Fonts From the Old Town

Somebody over at the Emigre font collective has designed a font based on signage seen in my old Los Angeles neighborhood Los Feliz. Looking at it made me kind of sad and nostalgic, but react for yourself right here. You can also buy cassette copies of the first version Play With Toys, the classic debut album of hip-hop coulda beens Basehead, at the site's music section . This version has tons of uncleared samples and is much, much better than the subsequent repackaging of the record released by Imago. Download some MP3s of the record and give it a whirl.

Last Weekend, Part 2 (Ecelectic Boogaloo)

Part one can be read below. but for those up to date, read on...

From about 2 PM until 4 PM on Saturday I was in a semi-comatose half-awake state. Guilt forced me from the bed and into the shower, and all through my morning (well, afternoon) routine I pondered a very powerful, very literal dream I had jsut had. This is how it played out: Anthony Hopkins and I were sitting at window seats in the Starbucks that's at the corner of 6th Avenue and 42nd Street. Mr. Hopkins and I were sipping coffee as he told me a very interesting story about a society of Japanese man who called themselves the Kapi. It seems as though these Kapi guys were really in tune with their aggression and their jealousy over their wives, and everytime they met a new man, they immediately beat them up as a punishment for the eventual carnal thoughts they were going to have about these other men's wives. Thing was, once a member of the Kapi beat you, he was forevermore cool with you. There would be no other ass-kickings past the first. Impressed with Mr. Hopkins's skill as a raconteur, I began to wonder why no one was coming up to him and asking for his autograph. I mean, here we were sitting in a coffeeshop on one of the busiest corners of Manhattan and nobody was recognizing one of the most famous actors in the world! Just as I thought that, a young woman approached A-dog and asked for his autograph and he was incredibly gracious about it. Then we continued our talk.

Who do I think I am? Wallace Shawn? Weird dream. I mean, Anthony Hopkins is cool and all, but what the fuck?

So there I was, slightly hungover and enjoying the last rays of the beautiful sun on a gorgeous winter day that looked like something out of early April. The desire for cereal struck me, so I stumbled to a local store and bought a box of Kellogg's Corn Pops because the box art featured Dexter from the television show Dexter's Laboratory.

Christ. Too much detail. Fast foward a few hours...

I'm on my way to the D.U.M.B.O. section of Brooklyn, headed to a party at somebody's loft that's going to feature bands and kegs. I was invited by my friend Patrick Hambrecht of local creepy-crawly art-gospel sensations Flaming Fire. Normally shy in situations like these where I don't know anybody, once I hit the party I give in to having a good time. And have a good time I did. While chugging my third beer and watching a band, I spied with my little eye my friends Minju Pak and Ian Holman walk into the party. This would be unremarkable if I hadn't seen either of them since 1997 in Los Angeles. Turns out they had just moved to Brooklyn a couple of months previous. Ian and I used to be a noise-rockin' combo called Clementine back in the day. Ah, good times.

After leaving the party at one, I walked from D.U.M.B.O. to Boerum Hill, to a bar called Roxy where my friend Jesse was bartending. I hung out with him and his girlfriend until six in the morning. Taking a car service home, I once again collected the paper on my way in and found my roommate St. John still up, drinking beer and laughing over the events of his night with our friend David. After sipping some more oat soda, I made it to bed just in time for the clock to strike seven. I thought to myself, "If I keep this up, I'm going to turn into a pumpkin or something even worse." I woke up at one and remembered that my friend Dean was hosting a brunch...

To be continued.

Of Neptune Avenue, D.U.M.B.O. and Country Drumming

Some weekends are just really, really fucked up and wonderful and make you think of the incredible instrumental "Last Night" by Stax Records’ very own Mar-Keys. It’s a song that sounds exactly like it’s title--it sounds just like a bunch of teenagers in a dance band in Memphis, TN in the early Sixties trying to put a soundtrack to the memory of an evening spent dancing, drinking and screwing around. The last three days was just such a weekend.

It started off pretty normal. Early Friday evening was spent watching Slap Shot 2: Breaking the Ice, a direct-to-video sequel to the Paul Newman hockey comedy. Starring Stephen Baldwin and featuring the return of the original Hanson Brothers from the first film, it was poor. Went out to meet some friends at a party in a loft in SoHo (total rent: $4400!) and after plenty of free drinking, accompanied said friends to the Parkside Lounge on Houston for nightcaps. All in all, fun evening, but aroound four o’ clock, things started to get weird. Leaving the bar, I headed to the 24-hour McDonald’s on Delancey. I was drunk and my judgement was impaired. That’s my excuse. Anyway, the only food products they were serving were, get this, french fries, Filet o’ Fish sandwiches and hotcakes and sausage. No hamburgers. I opted for the first two selections, then hopped the F train uptown to the West 4th Street stopped and then caught the F again in the other direction (strange construction schedules, don’t cha know). Surprisingly enough, the Brooklyn-bound train comes quickly. Unsurprisingly, I fall asleep on the train as soon as I sit down. Cut to Coney Island: I wake up at the Neptune Avenue F stop, a few stops away from the end of the line. "Curses," I curse. "Rats."

I stumbled off the train and waited on the platform for a train headed in the opposite direction. About twenty minutes later, one arrived. I boarded it and, not surprisingly fell asleep again. But this is where the story gets truly screwed up. I’m woken up five minutes later by the train conductor announcing that we’ve reached the end of the line…at Coney Island! It turns out that the first train I was on had already reached C.I. and had turned around and when I woke up I was actually headed in the right direction back towards good ol’ Park Slope. My sleep-addled brain was just in a mess and, like an idiot, I waited for a train that was going the wrong direction.

Whew. Time for a paragraph break.

So here I am, waiting in the train at Coney Island, waiting for it to start traveling back towards Manhattan, back towards my home. The doors close. We take off. And I fall asleep again. This time, I wake up one stop past the stop I was aiming for. People are on their way to work and they’re all looking at me knowingly. Exiting the train, I decide to walk home. The paper is waiting on the front step. It’s seven in the morning. I sleep until four in the afternoon. And thus began what was going to be a very eventful Saturday…

To be continued.
(My wrist is killing me and I have to stop typing.)

In other news: A lot of people who were born and raised in New York never shut up about it. I mean, this city is great and all, but give it a fucking rest, people. You know who you are. Cut it out.

Roadtrip Mexicano

Last night saw a pretty damn good film at a press screening, something called Y Tu Mamá También, a very explicit and very funny (but not typical American-type funny) about two young guys, a station wagon, a beach and a really beautiful woman. Should be at a theater near you in a month or so, but until then, check out the official site (en español, si claro).

In other news: Lately, I've been humming a song that my friend Larry Strub wrote, a song called "Sad and Beautiful World" that was included on his band Ed Hall's record La La Land. "It's a sad and beautiful world/And life is not a movie/And I am not a star/It's a sad and beautiful world/And lines from a movie/Won't get you very far."

A cornucopia of Howard Waldrop stories: If anybody out there is curious about why I'm so into this author, they can check a number of stories of his located on the spectacular World Wibe Web...

Mary Margaret Roadgrader
The Ugly Chickens
Mr. Goober's Show
Us
Winter Quarters

and some of his columns...

"Crimea River"

Career Change Imminent

Well, not exactly. But I am thinking of spending more time writing science fiction short stories and novels, a train of thought perhaps influenced by my obsession with (and admiration of) the work of Alfred Bester and Howard Waldrop.

And speaking of science fiction: I shall propagandize even more for the Flaming Lips' upcoming film, Christmas on Mars, by urging you to check this out.

Bitchin' Thing

Courtesy of Kevin Whitley: http://www.yugop.com/ver3/stuff/03/fla.html

Do You Know What it Means to Miss New Orleans?

Lately I've been having a lot of dreams about New Orleans. Dreams about secret handshakes; dreams about chasing down Bashful, my old neighbor's dog; dreams about asking my old boss to reassure me that there would always be a place for me at his local chain of coffehouses; and probably more dreams that I can't remember. I've also been thinking a lot about my friends down there, about girls I met there (one in particular--who actually came by my work one day to gift me with a book--is vexing me in particular because I CAN'T REMEMBER HER NAME and I feel extraordinarily guilty about it, especially since I ruined our friendship with an ill-advised email at four in the morning), about riding my bike home at three in the morning with the wind at my back, about sitting on my porch, watching the world go by at the most exquisitely slow pace... I've got to snap out of this. Or save my money and move back with a renewed sense of purpose. We'll see.

In other news: Finally watched Fast, Cheap & Out of Control, the Errol Morris documentary about a quartet of disparate yet strangely similar cracked geniuses, and it was great. I'm back at work, which is good, since that means I can eat. My fashion sense is still impaired and I am currently reading Virtual Unrealities: The Short Fiction of Alfred Bester, which is, in a word, bitchin'.

Charles Bronson’s Death Wish

In a fit of inspiration that can only be the product of temporary unemployment boredom, I just made breakfast. One egg, two pieces of bacon…sandwiched between two freshly-toasted frozen buttermilk waffles. Good Lord. Now I’m going to have a cigarette. Lawdy.

In other news: Watched The Last Waltz, Martin Scorsese’s documentary film of the Band’s farewell concert, and I have to say that I enjoyed it immensely. My only criticism is that, for some reason, the only song that wasn’t filmed from start to finish was my favorite song, "Chest Fever" from Music From Big Pink. Fuck, there’s a lot of injustice in this world.

My Gravy Weighs a Ton

Christ, what a mistake. Biscuits and gravy always seem great in concept, but in execution…good lord. Everything tastes great, of course, but the havoc that the meal wreaks on your constitution is frightening. I feel like I’ve taken a couple of codeine pills. Guess that’s what I get for making breakfast at four in the afternoon.

And that’s what life has been like for me since Christmas. I rarely see the world before noon, and oftentimes I don’t even step foot out of the house until seven or eight at night, when I invariably need a new pack of smokes. And everything smells like cigarettes. My home. My jacket. Me. I’m sweating nicotine and beer, and I’d much rather be doing it somewhere in the South. But what are you gonna do?

I won’t be back at work until next Tuesday, meaning that I’ve been pretty much without work for an entire month. Sleep is frugal, so that’s my excuse for staying in bed until the afternoon, but when you consider that the evening before I’ve probably spent moping in a bar, it negates the savings. Movies from the library help, but I’m watching so many they’re all starting to blur together. People ask me, "So what did you watch yesterday?" And I draw a blank, because I watched three movies back to back, and did the same the day before, and the day before that. Speaking of flicks, I have to finish watching Zorba the Greek later, followed by The Last Waltz and Fast, Cheap and Out of Control. In a weird way, I consider all of my movie watching to be some sort of continuing film school. I just hope I’m absorbing and learning something. We shall see. Fuck it. I'm the greatest filmmaker that's ever lived. Rock!

Book Recommendations: In Search of Captain Zero, a road trip quest/surfing and drug smuggling memoir by Alain Weisbecker, and A Cook’s Tour by Anthony Bourdain. Both books are incredibly engaging and brisk, and both make me feel that I should really get off my ass and go somewhere and do something interesting. We’ll see if I rise to the occasion.

Listening To: Marce Hall 2000, a short tape of strangely funky and tuneful 4-track demos by my friend Marce Hall. Heartbreaking folk, gawky white-guy rap and songs with lyrics about riding bicycles. Genius.

I've Been on the Moon, Motherfucker

Thus explaining my absence from blogging. Actually, laziness and alck of interest in my own life led to a breakdown in the blog, but as my good friend Larry Strub said to me, "Your life is interesting to those who don't live it. Who can resist a story about exploited teens, waking up at two, and good intentions gone awry?" And dammit, he's right. But I don't know if I'm ready to go into detail about those (perfectly legal) exploited teens just yet.

More to come later, as I really should get to work on typing out the first ten minutes of a short film I'm workinjg on, something called Depressing Church Music. It might be good, but then again I might be delusional. 100-500 word update on my life (if y'all is interested, that is) sometime tomorrow.

Watch This: Thunderbolt and Lightfoot, starring Clint Eastwood and Jeff Bridges. Good laid back caper movie, set in Montana, and you gotta love a laid back caper movie set in Montana starring Clint Eastwood and Jeff Bridges, you just gotta.