Month: April 2007

every generation creates its own traditions

Well, it’s happened again:

A gunman opened fire in a Virginia Tech dorm and then, two hours later, shot up a classroom building across campus Monday, killing 32 people in the deadliest shooting rampage in U.S. history. The gunman committed suicide, bringing the death toll to 33.

“Students bitterly complained that there were no public-address announcements on campus after the first burst of gunfire. Many said the first word they received from the university was an e-mail more than two hours into the rampage – around the time the gunman struck again.

Investigators offered no motive for the attack. The gunman’s name was not immediately released, and it was not known if he was a student.

The shootings spread panic and confusion on campus. Witnesses reporting students jumping out the windows of a classroom building to escape the gunfire. SWAT team members with helmets, flak jackets and assault rifles swarmed over the campus. Students and faculty members carried out some of the wounded themselves, without waiting for ambulances to arrive. A student used his cell-phone camera to record the sound of shots echoing through the stone classroom building.”

A list of some fatal shootings that took place at U.S. and Canadian schools, colleges or universities in recent years.

charactor study, owmybrain

I have an atrocious head-ache and it’s all my fault. I bought my dinner at Grade A Restaurant, a place on Grandville somehow left over from the early seventies, and without thinking, I ordered something with meat. Only fictional gods know what was in it. The Grade A Restaurant specializes in Chinese-Canadian food, like you only get where the railroad was built, greasy and cheap. It’s all formica topped tables, prints of hay bales, and prices five years lower than I feel are safe. The only consession to this century is an ATM machine in blue plastic that looks like it was designed in 1989. I love it there. It is never empty, but I am always the only woman and possibly the only customer under the age of Old. I don’t mean a number, like 16 or 35 or 50, I mean Old in that shabby craggy face sort of way, where hair only comes in two options, thinning or insane.

like hearts swelling

Betty Hutton, once the favourite doll of Hollywood.

Transparent as sound, we are pieces of the human engine out of old mythology, pet children decanted from bottles of blood. After the boy is blown from this city, I will stand alone by the side of the road, and even if he does not look back before walking through the gate, my legs will continue to hold me up, I will continue to breathe.

That was always the worst lesson, that I will remain alive in my chemicals, wrapped in nerve endings, a collective rumbling of infintismals, (creaks, exhalations, needs), no matter how much my offerings to the gates have been smashed. The modern world is very bad at silence – cities do not hold their breath except in the moment before a bomb falls – but there are occasionally words I feel I should almost kneel to speak.

I’d like to say our first kiss was a special thing, a low slung howl of discovery, but it’s never been like that. That road’s been washed out, (if there was ever order there), replaced by brittle grass made straw in the sun, such-a-shame at-so-young-an-age blame-yet-another-hotel-room-romance damn-those-older-men. I almost don’t care anymore. Instead I count first glances, first realizations, that pause between what I know now and what I knew then. What is more important? The date we met or the amperage of comfortable electricity that ran through my fingers the first time I touched the middle of his back with bare skin?

The proud cities I have built with people, some of them are still standing, giant proud machines of words that circle the globe like air currents of what colour my hair, how long this correspondence, I had a show, they had a child, no, yes, you can’t come visit now. We are stories, novels, little threads in vast pleasing shapes. None of my relationships have been film-noir construction kits. We meet in cynical places badly lit, smoke cigarettes we take from small cases. This is just another connection, another spirit made flesh in the network. All we’re missing is the small confession of where we were the morning of September 11th, year 2001.

This morning he was beautiful, a misplaced dream left over from 1985. Sitting on the bed to put on his boots like having Lost Boys on the record player; leather jacket, long hair, I used to clean my saddest house to that soundtrack album. No one wears slimmer dark blue jeans. In my head, “I like my body when it is with your body” and the memory of his eyes flickering from mine to my hands on my stockings like they do under his lids when he’s dreaming, conversation not missing a beat. This is our generation gap, that I can write this here, display my day, my meaning, my worth. I grew up here, on-line. He didn’t.

I can barely believe how much I still want to go back to L.A.

One of these days, I’m going to have to learn to find a home.

I know this is a little late, but it’s where I wish I was, so here goes anyway:

ROOFTOP CIRCUS

Johnnny Frem & Dave Horswell have finished installing another roof in the James St. neighbourhood, so they’re putting on another rooftop circus, which includes a chimney headstand, (inspired by Steve Galloway’s book, “Ascension”), as well as a parade, some skits including very young talent, magic tricks, kid’s songs, clowning, fire-breathing and fire-spinning.

Where: 4505 James St. @ 29th Ave, The Jang residence, SouthWest corner of 29th Ave and James St. (2 blks West of Main St.)

When: 7:00 – 8:30 pm, Sun. Apr. 15
(Rain Date: move ahead one wk. to Sun. Apr. 22)

With: Johnny Frem, Musicians: Ross Barrett; Brian Siver; Dan Vie, Clowns: Naomi Steinberg; Jacques Lalonde; Dan, Celia and Ruby Vie; Matthew, David and Nancy Jang; Dave Horswell, Magician: Brandy, Fire-breathing & acting: T. Paul Ste Marie, and Fire-spinning: Josh

ADMISSION: FREE!

Doing our laundry, I feel this is a few tiny steps to being barefoot and pregnant in the kitchen

It’s HACK SABBATH today!

Reminding me of Chia Pet McKenzie’s computer: (from moosl via treehugger), Lloyd Alter writes:

We have an Asus notebook, and like their modular design where you can pick your own CPU and hard drive and assemble it yourself; ours had a tragic fall last week but it was easy to swap out busted parts. Asus also tries to differentiate itself from the others by doing silly things, like a leather notebook, or very sensible things, like the new Ecobook. Its case is covered in bamboo, which I suppose is a statement, but the real show is inside. All of the plastic in it is labelled and recyclable; it is lined with cardboard; there are no paints, sprays or even electroplating used on its components. It looks like it is designed to be easily taken apart for self-service and easy upgrading of components, usually the downfall of notebooks.

The release date is still approximately a year in the future, but by then, maybe I’ll be able to afford one. At any rate, it’s just about damn time someone made something like this available to the market. A sustainable case will go miles toward reducing the staggering amount of plastic in landfills.

Remember how I was writing about the mysterious vanishing bees? It turns out it might be because of cell phones.

I feel somehow this is appropriate, except that we can’t yet blame it on Monsanto and I really want to.

(We are the resin)

Piece of Berlin Wall removed in secret government raid.

We moved house today. This consisted of trying to sleep in and failing, folding endless black t-shirts, murderously cramming three months into one suitcase, trying not to break anything, and finally giving up the bathroom for lost. When we were done, the suitcase weighed more than him. Not a difficult proposition to be sure, but amusing. Today was my first glimpse of what he’ll be like at the airport in a week. Only a week. Already, a firmly planted seed of grief.

The new room is up Cambie street at 12th, dead centre of The Snarl like a hotel patient zero. The only Pros: I have a key, the beds are comfortable and across the street, City Hall looks like a toy.

Billboard ban in São Paulo angers advertisers. from jwz

The law is “a rare victory of the public interest over private, of order over disorder, aesthetics over ugliness, of cleanliness over trash,” Roberto Pompeu de Toledo, a columnist and author of a history of São Paulo, wrote in the weekly newsmagazine Veja. “For once in life, all that is accustomed to coming out on top in Brazil has lost.”

But advertising and business groups regard the legislation as injurious to society and an affront to their professions. They say that free expression will be inhibited, jobs will be lost and consumers will have less information on which to base purchasing decisions. They also argue that streets will be less safe at night with the loss of lighting from outdoor advertising.

“This is a radical law that damages the rules of a market economy and respect for the rule of law,” said Marcel Solimeo, chief economist of the Commercial Association of São Paulo, which has 32,000 members. “We live in a consumer society and the essence of capitalism is the availability of information about products.”

“What we are aiming for is a complete change of culture,” said Roberto Tripoli, president of the City Council and one of the main sponsors of the legislation. “Yes, some people are going to have to pay a price. But things were out of hand and the population has made it clear it wants this.”

We were going to have this here, when COPE was in charge. “Billboard free in five years.” It never happened.

We’ve “moved” to Cambie & Broadway. Suck. Least now I have a key to the “house”

The Glamorous Life of Sachiko Hanai, the only Japanese sex film that manages to combine explicit sequences of carnal lust with discourses on existentialism and a satire on the Bush administration.

Recieved my very first naughty internet solicitation this week, (thank you Myspace). It’s rather specific:

“I would do anything you ask if you made me your bitch. You could do anything and everything you wish to me, anything for your pleasure. I would love to obey your every command and serve your every whim. I would love to crawl to you and kiss your feet, and beg for the pleasure and honor of serving you. It would give me no greater pleasure then to be dominated by you and do everything that you command. Please let me serve you, please make me your bitch.

I beg to serve you Goddess, I will do whatever you wish. For the honor of smelling and kissing you feet I will do anything you ask of me Goddess.”

His profile tells me that “he” is a 24 year old Virgo living in Richmond. Great. A local. Fab. I would suspect he has no idea how often I wander around the city without any shoes on. I doubt there’s much sexy left when the soles of my feet are black.

Anyone have any clever answers for him?

No matter that I’m a million useful things, it’s entirely outside my areas of expertise. My first reaction is to go over it with an evil red pen. “I understand that you may have been a little excited while writing your letter, but possibly it should read: I beg to serve you COMMA Goddess PERIOD I will do whatever you wish for the honor of smelling and kissing youR feet PERIOD I will do anything you ask of me COMMA Goddess.”

Various Artists – Wakka Chikka Wakka Chikka: Porn Music For The Masses Volume 1: 17 individual artists interpretations of what the porn movie ‘Wakka Chikka Wakka Chikka’ music represents.

KURT VONNEGUT, 1922-2007 “make me young, make me young, make me young!”

“Hello, babies. Welcome to Earth. It’s hot in the summer and cold in the winter. It’s round and wet and crowded. At the outside, babies, you’ve got about a hundred years here. There’s only one rule that I know of, babies — ‘God damn it, you’ve got to be kind.'”

I received a dozen e-mail this morning regarding Kurt Vonnegut’s death and today it is all my friends-list is writing about. Thank you. I found out last night, almost as the last conscious in-put I managed. Dark, brilliant, cherished, he died last night in his home in Manhattan at age 84. He had fallen several weeks ago and received brain injuries. I hope it was as peaceful can be.

I thought, as I slipped into sleep, that I wanted to hold him close a moment, and then I was gone. Waking, he was my first muzzy thought. I do not feel bereft, as thousands are today, but I do feel unsettled, as if something essential has gone missing. His easy, beautiful writing was unique, (a good trick if you can manage it), and everywhere today are stories about how his books changed lives for the better. 14 astonishing novels in 84 years. One of which, the semiautobiographical Slaughterhouse Five, (he was one of just seven American prisoners of war to survive the Dresden Fire Bombing, an act he later described as “a work of art.”), is considered one of the best American novels of the 20th century, appearing on the 100 best lists of Time magazine and the Modern Library. Go, read them all, for they are all gifts to the world. There was never an artist quite like him, his lyricism should never be neglected. It is with regret that I say I have not given away his books enough.

“I am, incidentally, Honorary President of the American Humanist Association, having succeeded the late, great science fiction writer Isaac Asimov in that totally functionless capacity. We had a memorial service for Isaac a few years back, and I spoke and said at one point, ‘Isaac is up in heaven now.’ It was the funniest thing I could have said to an audience of humanists. I rolled them in the aisles. It was several minutes before order could be restored. And if I should ever die, God forbid, I hope you will say, ‘Kurt is up in heaven now.’ That’s my favorite joke.”

may there be mercy on my procrastinating

Diabetics cured by stem-cell treatment.

Dee and I have been discussing The Future today. I found a New York biomechanical sculptor who made an elaborate steampunk faux eye-tap for a Dutch recording artist. (I love sentences like that). It’s useless, sadly, though it looks pretty. My idea, prompted by Mike, is to re-mix such a sculpture with these instructions to make an attractive gargoyle camera. I can’t figure why it’s not possible.

Dee’s point, however, was that such a creation would be almost retro now. I agree. It smacks of the retrograde innocence tied to Raygun Gothic, part of the nostalgia arc which continues to widen. In the 80s and 90s, people were reaching back to the 20s and 40s, the flying cars and bubble-cities on the moon that western civilization seemed certain would exist by the year 2000. (Flash to all the scientsts who’ve claimed we’ll have AI “in the next five years” for the past fifteen.) Now, however, we’re tying ourselves to yet another ideal we never really captured. Instead of wincing over the 80s obsession with fractals, we’re coasting past the smooth plastic dreamscape of never having to clean your kitchen all the way back to the Victorians with their clockwork automatons and overly elaborate brass chasings. Goggles, dirigibles, dramatic clothing with too many buttons and locomotives… It’s fun and adventure in a way that cellophane furniture never was. Re-creating Jules Verne, but with better technology. Workable technology. A group in San Francisco are even trying to build a Steampunk Treehouse for burningman 2007.

who wants to make cake?

Wednesday, April 11th is the birth of Anton Szandor LaVey, founder of the Church of Satan.

To celebrate, we will be usurping Michael Elliot‘s hot tub in honour of DJ Spaz Mike‘s birthday.
He is now a grown-up and should be shown the error of his pure and pretty electrotrash ways.

All are welcome. Chocolate is encouraged, as are naughty underthings.

this event is downtown, at smythe & richards
either call or leave a comment for directions

Festivities commence at 7pm.