Sniff...no really, its just something in my eye...

Glasvegas - Daddy's Gone



Say...are these lads foreign? Accent? What accent?

May the absence of daddy continue to inspire many a maladjusted adolescent...and future exotic dancers.

Undead. Undead. Suckers.

Fad: a practice or interest followed for a time with exaggerated zeal.
— Merriam-Webster Dictionary

Bring back the penguins! What happened to the penguins? Do we not care about penguins any longer? What happened to the baby craze? Today, we've gone vampire crazy. The literary world started it. Hollywood should end it. Soon. What say you pirates? Hmm...pregnant penguin vampires...

Oh, and a heads up to insecure dudes...if there's a movie with anyone named Seth--acting, producing, directing, and/or writing involved you will see male full-frontal. Yes. Consider yourself warned.

Early AM Poetry from C.O.M.P.T.O.N

Yes this is verse from a "gangster rap" song. I recall hearing this in the early 90's and thinking...how wonderful.

RBX - Stranded on Death Row (Verse 2)

No prevention from this lynchin of sorts
Your're a victim, from my driveby of thoughts
No extensions, all attempts are to fail
Blinded by the light, it's time you learn braile
From the lunatic, I'm death like arsenic
When I kick a wicked raps, Dr. Dre will hit the scratch
With treachery, my literary form will blast
And totally surpass the norm
Not a storm, plural, make it, many storms
When I'm vexed, I fly leg necks and arms
In this dimension, I'm the presenter
And the inventor, and the tormentor
Deranged, like the Hillside Strangler
MC mangler, tough like Wrangler
I write a rhyme, hard as concrete
Step to the heat and get burned like mesquite!
So what you wanna do?

The narrator RBX, cell block two

Getting caught up in the moment...briefly.

Say, was that you riding a fixie at midnite around Sunset + Hyperion on election nite in skinny jeans, a I ♥ NY tee and sporting a keffiyeh? (You sure as hell weren't wearing that scarf on Sept. 12, 2001!). Complete with a bandana hanging from your back pocket. That was you. You had just left the taco truck with your carne asada con todo. Si Se Puede! The Piolín would be proud. Seriously. Stop. Please. No, seriously. Stop. Come on. I'm pleading here. Riding around in tight black jeans is just plain silly, with no helmet no less. Silly and unsafe. It's so not L.A. And when did not having to kill your legs riding uphill on an old road bike with more than one cog become uncool?!

I don't know what the motivation is. I really don't. As I understand, hipster (I hate that word, like EMO--I don't know what the hell it means. Someone asked me once if I listened to EMO, I replied, you mean like the Geto Boys? That's some EMOtional shit) fashion today is--one part skater/punk, one part Black girl (circa 1988) and one part fag--but you can only get away that shit in the Mission district (SF) or parts of NYC, but L.A.? Come on. My five biggest pet peeves--litterers, parking lot speeders, gasoline spillers @ the pump, people who aren't down with Air Supply and the most egregious--Californians sporting NYC garb. Leave now. Please. No really. Leave. I hate to break this too you, and there's no easy way to say this, so I will just come out and say it. Here goes. People from NYC aren't anymore interesting, creative, brave or real than folks in Chattanooga, TN or Blytheville, AR for that matter, but possibly more so than people in Orange County. Hehe.

I digress, I've spent the last few days here in the Bay trying to make sense of it all. San Francisco values seated deep. Quick recap--hip Lesbians, twitching dealers, hitchhikers, belligerence, parking nightmares, 120sq ft. studio apts, musicians, junkie clichés, lines and lines, good times. Pity thy principles. Looks like I picked a bad week to...what's that? You're a designer/writer/musician/dj/hairdresser/model? Wow. I'm sorry, but I'm interested in meeting a nice admin assistant who works in the billing department of a mid-size HMO.

So, nearly two weeks have passed since the election...a clearer mind and a chance to reflect as I await Change.

Election day...surprisingly, no line and no waiting. Walked right in to my polling location (St.Something-or-other Catholic Church). Ink-a-dot pen in hand, I did a quick once over of the names for Supreme Leader. First name--the Unreasonable Man himself, Ralph Nader, Cynthia McKinney (Green Party), McCain/Palin, that Hussein fellow, Alan Keyes (yes that Alan effin' Keyes--the man who once had his own show on MSNBC of all places--post 9/11 of course, what a difference 6 years makes), and Bob Barr (Republican turned Libertarian candidate). So there I was voting in this historic election and I couldn't do it. I couldn't bring myself to vote for the not-exactly-Black guy, even though I wanted him to win. I mean I like the guy. I really do. Truth be told, on more than one occasion I found myself defending BHO from some of the most asinine and downright sinister smears but on that morning I just couldn't bring myself to vote for the man. Plus, living here in CA, it really didn't matter much in the way of electoral votes now did it? No regrets.

But election night was an entirely different kind of flying--altogether. After watching Sydney McCain give his concession speech--gracious, humble, sincere--where was this McCain during the campaign I thought as I heading out. Ended up at a $9 cup o'chai tea cafe in L.A.'s lastest bastard child of gentrification--Echo Park, with a friend as CNN replayed parts of the Pres-Elect's speech on the flatscreen, when I heard some kind of ruckus outside the place. Finished my tangy tea and strawberry tart, went outside and noticed about 10-12 people on the street corner celebrating--a few with Obama t-shirts and placards. We stood watching for a few minutes before crossing the street and were warmly embraced with open arms and high-fives as triumphant tunes blasted out from the gelato place's tired speakers--everything from We Are The Champions and Eye of the Tiger to America, Fuck Yea! It was easy to get caught up in the moment. It seemed spontaneous, real, and genuine. In less than 30 minutes that small crowd had swelled to dozens and we could see another large crowd gathering on the corner down the street. A colored boy even tagged Yes We Did! on the utility box in front of me and for those brief moments, all I could do was smile my cynical ass silly. After about an hour the novelty had worn thin and it was time to go as a kind of immediate morning after effect kicked in.

And as the pieces of our new Pres-Elect's cabinet and policy making apparatus come together, the cynic has reemerged with a vengeance. Real change will probably have to wait a while longer. Let us pray.

The passing of a great American progressive

From The Guardian:

Studs Terkel, the Pulitzer prize-winning author, broadcaster and master chronicler of American life in the 20th century, died last night. He was 96.

Celebrated for his streetwise portrayals of the American working class, Terkel was best known for letting the common people he called "the uncelebrated" tell their stories in books like Working and The Good War.

To generations of radio listeners he was also the voice of The Studs Terkel Show, which ran for 43 years and was widely syndicated across the US.

More on Studs @DemocracyNow!

Studs Terkel worked as an activist, a civil servant, a labor organizer, an ad writer, a television actor, and a radio DJ, among many other occupations. But since the 1960s, he was particularly well-known as a world-class interviewer, a writer and radio personality who drew celebrities and, far more often, average citizens into sharing their oral histories.

For 45 years, Studs Terkel spent an hour each weekday on his nationally syndicated radio show, conversing with famous and not-so-famous guests and with a loyal audience of Chicago listeners.