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| This foregone spot was once the home of elk statues. |
First was the original, then came the modern. Briefly, this is how it went with the downtown Portland elk statues.
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| The modern elk. |
As academics and serious amateurs already know, I enjoy designing
my own holiday cards. The designs can run from the saccharine sweet to the bizarre.
Some years I push the envelope, others I forget there was an envelope, and if
there was, who are YOU to tell ME about office supplies anyway!
You get the picture.
Today I offer a rare, behind the scenes, look at the card production
process. Each card design must pass a rigorous review (by me). Only if all
criteria are met will the card go into holiday production with a print run of
about 30. With numbers like those I can ill afford to produce an ordinary card!
This little ditty scored high on the kinetic energy graph but
fell short in the “holiday cheer” quadrant.
Testing will continue.
Stoke!
Both then and now I was immensely happy that we shared this
bond about Burroughs, and both enjoyed deeply dark, sardonic satire.
I read the first few pages of the work and cringed a bit for
obvious reasons. More often I felt proud that I had cut a direction that was
important to me and followed my interests. In many ways I’m still the same guy
who likes the punk aesthetic, be it music, art, or literature. Subtlety is something I
must cultivate but these other cacophonous notes resonate like Mozart on a church organ when
I experience them.
From the introduction:
When I first started thinking about doing a project on William Burroughs my thoughts were he was a writer who didn’t feed the public pabulum – he fed them shit. I had never encountered a writer who tackled all the taboo subjects of society with such a flaming irreverence. It was out of rock’n’roll admiration for the man who could scream the word “FUCK” with the written word that first drew me to him as a reader. Initially I saw William Burroughs as a radical spokesman of free living and I wanted to explore his vision. I now find this sort of thinking naïve: Burroughs’ message is much more complicated than being some hedonistic sodomite’s looking to rationalize his chemical habits.
My neighbor takes elections and Halloween seriously.
Halloween more so, based on his intricate yard decorations.
I learned he makes all his own manikins, many animated with
motors and electronics. Yard lighting, fake graveyards, cobwebs, his own
excellent costumes – a true promoter of the Halloween arts.
In a world with more justice, he would be recognized for his
innovation and dedication. We must acknowledge his Halloween stoke!
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| From the album: "Deranged, morbid, pure bread, pregnant, faggot" |
Take early Black Flag, the Minutemen, add some Frankenstein
parts from the Subhumans, Crucifucks and Feederz, and you’ve got Grease Cuck –
the band that isn’t afraid to take itself seriously, or not – you decide, if
you want to. Or not.
Grease Cuck’s first album, “Coronavirus Blues” is a timely
statement to the degraded times we are living in. The songs have a refreshing
variance between hurdy gurdy, thrashcore, guitar noodling croon, or full-on,
blow out the pipes rage-a-saurus.
But the great thing about the Cuck is to expect the
unexpected. Although there is a thematic emphasis on rage and disappointment,
humor and a good-timey vibe infuse many of the songs. The title song “Coronavirus
Blues” presents a bloviating worship of melancholy noodling on psychic
overdrive, but is followed by “Beans” – where one can almost smell the
flatulence, or the saucy humor, in this ribald ode to the humble legume.
Repetitive, undulating, hypnotizing. Riding with Grease Cuck
is a surprising and awesome experience, elevating the noise and crank of all
who suffer. “Covid Cream” and “Smoke Until I Fucking Die (Acoustic)” showcase
the band’s talent for empathetic mockery of all who are oppressed.
If you want to be safe, Grease Cuck isn’t for you. But for
those of us who are inclined to stomp on the accelerator for a wild ride, play
it loud, play it proud.
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| A still from "Rashomon" |
University showings of films, revival houses, and eventually
VHS cassettes gave me just enough exposure to be obnoxious.
When I got my license in 1981 the Uptown Theatre in Minneapolis
caught my attention as the definition of cool for foreign, art, and cult films.
They would have nightly double features and The Rocky Horror Picture Show screened
every weekend.
Often, I would have no knowledge of the film I was about to
see, just the desire to see something new, strange, weird. A work not sanitized
or glossy, that had not passed through countless marketing feedback sessions. A
film oddly stylized and, above all, authentic in an ineffable manner.
In this spirit I saw “Throne of Blood” and the “Seven
Samurai” staring Toshiro Mifune. I didn’t immediately become a fan of Akira Kurosawa
films, but accepted the premise that Mifune was everything a Japanese hero was
supposed to be. Mifune’s absolute control of body and expression made a deep
impression. Awesome swordplay was pretty cool, too.
Today I like to pretend I have some concept of Bushido, the
code of honor that regulated the conduct of samurai, from watching Mifune’s
movies. I accept I have no clue about Bushido but it feels good to hold my face
rigid while I make hard decisions.
I realize saying this is equivalent to someone born outside
the US claiming she/he knows American culture from an idolization of John Wayne.
Sobeit. I celebrate my ignorance.
My father’s office in his home, with its shelves of books and documents lining the walls, is a scrapbook of images from his life. For decades he had a picture of me when I was 10 walking on a frozen Minnesota landscape.
I always admire this picture for the snow bears marks of sleds and skis, things that animated my mind at that age. Also, what the land looks like under snow and in the high contrast of a sunny winter day is indelibly etched in my mind – a specific acknowledgement of the timelessness of winter.
The second photograph is a picture of my daughter which rests near the one of me. My father likes the juxtaposition of the different generations in a similar pose.
I have an office in my home as well. I don’t like putting up pictures as I appreciate the serenity of blank space. I do have a burning desire to curate the images of my life which is why I slavishly post to this blog. This is my scrapbook.
I spent plenty of mental calories thinking we are not alike, but perhaps I deceive myself.
Even when I was a kid in Minnesota, White Castle burgers never made a significant impact on my culinary landscape. Small square burgers with some cooked onions tasted fine and were cheap, and that was my basic assessment.
Recently I learned that the restaurant is still in existence and, from outside appearances, is doing fine.
I'm trying to find a bit of curiosity to go further with this analysis, but ultimately cannot.
If you enjoy the food then Stoke! I'm eating Asian noodles.
