Thursday, July 28, 2005
cloudless
I've been wearing a red zip up jacket and white chucks that I bought for five dollars on Haight-Ashbury for the past three days. Little kids wander around redwood forests where pillows of light trickle. Kurt Cobain is still alive. I almost ran into Jon Brion at Amoeba Records in LA. Walking around staring at the pavement with large white sunglasses is in. I owe the Bay Area 33 dollars. Jamie Stewart (Xiu Xiu) took me and the GF out for dinner in Oakland followed by this bar called The Alley where two really really old white dudes sing obscure show tunes from the 30's. Tomas Palermo and the XLR8R crew slang out of a sea-foam green building on Divisadero street where he does laundry while he works (theres one at the bottom of the building). Berkeley is full of homeless people & Cody's Books (whoa, artmagazines, whoa) & two record stores that are next to each other and are as big as a small European nation & idealist students. The SFMOMA is where I want to be buried, ( I almost made out with a Matisse portrait). Austin seems like a dot. Somehow, thats okay.
It's cold as fuck out here, duke. And I love it.
Te Amo, San Francisco.
p.s. I'm still here. Don't call.
Tuesday, July 19, 2005
california love
Two weeks. LA, Big Surrr, SF.
Don't look me up.
p.s. you'll catch me in the back of Amoeba, bathing in old Brazilian records.
Saturday, July 16, 2005
silencio neon
Theres no reason literature has to be like a bad haircut. Working on microfiction makes you realize that reverb can be applied to the English alphabet. Characters are always fragments.
writers that are still breathing (and two that sort of aren't):
Javier Calvo
Adrien Tomine
Chester Himes
Victor D. Lavalle
Junot Diaz
Henry James
Bernard Malamud
Chris Abani
Nalo Hopkinson
kerplunk!
Saul Williams- Real Niggery, Vol. 1- Track 4
Saul Williams- Real Niggery, Vol. 1- Track 9
(courtesy Catchdubs--because his mixtapes make you feel all waked up.)
p.s. more MP3's soon.
Thursday, July 14, 2005
dance dance dance
-Wait until every Mexican kid has a Powerbook: Cafe Tacuba @ Stubbs
Tuesday, July 12, 2005
hola adios
First things first: Cafe Tacuba is one of the greatest bands in the world and they didn't have to make a record that sounded like U2 to do it. Last night, amongst chattering handclaps, a thin haze and too many Americanos I saw them perform on Austin City Limits. Free beer made people's eyes widen, but it was the hour and half set that was both historical, Bun B tight and welcoming to the mainly white audience. Mexican folk, such as myself, yelled things out during the taping (see if they make the edit), girls danced on stage with them and, at one point, there was even a small child with the Gallo Gass mask on: it was post-real. Dream-like and airy, the entire event felt like they were playing just for you.
Check for this show starting in October.
You might even see my ugly grill up in there.
I'm off to see them again tonight. Should bring back some pictures. In the mean time, check out these words.
Next up: Hello, California.
Thursday, July 07, 2005
...then there were loud thoughts
Tuesday, July 05, 2005
we say yes
there is no reason why you shouldn't live here. where lights have beards.
p.s. if Slim Thug is going to show up wearing the nicest dress, then we might as well wrap this thing up. close the curtains.
Sunday, July 03, 2005
aurora
(spaces, like a thousand thin needles, wash across blank reels of film. wrinkles beneath a soft, green iris. and the penciled shadow of blurred memories behind his eyelids.)
<'noghostonlyshell'>
guero
there should be a copyright on sunlight cause its dumb hot out.
"...and I lived in Africa and even Africans don't jog at noon, they're smart!"
--some white tourist lady at the museum where I work on how blazing it is in Austin.
on another note, at least you didn't grow up with these.
Friday, July 01, 2005
microbeats
Kompakt, Playhouse, Bpitch--basically 82% of young Germans--all seem innately literary to me. Though the language of microhaus is clicks, flimsy pulses and milky melodies, I have always heard the open-endedness and intensity of some of my favorite writers. Similarly, they leave spaces for me to walk around in. White rooms of rhythm. And just like Zora Neale Hurston, they make my ass move, duke.
Two reasons why you need to get electric. Isolee's new album. And the blackest (white) British dude I have ever heard sounding more soulful than D'Angelo: Jamie Lidell, whose Multiply is why the French founded Austin three thousand years ago*.
*history, in the future, will be relative.
thugged out
