then abruptly stood up, as if something
dirty had fallen into her lap. "Losin' don't cost much" I said as I stood
up, dusting myself off. "You sure you want him back?" She looked down at the
floor as if the answers were written on it. If they were, it was too dirty
to read them. "Yes, I do want him back" she said. There was a certain tone of finality in her voice- and a certain stack of fifties on my desk. I had a
job to do. "So he's there now ma'am?" I questioned. "I believe so," she said
wearily. "His name is Adrian, Adrian Largo." She produced a tired, color
snapshot of him from her purse and handed it to me. She had beautiful hands,
like small sculptures that extended from her sleeves. He however, had the
usual early thirties white male look: toothy grin, trendy ring beard and a
beach-weekend tan. God sometimes love was ugly- like a painted rock doorstop.
"I'll do what I can Mrs. Largo" I told her, grasping her upper arm in my
outstretched hand. "Thank you, Mr. Furey. Thank you very much. My phone
number's on the back of the photo," she replied. She turned slowly,
hesitated, and then walked quickly out of the office. Her former presence
was like a ghost of class haunting the dime store dust of my barren, gray
room. From within the desk the phone rang again. I ignored it and opened
another drawer and took out a small bottle of green cough medicine. I took a
swig, put it back and then lit a cig. "I, have a job to do," I thought, as
the phone continued ringing like an empty phone booth in the Taj Mahal.

I locked up my office and walked the map a few blocks up to the sports bar.
I slid in the front door like a lizard with a cause. It was not my kind of
place. No class, no charm, neon and stucco. Don't get me wrong, I like
sports as much as the next guy, but I didn't like the flat brain wave types
who inhabit these dungeons of machismo. The bar was padded brassy and fat. I
hated that. Television monitors were everywhere. Typically, the place was
packed. The bartender was a glandular case who looked as if he had seen one
sports "event" too many. I didn't look around too much- eye contact made me
nervous. I lit a cig and walked back out into the foyer to the pay phone. I'll
go cellular when Jesus does, I thought to myself. I called information
and then called the bar. "Hello C.J.'s," growled the steroid-fueled voice.
"Could you please page Adrian Largo, it's a dire emergency," I asked. "Hold
on, please." Commotion ensued and then I was suddenly voice to voice with
one Adrian Largo. "Yo, Adrian my man! This is (my hand on the phone) mumble,
mumble, I got that bet money I owe you! I'll meet you by the pool table in
the back room in five minutes! See ya!" God what a cheese.

I lit up a butt and strolled outside. I fired it up into the air with an
expert flick of the finger, pretending it was launch time at the Cape. I
walked back in to C.J.'s house of intellect, feeling like a Christmas song in
July. There he was, in the back room near the pool table. Looking like a
teenager whose prom date had been in the bathroom too long.

He stared at a TV monitor as a Hockey fight raged. He wore expensive
clothes, was good looking (In a mail-order fashion catalog sense), and had a
demeanor that seemed to say, "I don't do favors."

I cautiously walked over and then quickly went eyeball to eyeball (I had a
job to do). "Your wife sent me, my name's Furey" I said, flashing him my
weathered State Of Maryland Private Investigators license (which had expired
three months earlier). His face changed directions like it was ready to
refuse magazine subscriptions over the phone.
"Fuck you, pal!" he spat.
"Lookit, sports boy, we need to talk," I told him in my best stern voice. I
flashed open my JC Penny suit to give him a glance at my holstered Mr. Smith
& Wesson (but, hell, I went unloaded). "What can I do for you, sir?" he
responded. My guess was that he was in sales.

"Your wife sent me to tell you that she loves you and she wants you to come
home. That's all." He looked around to see if anyone else knew how stupid I
suddenly was. "Christ, not again!" he said. "She's just a neurotic, that's
all! A neurotic bitch with some weird, romantic idea of love. Like
something in an old fucking movie she saw." He said the word love as if it
were a foreign language- to him I believe it was. All I could do was look at
him, and he was looking at me as if I had just delivered a pizza to his
Mother's funeral. I don't have many words for the unwise: "Grow a real
beard," I told him. "And get some training wheels for your life!" I
departed, expertly flicking an unlit butt in his general direction.

Outside the night was cool and good, like a preview of fall in the late
summer. I walked slowly back to my office, I'd left the lights on again and
I could not afford such extravagance. My wing tips cursed the climb as I
struggled to remember the last time the elevator worked. The lights in my
office were off. I opened the unlocked door and immediately sensed that once
again, I was not alone. I flicked on the lights like some small town chump
summoning the check in an expensive French restaurant.

She was sitting, rigid, in the chair in front of my desk, staring straight
ahead. But this time her face read like the worn out inscription on an old
Civil War statue. All was quiet.

I stood behind her, my hands in my pockets. "Was he there?" she asked. "Yes,
he was," I answered, surprised at the kindness in my voice. "He's still
there," I added. She turned and I avoided her glance. "What did he say?" she
asked. I thought hard, but my mind seemed to be downtown at the street
corner, waiting for the light to change. "He didn't say nothin' ma'am," I
finally said.

She looked down at her feet, and looking down, I knew she'd look up again. I
seated myself, lit a cig and poured myself a drink. "Would you like a
drink?" The words wandered out of my mouth like children unexpectantly
leaving early from school. "Yes" she said, "I'd like that very much."
Suddenly the lights went out. "Damn utilities" I thought. A moment later,
with explosive abruptness, the local freight train stormed by, offering
through the windows a surreal collection of lights and colors that flashed
on the wall behind my desk, and on the large, grimy, framed portrait of
Richard Nixon that hung at its center.

The train faded into the night, leaving us in silent, near darkness. What
little light there was, shone in her eyes as she watched me pour her drink.
From deep within my desk the phone suddenly rang, but I kept on looking
straight ahead at her, and we both pretended not to notice as I reached into
the drawer and took it off the hook.

More about the loquacious Shake here.

punks and George Hurchalla

Author George Hurchalla has an awesome book out about the punk rock music scene. It's called Going Underground: American Punk, 1979-1992.

Your Imaginary Friend, at Kzsu Stanford, has just interviewed the author and included the interview as part of a 6 hour punk rock special. The special ecompasses music from roughly 1980-1984, mostly the "hardcore" part of the punk scene in those days, i.e. the time when metallic influences crept their way into punk, and slowed us all down forever. The way it happened, meaning and messages could be heard more clearly. Lots of punks are very literary, and meaning, influences, and spur-of-the-moment fun have a huge influence, although the music and dance is decidedly chaotic and admittedly anarchic.

Hurchalla's interview, for those of you who love the message, the music and the social scene, is kickass, and may be archived sometime at www.shavedneck.com. This is a good archive and you music fans should check it out, especially if you dig the punk rock scene.

[UPDATE 1/30/06: go to http://www.shavedneck.com/SoundFilePage.htm>this link at Shavedneck.com for the archive. Archives, folks.

Henry A. Giroux - Against the New Authoritarianism

This book crossed my desk the other day at the library and caught my eye. Here is a top-notch educator, a PhD who not only summarizes what BushCo is doing to this lovely country we inhabit, but has also left for Canada.

Since Bush has been around, particularly since the (cheated) election of 2004, I've heard many, many folks talk about leaving. I've seen this feeling of defeat all over the place. I have threatened to go to France, for that matter- "If Lance Armstrong can learn French, then so can I." Lots of argument on this issue, I might add, is taking place. Most of it to the tune of, "well hell, how you gonna help change things back if you just run off?"

One of the key NeoCon strategies, I believe, is to produce exactly that feeling of defeat, like whatever you do to help restore sanity to the U.S. leadership and sociopolitical climate, civil liberties, etc, will have no effect and will lead to social rejection and possible jail time, or at the very least being sneered at by a clean cut family in a Chevy Suburban on their way to a revival meeting at the local fundamentalist church.

The point being, regarding Giroux, is he ran off, and his statements bespeak a sense of defeat, and are somewhat scary. But he has some fascinating things to say- he seems to shed light on the darkness infecting the U.S. right now. He seems to add a sense of structure to the whole process we've seen happen following the election of Bush II the Moron Son.

Chapter 4 of Dr. Grioux's book (he's written something like 30 books) above includes an interview with Giroux, from which I'll quote below:

Henry Giroux: I think that many universities in the United States are being undermined by both their increasing alliance with corporate values and interests, on the one hand, and the equally dangerous attack on academic freedom by the political and religious Right, on the other hand. We have witnessed four years in the United States marked by a growing culture of fear, insecurity, and repression. This is a culture largely controlled by religious, political, and freemarket fundamentalists; this combination, and the power it has exercised on American life, has been profoundly dangerous. The current government is involved in a war at home and a war abroad, both of which are mediated by a messianic view of the world that does not leave much room for dissent, nor for social movements that want to make authority accountable or forms of public and higher education that act as if they are democratic public spheres. And, of course, with Bush’s re-election
this will all get worse. The Bush administration views higher education as a left-wing bastion that needs to be destroyed, and I am convinced that in his second administration, the universities will continue to come under a harsh political attack. At the same time, the right-wing attack on critical intellectuals offers the Bush administration the kinds of diversions that sidetrack people from thinking about the Iraq war, the resources it is draining, the lives being lost, and the suffering it is producing. We have seen remnants
of the attack on higher education already with many academics after the events of September 11th being called “unpatriotic” because they undertook a serious examination of American foreign policy or called “anti-Semitic” because they dared criticize the Israeli government’s policies in the Middle East. A senator from Pennsylvania even tried to pass a law withdrawing
federal funds from those public universities that harboured professors who criticized Israeli policy in their classes. These are very disturbing trends and
do not bode well as to what will happen in higher education in the next four years. So, we are seeing a new war, a war at home, and that war will basically be against the universities. We already see the indications of how that war is going to be organized. We see it in the unjust association made between dissent and treason. We see it in legislation in which Republicans, through an appeal to academic freedom, attempt to place more conservatives on faculties. We see it in the increasing corporatization of the university and the marginalization of those disciplines that don’t translate immediately into profits. Penn State is one of the largest procurers of military contractors. Susan Searls Giroux and I had written a book called Take Back Higher Education on the corporatization of higher education. Essentially, it is an attack on the corporate university, of which Penn State is a poster boy.
There was no question in my mind that there would be retribution, though I never anticipated the shape it actually took. What became clear was that Penn State had become inhospitable to any kind of dissent. To be an academic and to constantly find yourself under pressure and isolated, by virtue of an atmosphere of anti-intellectualism and conformity, was completely
unacceptable for me. It was a pleasure for me to leave.

Here's a link to the whole interview (PDF). This guy's a heavy-hitter of a scholar, and just about each topic he brings up is food for thought on a major issue. These subjects will be covered in an upcoming post.

Ariticles by Christian Parenti in The Nation

This is the kind of journalist they call a traitor these days. His articles in The Nation are listed here.

Parenti in Bagdhad July 2004

In this article in The Nation, Christian Parenti hits the streets outside the Green Zone. He describes the Bagdhad of July 2004.

Christian Parenti interview in Mother Jones

Mother Jones interview from 01/05

Here is a journalist who does not consider himself particulary left wing ( even though he is the son of a pretty serious "marxist" scholar [hey, it's a free country, ok?]), quoting from an interview in Mother Jones:

"The military is, generally, a bunch of regular working-class Americans from all over the country. They work extremely hard and remain serious with whatever their task is: changing tires, getting computers to work, making sure communications are operational, making sure there is enough water and food, etc. You just get this serious, all-business, approach to the operations as a whole."

Right. And we need a strong military. To defend ourselves. We don't need to send 150,000 people and spend billions of dollars to invade a tinhorn Mideast dictator who's been getting bombed every time he farts since the early 90's.

This reporter Parenti happens to be the kind of guy who would have Rush Limbaugh and lots of other right wing types shitting bricks, because Parenti went over there and did his damnedest to interview the Iraqi insurgence as well spending a lot of time embedded w/ the U.S. Military.

Parenti also managed to piss of The News Hour on PBS as well by relaying facts he observed regarding how lots of people still had no power or water.