Pop, We Will Eat Your Brains

Bruce Sterling is from my old hood (Austin) and writes like it. By that I mean he's a science-fiction writer (horses? hahahaha) but he also does a nifty monthly column for Wired. He's like some kind of academic Robocop that eats computational theories and processes digitized words. Like print, but invisible.

Anywho. He's apparently finished there at Wired and will go on teaching awesome classes about the Future in California where he was a "visionary in residence" here. I love California.

I am in Miami right now. New York izzzz cold! Sunshine bleeding on pretty people, gay waiters that are very nice (South Beach surrealism?) and shiny cars. Rap music makes more sense out of SUV's and not out of iPods (iPod carz?) Pink buildings, R&B clouds and green cars, Armani shoes, best eggs since Good in Greenwich.

More later!!

I think Samuel R. Delany is like watching Nintendo. But, you know, if Nintendo were programmed by Theodore Sturgeon. He has a new, non-genre novel coming out next May called Dark Reflections which is like saying Hendrix is coming out with a new album tomorrow. I can't believe how excited I'm trying not to get over this. And to further augment my excitement, here is the tale of a young man named Alex Wilson who is an up and coming writer in his own right, talking about talking to Chip. I just get so teary-eyed that Delany can still write at 60-something and I can't even get a new Bob Dylan record that doesn't sound like his vocal cords are really made of sand paper. And while we're at it, what the hell is the hold up, Pharoahe Monch?

Age gracefully and creatively.

1986:

Little green cabs, like bullets, washed across the streets. Spiky drops of rain fell, splattering across the trashy sidewalks. Drizzling on a billboard for Joya sodas. Walking home, Catarina Fernandez, wearing an orange coat with big plastic buttons, showing her flashy side at 58, was thinking of her daughter.

Gray hair and wrinkles that grew with each day made Catarina look like a soap opera actress on TV. But, when people told her that, she would smile, shake her head softly and forget she heard anything. Villoro, her neighbor, was outside watering his plants. Light blue raindrops fell on his T-shirt of President Miguel Hurtado, his slimy hair darkened by the rain, which was getting heavier. Their tiny houses, hers a blood red and his of cement, were connected to each other. She hated how he always hummed pop songs from the radio when he did this, as the limp water hose in his hand moved around and around. Before opening the black, barbed fence, she looked down at her bright green shoes she bought yesterday and how they were all wet.

“Hola,” he said. Like ordering from the local taqueria.

She looked up, opened the door into her small front yard and ran up to her wood-colored door.

“Como estas, Villoro?” she yelled over the water’s hitting the pavement. He did this, water his plants in the rain every chance he could, and always in that horrible T-shirt of the President. Villoro voted for the rat back in 1982.

“Estoy delicious, como dicen los Americanos”

She had always thought he was gay or at least curious. Villoro was a banker, in his fifties too, who worked briefly for the mayor when he was younger. He had bushy eyebrows, small lips, green eyes and pale skin. Not like Catarina’s dark brown body. Crisp pops sounded over her voice.

“Ves la lluvia, verdad?”

“Por supuesto, Cati, pero, si uno no le da gasolina, quien entonces?”

He knew that her husband, who worked for Pemex, never came home after he went to Mexico City on business back in ’77. That he left her alone with a daughter who used to click pens while Mom took pictures for a living. Rain fell harder as she opened her door, stood inside her house, and wiped her feet on a poodle-like rug. She talked to Villoro through an open window.

“Pinche lluvia, te va llevar un dia Villoro, vas a ver,” she yelled. Made him know that she hoped the rain would take him away one day.

She went to close the window, trying to close it, but it was stuck.

And he just laughed, deep and loud, his veiny hands still waving the limp water hose.

“Como se llevo a Olivia” he mumbled, thinking she couldn’t hear him.

Her window screen couldn’t stop Catarina from overhearing. She stopped trying to close the window and thought about running out in the rain and shoving the water hose down Villoro’s throat.

And then she thought of her daughter again.

The rain had taken her.

Two years ago, a phone call told her that she drowned in San Francisco, at a pool in an apartment complex. And Catarina, without papers or a car, never got the chance to see her daughter’s dead body. For five nights straight, she dreamed of what she must have looked like, who buried her, what clothes she wore.

Rain was spilling into the house. She finally shut the window, watching Villoro behind the rippled wet glass. Catarina put down her thick black glasses on her dusty side table, the ones she bought at this fake jewelry store in the Barrio Antiguo. Sitting down on a soft couch, the rose-colored one she’d had for nine years now, since Rodrigo left. But, she was much happier when he did. She just wishes he could have taken his dirty underwear.

She had her camera. His bathroom she turned into a darkroom. Her two wrinkled fingers turned on the switch of a large, white lamp. Catarina had a feeling it was going to rain all night.

Like it was written by the dudes at Ego Trip, this whole episode of KKKramer going bonkers at an LA comedy club is almost too weirdly real. Why do I feel like I live in Texas again? Thankfully, the Wayans brothers are here to help. This odd but strangely timely skit is ironic on 238 levels. Nothing takes away from the subtle comedic brilliance of his days on Seinfeld but Michael Richards has taken avant-garde comedy to stellar moronic heights. Sigh. Is it 1992 again? He was always odd, quiet and reserved in interviews. Now we know.

Levels, Jerry.

(Via Cowboyz 'n' Poodles)

I always wanted to draw so I could start my own Japanese motion graphics company and make 10 minute shows.

OUI!

Beach House- Apple Orchard

British writer and anti-shaving champion, Alan Moore, is one of the world's great living people. I don't want to make any big statements or anything. His new collection of graphic novels, Lost Girls, takes three of literature's great female characters, namely, Alice from Alice's Adventures in Wonderland, Dorothy from The Wizard of Oz, and Wendy Darling from Peter Pan. He also puts them in the world of 1913 and as lovers. He published them initially in 1991 but never as their entirety. I love the idea of exploring pornography as more than something that deserves a knee-jerk, politicized reaction. Moore, like one of my other favorite writers, Samuel R. Delany, takes smut and somehow shapes it into something more than just two people fucking. Or, in this case, three cartoon characters signifying Western innocence and eroticizing them. I am waiting for a soundtrack by Xiu Xiu (side project, Jamie? Please?) for some reason. I know this is a bigger issue, something that is complex and requires a myriad level of sensitivity, but I still imagine it requires at least our reading. Regardless, I urge you to read it and frame your own opinion for the sake of eradicating boredom and pleasing our sense of art as something that is supposed to be uncomfortable.

(photo by gatito)

For making me love you so much. Moving on, Blonde Redhead's second cousin anyone? Gang of Four's Dave Allen even produced it and put it out on his own label.

Brooklyn's Telepathe

Marylands' Ponytail

Los Angeles' Hecuba

Hey, kids. I was writing my 20th (or maybe 234th?) column for the electro people of XLR8R magazine. And I wanted to share some of the music finds with you all before Pitchfork steals them and steals the PR copy written on one-sheets for their vocabularically exorbitant reviews.

Dictionaries are your friend.

Deitch Projects here in New York does some mesmerizing stuff. Thats why their showcase for the SXSW of art fairs, Art Basel in Miami, looks awesome. I hope to go this year. They're also showcasing some of the illest folks in the art world and people we will be featuring in Blank Screen--painter Kehinde Wiley, Os Gemeos, Yoshitaka Azuma and others.

Put on those silver sunglasses and those 70's bootyshorts. Miami, here we come.

Allen Ginsberg- Who Be Kind To

(I'll be posting more MP3's from now on--I promise. If the link expires, email me and I'll send it to you.)

I laughed and laughed at Bob Odenkirk, David Cross and the creators of Wonder Showzen. The first pic is of the Brazilian graffiti artists Os Gemeos with Espo. Ha, ha, ha. The conference was held by the dope magazine again this year and I saw Bob Saget walk past Cooper Union afterwards by himself in the most dorkiest walk ever known to people who walk on two legs. Sunlight fell across the pavement, leaves shuffled. Pretty day.

Bob Dylan is a robot. "Like a Rolling Stone" to most smart rock critics (I'm looking at you Greil) is heralded as the "greatest rock song of all time". I agree with wide eyes and a hard heart. History is no friend to big, empty statements by tiny people with the power of critique. My dad has never heard the song. He was busy coming to this country to work in migrant labor fields while Zimmerman was wailing about lack of directions. Pop history as a mirror with an afro.

Is my pops not down?

Yes, he is.

I interviewed Alfonso Cuaron for the webzine where I'm editor, Blank Screen. He was nice and talked and talked. The full interview will be up when we launch the site proper, later on this month. Check back here for more tidbits and updates. Except you. You go away.

BS: How does it feel to be back in New York?

It feels great because its my first time in New York in a while and I lived here for 14 years and I just feel very honored, I really thank The Lincoln Center Film Society and very thankful to Guillermo Sordilla. Its exciting and I’m even more excited that Solo Con tu Pareja is going to premiere in the frame of this salute. The film was never released here in the States! I think it’s going to be refreshing and very good for an American audience to see. IFC had the idea to release the film and later on it’s going to be on DVD on the Criterion Collection. I feel great to be next to such amazing names.

BS: What got you into film?

Everything. Since I was a kid every time I was saying I’m going to be a filmmaker. If I would be playing cowboys and Indians, I wouldn’t be playing a cowboy or an Indian, I’d be playing a director making a movie about cowboys and Indians. It would have to have melodramatic themes and solutions.

BS: Were there particular movies that hooked you?

No, it was more the making of the movies that got me. It was so interesting. I became so enamored with the process. I was 16. Later, I started to get some film jobs, I climbed the ladder.

BS: You started in television right?

No, no, that is all wrong. I don't know where that rumor got started.

BS: Thank you, Wikipedia.

[laughs] But that is not my background. I have done something like 17 films as operator, and more as a camera assistant and then my big break was as an assistant director. I worked really hard. Eventually, I did some TV, I just did six episodes and thats how I connected with Guillermo Del Toro.

BS: What is your history with him?

There was this TV program called Hora Marcada that it was sort of a "toilet sound", we would call it a "toilet sound" [laughter]. But, we were so proud because we got to write our own script and direct them and edit them. And its how I met Guillermo, I had heard of Guillermo and it was there that I met him and our connection was immediate. And our careers have been parallel, he did his first film and then I did my first film and then I heard he did his first film in Hollywood and, you know, we always have a conversation back and forth of ideas. In Y Tu Mama Tambien, the ending was Guillermo's idea. And that comes together with Alejandro Gonzalez [Iñarritu], too. Now, I cannot do anything without their approval! But its the same thing, Guillermo gets to the cutting room with Alejandro and cuts 6 minutes of his movie and then Alejandro goes to the cutting room with Guillermo and cuts 8 minutes of his movie and, um, we're in constant conversations. Actually, I consider this film, Children of Men that I finished this year, Pan's Labryinth, which is Guillermo's film and Babel which is Alejandro's film--which they finished their trilogies with these movies, but for me, they both make up my trilogy with Children of Men. Because I think they are sister films, that they are so different and so diverse but yet very similar. I just feel lucky that these friends also happen to form an amazing family.

BS: Was it difficult making your first film, Solo Con tu Pareja?

Well, I was 29. I had already done work on some movies and TV so there was already a community for me. People like Pedro Mendares that I worked on his film, you know, they were there to help. But, at that point, Carlos, my brother, said I'm going to write this film and see what happens. It was one of those situations where luck just surrounded the project. The government had so much money to spend on movies at the time and they picked up my project. I benefited so much from that. The problem wasn't really making the movie, when I finished the movie I completely burned bridges with the film industry in Mexico.

BS: In what ways?

Well, we just had a different perspective on everything, everything. I wanted my movie to be seen and to be seen outside of Mexico. The guys in charge of cinema in Mexico would tell you "forget about that, nobody cares about Mexican films, not even Mexicans, so consider yourself lucky to just shoot a movie." And I was like "No! I didn't just shoot this to shoot this". From then on, everything was ruined. You have to understand that this was the PRI years, so it was about kissing the Pope's rings. And I refused to do that. I never considered that they were doing me a favor, I considered them my partners, my financial partners--they helped with 40% of my movie--but that didn't give them the right to demand everything. They were not used to that because everybody was so afraid that if you demanded anything you wouldn't be able to do your next movie. But then audiences demanded to see my movie and it became a huge hit.

BS: With Amores Perros, El Crimen de Padre Amaro and Y Tu Mama Tambien, there was talk of a Mexican New Wave, do you think that still exists? And is the Mexican government doing anything to support young filmmakers?

I don't think theres a wave and there has never been one. I think that its a little deceiving. With the exception of people like Fernando Imcke or people like Carlos Reyadas, who is the most interesting. Its really deceiving because truly speaking, there hasn't really been a big, big boom. I mean, its good news that almost every year or at least every couple of years a new name comes out. But still, its very slow. Theres Carlos Rulfo, others, but uh, theres not a wave. It would be great if there was but I think more than a wave there are a little individuals who are doing interesting stuff. I wish that Mexican cinema had the consistency of Argentinean cinema.

BS: Do you think this is a political issue? Is there not enough support?

Well, support has been hard. But, yeah, you can always partly say that but its the whole thing. I refuse to put the all the blame on the government because I blame the filmmakers as well. And the drive behind the filmmakers and the discipline of maikin films and im making a generalization. I happen to believe and happen to have faith with the newer generation. Because this ist he generation that has not been jaded by el PRI. I think right now the filmmakers are still jaded by the PRI. I think myself, my generation think started to become jaded. But, I can't wait to see the new one, even with Alejandro who was more free with these things. But then you see Fernando Imcke or Carlos Reyada and they are totally free. And then that makes me think, whats happening with the guys who are 20? They are free about feeling they have a position in this universe. Not just a little corner that the government is going to give you. Right now, I think young people are reclaiming their position in the world.

BS: You are also a producer--what draws you to a project?

Uh, well, obviously its the filmmaker, the subject matter. Something surprising in that respect is one more time, the new generation. New filmmakers--theres nothing like the energy that you get from the first time in film. THeres so much purity--yes, sometimes sloppiness you can call it, inexperience, but theres just so much energy. And that attracts me quite a lot. You know, I come from an age where I've been following the great masters, trying to emulate them. But theres a moment in that where you become stiff if you keep doing that. And you have to look back to the new generation. They're bringing fresh, new approaches to things. But I find that in cinema, like in life--and a perfect example is always beware of people that destroy young people. You know, always beware of Tony Blair? [laughs] For now in his crusade against young people. Instead of blaming young people why don't we realize why young people are losing respect? Maybe because you as a role model, you are not fulfilling the dreams of the youth. But in cinema is the same, you can keep going forward and following the masters, but you have to look back as well.

Chris Garneau + The Knife.

Dear Hamburg,

We have never met before. I live on this side of the pond (no, over here). We like cupcakes, Jay-Z and imaginary nationalism. But, I really, really like what you're doing. Liebe*Detail, they live in you and I like what they do with the boom boom and German sensibility. How much does it cost to move? Do you have nice teeth? Will I be able to find a copy of Dambudzo Marechera's novels there?

I miss you already.

Love,
Martin

I live down the street from this guy's art studio. Too bad I thought it was a crack house. Who knew?

Gary Sullivan--a poet, cartoonist and loudmouth--does these great little comics called "Elsewhere" that I buy over and over. Like what I imagined comic books could be, they are portraits of places and abstract feelings more than stories with plots. Plus, I like his hustler's spirit: he's selling his comics on his blog, free of shipping charges. Authors, like rappers, need to take notes because publishing companies only like you if you are making them money. And though it's harder to print up copies of your novel like it is to burn a CD, its still better than getting wrapped-up in a shitty deal.

Who knew we could learn so much from drug dealers?

He might be my co-worker. Or not, we'll see. Either way, I'm watching Tim Burton's Batman Returns and its a strange sensation to watch a film you once thought was so dark when you were younger. What is goth nowadays? Goth is now a philosophy that lives in the mouths of politicians. (VOTE VOTE VOTE).

I have probably not told you how great this novel was. That Ian McEwan, despite writing the screenplay for The Good Son (how fucking great is that?) has written a cerebral, morally intricate and intensely contemporary novel about neurosurgery, the war in Iraq, having a poet daughter who likes to have sex, a grouchy father-in-law who is a prize-winning poet who failed to win a Nobel and is now drunk and bitter. British authors are great because all of their characters can be writers, blues guitarists, lawyers--you know, not scummy types like American characters. But, I suppose even having Tony Blair do a cameo in your novel does not mean pretension equates with failed ambition. Clean, achingly clear prose provides the sterile narrative push for this book about a neurosurgeon that is politically conservative but has two liberal kids who on the one day the novel takes place (which just happens to be the Saturday of the global anti-war protests in 2003) save their father and themselves.

Please read it.

Cold nights, warm Paris DJ duo that makes you not sleep. Last week was CMJ + friend opportunity plus getting no writing done + Greg Saunier's flourescent jacket and Minnie Mouse laugh. I miss you, Deerhoof. So, story is, our site isn't really up yet but the nice folks at CMJ gave my girlfriend and I badges anyway based on what we told them we're covering in our first "issue". Needless to say, my week got more interesting. I saw Xiu Xiu friend and weepy crooner Chris Garneau give a heartfelt performance at the R&R bar with his cello-slanging band. Very weird, like Jamie Stewart and Ben Folds in a creepy black bar talking about Chinese torture and vegan cupcakes. Then I raced over to see The Knife which were like the Blue Man Group beating up goths on acid. Very dark but also very cheesy. Shit was free, what can I say. But, I got to finally say hello again to Philip "I Will Bring my Own Needles, Hoez" Sherburne who confused hundreds of Pitchfork reading-types (more on totally socially awkward loner Ryan Schreiber later) with sick 12"'s off of liebe* label from Hamburg. JAZZ! Then I saw Kid Koala the next night, in a beautiful Merkin Hall near the Lincoln Center. John Medeski of the famed acid jazz (read: talentless) trio played after him but I was so numb from loving Kid Koala that I left. THERE WILL NEVER EVER EVER BE A DJ MORE SUCCESSFUL THAN KID KOALA THAT MEANS YOU A TRAK THAT MEANS YOU QBERT THAT MEANS YOU 14 YEAR OLD PRACTICING CRAB SCRATCHES IN YOUR BEDROOM because he takes risks and balances humility with a sheer jaw-dropping pop sensibility (Moon River? Holy shit) that no other DJ has sustained. Humor, beat juggling and making orthodox Jewish kids go nuts two rows in front of me--these things Kid Koala makes you appreciate. Deerhoof and Erase Errata (whose bassist is like watching the sun over and over burn your eyes with magic juice). Greg Saunier deserves a Nobel Prize for drumming like his arms are going to fall off and the clouds are really in his Intel brain and they tell him "Go, Greg, go!" until he just giggles and stops cause he has to get up and say "thank you" into the microphone (and hello to a good DJ friend named Mr. 1984 who has seen Deerhoof in San Francisco, Austin and now New York) while Satomi's black T-shirt read:

WO
RRI
ED

But then I spotted James Iha (of Smashing Pumpkins, mom) and his icky bleached blonde hair wandering around looking for his dignity. Similarly, Pitchfork founder Ryan "Beards are for Grown-Ups, Not Me" Schreiber was seen walking in circles looking for no one in particular waiting for some lustful indie band to offer crack and sex for a review. Fuck and then I saw Justice, of the famed Ed Banger label put on a display of turntable madness not seen since, well, ever. Two hours of head banging, Slayer-esque techno and the occasional Tone Loc jam that made me miss not being born in France.

I need to sleep now. "Warsaw" should be done by the end of the year and will hopefully be submitted to neato anthologies on Fantagraphics and Drawn & Quarterly.

Yee-haw.