Thursday, February 19, 2009

Return the Gift

To the list of tattooers from whom I want to get some work, including Stephanie Tamez (for the second time), Thomas Hooper, and Eric Jones, you can now add Eli Quinters. Formerly of Saved Tattoo in Williamsburg, Brooklyn, Quinters recently opened up a shop on Smith Street in Carroll Gardens, also in Brooklyn, and is known for clean, traditional work (think animals, swords and flowers, etc.), some of which are on view at his site, Tattoos for the Unloved (check out the absolutely sick, Clash-inspired piece in the "Portfolio" section). For whatever reason, (is it the bright colors, or the not-to-be-messed-with designs?) I particularly admire the classic, Sailor Jerry-style approach to tattooing, which Quinters himself respects and to which he holds true. While it's true that the popularity of iconography in tattooing changes upon the whims of the public, I find that anchors, swallows, and other maritime imagery holds up best over time (anyone remember the "tribal" craze of the nineteen-nineties?), and will surely provide many a tattoo recipient with ideas for decades to come. I'm just itching for a new tattoo myself; I'm thinking of getting an anchor. No, a lighthouse. Actually, what I really want is a skull over a set of brass knuckles...

A link, further: Smith Street Tattoo Parlour

*

In yesterday's edition of the New York Post, that rag which masquerades as a newspaper and which publishes the work of right-wing lunatics such as Bill O'Reilly and Michelle Malkin, there was an editorial "cartoon," crude as it was, which depicted a police officer standing over the body of a bullet-riddled chimpanzee. The speech bubble above the officer reads, "They'll have to find someone else to write the stimulus bill." Anyone see a problem? A lot of people certainly do, and they have taken their distaste with the cartoon, and the paper itself, to the Post's headquarters.

Now, while the Post shrugged off criticism of the cartoon by noting that it was nothing more than "a clear parody of a current news event, to wit the shooting of a violent chimpanzee in Connecticut," and that it "broadly mocks Washington's efforts to revive the economy," anyone with half of a brain cell can see that the cartoon, by Sean Delonas, plays upon ugly, racist imagery. Unfortunately, there is no satire, no parody, in comparing the President of the United States, a black man who has taken the lead in crafting an economic stimulus package, with an enraged animal which had to be shot after mauling a victim.

That blacks are compared to wild, barbaric animals is nothing new, of course; the practice dates back to "first contact" between Europeans and Africans all those centuries ago, and this cartoon simply extends that troubling narrative in human history. One would think, however, given the cultural changes brought about in the United States since the landmark ruling in Brown v. Board of Education and in other court decisions, that people, however conservative their politics, however rigid their views on race in America, would at least be aware of the kind of reaction this cartoon would spark. The cynic in me says that the editor responsible for publishing the piece knew full well that it would draw plenty of attention (he's got to see as many fifty-cent copies of the paper as he can), and that nothing more can, or should be, expected from the right-wing.

So much for American progress in the twenty-first century. Change, indeed.

[D | R]

Thursday, February 12, 2009

A Racket Most Unholy


I should probably be writing about William Eggleston's show (Democratic Camera) at the Whitney, recently closed, or Alec Soth's latest presentation, The Last Days of W., at Gagosian's uptown gallery; instead, fair/weather reader, I will take up this space to talk about music, in the form of Canada's Fucked Up, that the kids have been talking (or "blogging") about lately. It's the least I can do for you today, whatwith my decision to withdraw my nomination to head the Commerce Department.

It's true, I admit, that I'm a little late to the wave of praise that has been bestowed upon a band so inclined to reject praise in the first place. After all, what kind of self-respecting punk band releases seventeen-minute long singles, some of which are adorned with potentially embarrassing/morally questionable photographs depicting Hitler Youth rallies and mass suicides? Well, Fucked Up, that's who, and what can be more punk than attempting to obliterate your chances for mass appeal?

The argument can be made that a band, any band, that chooses to purposely antagonize its audience by splitting a 7-inch with one song, "Baiting the Public," on both the A- and B-sides (so that it cannot be heard in its entirety straight through) is pushing to subvert the one-two-one-two-three-four! dynamic of punk rock used and overused since the Ramones' long-distant turn at the microphone. As I see it, Fucked Up are less a hardcore punk band and more a performance art troupe with slightly silly, off-kilter tendencies; in this way, Fucked Up remind me of Italy's artworld troublemaker, Maurizio Cattelan.

To borrow the title of the band's new album, The Chemistry of Common Life, Fucked Up's music is anything but common and ordinary; for a collective that respects its predecessors (such as Black Flag and the like) and holds no fear about starting off an album with the tenderest of flute solos (!), it's pretty clear that inventiveness is that chemistry, that elixir, so absent in here-today-gone-tomorrow outfits like Vampire Weekend. (I won't even bother adding a link to Vampire Weekend. I mean, a band that wants to sounds like Paul Simon circa 1986? You've got to be kidding.)

Can you tell how excited Fucked Up makes me? Maybe I'll get one of their snazzy t-shirts.

Links for the curious, bored, and marginally informed (ooh, a sing-song rhyme!):

a) Fucked Up at Matador Records
b) Fucked Up runs your new favorite blog
c) Fucked Up blows up right-wing televisions
d) Fucked Up owns you on MySpazz

[D | R]

Monday, January 19, 2009

Saturday, January 10, 2009

El Diario

Sunday, 4 January 2009

Saw LM off to her game. Checked for messages on Internet, a network. Showered, dressed, and walked, stepping lively, over to bagel shop. Egg and swiss on toasted sesame bagel, please. Counted change, correctly given. Thank you and have a good day. Over to F train station a few yards away from storefront, no liquor, with sign: CONTACT US REALTY. Is that U.S. or us, I thought on subway train gone local. Homeless man now: I am tired, I am hungry, and I am alone. Looking into my bag, I recognized what he was saying, and, after tugging on his torn coat, offered my egg and swiss. Thank you and God bless you, sir. No need to thank me for temporary comforts. Homeless man talks about drinking, losing his family, and reaching depths he never knew existed. At Jay Street, a mariachi band minus the mariachi--just guitar and accordion--gets on to play, entertain. Most are annoyed and I have a headache and remain without a morsel to eat. The band plays a few bars of a folk tune, shaped for delicate American ears, before quitting and asking for some money. It's a song I've heard before, on the record player my father once used, and at which he cry on Saturday nights. Why are you crying, I asked him once. Nothing, it's nothing. I didn't believe him then, and I don't believe him now. That's another song I've heard before, oh, it's nothing--there's no need to worry. It's a song without a title, without time changes, without a discernible pace; it is the song of vulgar laughter that was once heard in Newtown Creek before the chemical release, or in the Bowery before the arrival of another kind of filth. It's a song so commonplace that it has now become indistinguishable from crank-noise, indistinguishable even from itself. I think of that other rarity in music, genius, and John Bonham. He drank himself to death, you know, and I'm scared because I am seeing it happen all over again, closer. At 14th Street, a woman with a black beret and fur-collared coat gets on, looking intently at her map. She's lost and she knows it; the entire subway car knows it. I tell myself that she is a freelance consultant from Buenos Aires, or Prague, and she is in New York to land some business contacts, and perhaps to see some friends who have long since abandoned their ancestral homelands. The newspaper has an article about tourists steadily destroying Machu Picchu and Angkor Wat, and I resolve to add to that erosion. I think of LM, and wonder, among other things, about the plays she is making on the field. Onward to Lexington Avenue, where the woman with the black beret gets up and leaves, followed closely by a man holding a book whose title reads BEST AMERICAN SHORT STORIES, year of issue unknown. No one writes short stories anymore. The best short stories are written as synopses of, and introductions to, articles in medical journals like JAMA and Lancet: Prostate cancer mortality in the United States has declined in recent years, but this cancer remains the most common nonskin epethelial malignancy in US men, with 186, 320 new cases and 28, 660 deaths (the second leading cause of cancer death) estimated for 2008. A grim prognosis, duly cited and noted. Father again, and his health. Parents off now in Colombia to regain composure, pleasant sun. Home is 74th Street and Roosevelt Avenue, and I head off into Elmhurst. I shouldn't have tugged at the homeless man's jacket like that. I was only trying to get his attention.

[D | R]

Wednesday, January 07, 2009

Seven Contemporary Italian Poets

My translations of Florinda Fusco's poetry are up here and here. My translations of Marina Pizzi's work are also up on the International Exchange for Poetic Invention and The Poetry Foundation's Harriet blog.
{LM}

Thursday, January 01, 2009

A World in White Gets Underway

Happy New Year, friends. Sorry we couldn't all be together last night. Let's rectify that soon.

In other news... uh, it's a new year. No news yet. Except I'm a little tired and hungry and hungover. Imagine that.

{gc}

Sunday, December 28, 2008

Picture of the Day


From an exhibit at the National Baseball Hall of Fame and Museum in Cooperstown, New York.

http://www.baseballhalloffame.org
http://www.cooperstownchamber.org

Thursday, December 25, 2008

Sunday, December 21, 2008

I Pledge...

I was never a bright kid; at best, I was average. What you would call a child who once stole one miserable walnut from a supermarket display ("What's that bulge in your pants, Danny?"), but who thought he'd get away with it? A kid who looked twice before crossing the street but who still got run over by a car? What about that time, when on vacation in Cancun, Mexico, after jumping into the deep end of the pool—despite not knowing how to swim—I nearly drowned (many thanks to the burly American for saving my life)? "But these things happen to the best of us, Danny," I hear you saying. "After all," you continue, "you were a kid." I couldn't have known better, right? The point is that life, which is, ostensibly, a collection of experiences, need not—should not—be filled with such failures. In other words, I should have known better, I should have known that telethons weren't created to entertain people (*wink*); they were created so that good deeds could be performed, so that people could dress up and have somewhere to go. The problem I had as a kid—and, frankly, still have—is that I have some trouble relating to what people really need. I have trouble, and I don't think this has ever been clearer to me, understanding the messages and signals that are sent my way, as though my brain is inherently incapable of understanding the 4 billion+ people with whom I share this planet. (I exaggerate, of course, but you get the idea.)

A good example of this little quirk of mine is when, many, many years ago, I was watching one of the "Jerry's Kids" telethons, which, if I remember correctly, went on for what seemed like weeks, and its host, Jerry Lewis, in a fancy tuxedo, implored viewers to donate money with which to help children with some incurable disease. The program was something of a mish-mash of celebrities and musicians coming together for a good cause and a common purpose: helping the less fortunate. At various points throughout the show, cameras would pan over to volunteers working the phones, taking money from folks all over the country. My favorite part of the whole thing, the whole feeling of the program, was when Lewis would walk to the counter with bright, LED lights and say, "We've now raised $250,000 dollars!" Then the band would play, the studio audience would offer polite claps, and the motivation to participate would swell in me even more.

I wanted to help, to participate, and knew I had to do something. I picked up the phone and dialed the 1-800 number, after which I heard the volunteer's voice on the other end of the line: "Jerry's Kids! What's your pledge?" This was the moment that I had been waiting for all afternoon; the opportunity for me to give the only pledge I knew would not be denied: "I pledge allegiance to the flag of the United States of America..." Before I could finish my pledge, the volunteer hung up the phone, and I was left terribly confused. How else could I have helped? What else could I have done? Had I failed so miserably as to not deserve a response? I still ask myself these questions, and I still frame my life, to some extent at least, in terms which only allow for victory and for loss—a particular view of my relations to others that leaves for much confusion and distress.

There will be one day, though, one far-off day, when I'll pick up a phone and the person on the other line will say, with all sincerity, Hello. It's good to hear from you.

*

And now, in no particular order, the Best Albums and Related Stuff of 2008:

Stereolab - Chemical Chords - [4AD]
Fleet Foxes - Fleet Foxes - [Sub Pop]
The Night Marchers - See You in Magic - [Vagrant]
Hot Chip - Made in the Dark - [Astralwerks]
Portishead - Third - [Mercury]
The Black Keys - Attack & Release - [Nonesuch]
Spiritualized - Songs in A & E - [Fontana]
Bonnie "Prince" Billy - Lie Down in the Light - [Drag City]
TV on the Radio - Dear Science - [DGC/Interscope]
Hercules and Love Affair - Hercules and Love Affair - [Mute]

Best Song: "On the Water," by the Walkmen
Best Song by a Band Called "The Black Kids" That is Not Comprised Entirely of Black Kids: "I've Underestimated My Charm (Again)"
Best Single: "Blind," by Hercules and Love Affair
Best Compilation: Randy's 50th Anniversary - [VP Records]
Best Album Not Released in 2008: Damaged, by Black Flag

*

I'm here with you all, truly.

[D | R]

Wednesday, December 17, 2008

Monday, December 15, 2008

At last, a blog worth reading...

Fuck You, Penguin

I've been laughing hysterically for the last few minutes.

Sunday, December 14, 2008

Thursday, December 11, 2008

Monday, December 08, 2008

Wednesday, December 03, 2008

Rattle

The new issue of Rattle includes my poem "Everything & Nothing (TM)." Not, mind you, in the tribute to Cowboy & Western poets,(in that section, however, there's a poem by Red Shuttleworth, who I knew back in Vegas--he was part of the UNLV playwriting program, and let me tell you, he could have walked full-blown out of one of Sam Shepard's plays).

As always, there's a glitch: an R has been dropped from my name on the back cover, turning me into "Gegory." I swear, I've had more misprints in the last few years than a drunken compositor. Oh well.

{gc}

Tuesday, December 02, 2008

Arrrgh!

Check out Ryan Stechler's Pirate's Christmas Carol, newly added to Elaine Equi's Holiday Album on Jacket.

It must be December--they're playing some really crappy Xmas song right now that samples the Beatles' "Got to Get You Into My Life." Heavy sigh.

{gc}