Besties/Worsties

I have a strong and abiding love for oddities. A picture of a rose is unarguably a thing of beauty. A picture of a chimpanzee dancing with a rose in its mouth is genius. At least that's how I see it.

That said, there are some things I find too odd. Here are two examples of things that are odd. One is something I love so much and the other is so abhorent I actually had a nightmare after seeing it for the first time. You be the judge.

Best/Worst - graciela

My best and worst are both food related. I am a vegetarian, an environmentalist, and I am a nut about health advocacy.

The best part of my week has been seeing my plants develop and start to set flowers that will go on to create fruit. Right now I have a pimento pepper that is growing bigger by the day and I have the smallest little butternut squash that (hopefully) will become a full blown squash if the flower is pollinated. As a lifelong city dweller I've really kept myself in the dark about food production and the work, the techniques, and the amazing natural developments that go into planting a seed and producing food. It's something we all take for granted and a lot of us don't even know what the botanical plant of various fruits and veggies look like (I had no idea what artichoke looked like as a plant). We, as a society and culture, have pushed agriculture to certain spaces and areas of the country and we don't look within our own environment and community to do the dirty work. I look at all the manicured lawns in southern California, a climate that cannot sustain lush green grass without major consequences, and I think about the waste of space and water that could go into maintaining plants that will produce something useful. On my street alone, actually let's downscale, on the strip of grassy courtyard in my complex, we could feed all 16 units if we got rid of the grass and planted food. There is such a culture of waste that we've grown accustomed to and lawns in the middle of a drought are just another hit of collateral damage. Why should we grow food in our own yards when we can just go to the supermarket?

Meanwhile...

This morning, part of that question was answered. On a special segment of NPR they talked to people in central California, aptly dubbed, "America's food basket", and they discussed the climbing obesity and poverty rates in the region. A lot of it came down to economics, politics, the lack of infrastructure, and limited access to fresh fruits and veggies. Yes, the same region that feeds America and grows some of the best fruits, vegetables, and nuts can't even feed itself. Coronary terrorists like McDonald's, Taco Bell, and Carl's Jr have set up shop at all of these little towns. One of the residents of Kettleman City named off all of the opportunistic fast food joints that people eat at regularly and I knew exactly what she was talking about. While I lived in Northern California, I made the drive on the 5 between Sacramento and Los Angeles. I know all those stops like the back of my hand. There is nothing but junk food all along the way. These rural communities don't have enough grocery stores so one must travel far to get their 5-a day. Why not just go to their backyards? Up until last year, Fresno had a city ordinance that barred local Farmer's Markets from setting up shop. We have them all over the country and vendors still have to make a trip to get to various locales but the actual places where the food grows can't just sell it to their own community? Ridiculous, right?! I'd imagine that was a political and business interested ordinance that lacked any concern for the public. The central valley's problems go beyond just food and leak into problems of gangs, wild packs of dogs, severe poverty, drug use, and anything else you could think of that would limit a person to eat well and exercise regularly. Even these far flung communities are being affected by the problems that modernity brings and the consequences of a fat and unhealthy America.

With so much of the central valley's own food going out of the community to feed everyone else, I can only expect the situation to become worst as our climate continues to change, populations keep booming, suburbs and development encroaches on land, and we as citizens become more and more ignorant about what it REALLY means to eat. So any land or space available in the city to grow vegetables and fruit in the ground or in containers should be treated as the luxurious commodity that it is. One of these days, we'll be forced to feed ourselves and when that day comes, we'll be too full of Facebook and microchips to know what humans have known how to do for thousands of years before the middle of the 20th century. Growing food is not a mystery and the information is out there. I'll be harvesting peppers, you know where to find me, when you want to do it too.

best/worst

this is quite possibly the best thing to happen to me this week or ever.

plus i kicked out 6 new pieces.

heres a sample:

boy will some websites really make art work look shitty?!?!?!

St.Ofle -- Best/Worst

This is an easy one.
The best thing that happened all week was the Paperrad show at Fun Castle.
Actually -- the coolest show I've seen in a long time, and if Michael Jackson hadn't died earlier in the month, I'd call this the coolest event of July.
(it wasn't and won't be, but top 10)


all kidding aside;
only once in a while does something this beautiful, heartfelt and strange come around.

here are some photos I took in the dark.

also;
watch this (unless you're crazy)

metaphysical interdependence

I know what you are thinking, what does this have to do with independence? I went to the Old City Cemetery today to paint. Naturally, it got me thinking about life and death. The cemetery represents the conclusion of the cycle of life. According the map at the cemetery many bodies are buried on top of each other.

Only through death are we fully liberated from our material desires, our obligations, and all of the trials and tribulations that make it difficult to be a human being. Every persons cosmology is unique, these days I find myself prone to the belief that only in the conclusion of your life will the universes infinite nature be revealed to you. It seems fair; if we suffer through life and the pain of our incomplete knowledge, when we finally finish we should be rewarded with the truth about the space, time, and the source of life.

The problem with this philosophy is that it doesn't include any kind of punishment for a life of misbehavior. Or...maybe it does, perhaps punishment is never knowing, or maybe even having to suffer through life again and again until you figure it out. To be whole we must realize that positive concepts create negatives concepts. For there to be heaven, or enlightenment, than there must be an absence of heaven. However, an absence of heaven is not hell. IF God does exist, than I think it is a pantheistic God including all of the universe, infinite, all knowing, all pervading, and totally complete.

The bible seems to have it's heart in the right place, but it has created a religious monster! Why would a god that is kind and loving create a place like hell? Hell almost negates what God is! The idea was to create a guide to help us live in harmony, but over time that objective has been lost. IF God is real than I believe that our sole purpose is to be happy. This happiness is achieved through an enlightened understanding of the interdependence of all things. This understanding prevents hatred and fear and promotes living a life of mutual cooperation through the realization that we are equal and necessary parts of the universe. Now here is the part that no one will like, the way we achieve this higher consciousness is through love!

Love is the only thing that gives meaning to our temporal existence, love removes pain, love moves to include the unloving! There is no higher action than selfless love. Our united destiny is to return hatred with love. Being loving is being unafraid, through the action of love we fully realize and embrace our interdependence.

Why love everyone and everything? Why suppress your predispositions? Why should our primary concern be the welfare of the earth and it's inhabitants? Because what is missing in your life is a feeling of wholeness, of a higher level of openness, of inner peace that you can attain(and you know you can attain it). When we are reaching towards this goal we are becoming closer to God(maybe?), closer to being one with our universe, and more importantly, we are becoming closer to the understanding of what will be shown to us at the conclusion of our lives.

in-dependance -- St.Ofle

I got my camera back!

Independence is FREEDOM!

TURN IT UP!

STORYTIME

This little old John Hall Wheelock poem wove such a tale in my head as a young'un that would completely define my thoughts on soulmates later in life..

la de da

On an unrelated note, I'm currently (finally) reading David Sedaris and he is hilarious. He is Shel Silverstein for adults.
Here's one of my favorite short stories from the book When You are Engulfed in Flames:

Memento Mori

For the past ten years or so, I’ve made it a habit to carry a small notebook in my front pocket. The model I favor is called the Europa, and I pull it out an average of ten times a day, jotting down grocery lists, observations, and little thoughts on how to make money, or torment people. The last page is always reserved for phone numbers, and the second to last I use for gift ideas. These are not things I might give to other people, but things that they might give to me: a shoehorn, for instance—always wanted one. The same goes for a pencil case, which, on the low end, probably costs no more than a doughnut.

I’ve also got ideas in the five-hundred-to-two-thousand-dollar range, though those tend to be more specific. This nineteenth-century portrait of a dog, for example. I’m not what you’d call a dog person, far from it, but this particular one—a whippet, I think—had alarmingly big nipples, huge, like bolts screwed halfway into her belly. More interesting was that she seemed aware of it. You could see it in her eyes as she turned to face the painter. “Oh, not now,” she appeared to be saying. “Have you no decency?”

I saw the portrait at the Portobello Road market in London, and though I petitioned, hard, for months, nobody bought it for me. I even tried initiating a pool, and offered to throw in a few hundred dollars of my own money, but still no one bit. In the end I gave the money to my boyfriend, Hugh, and had him buy it. Then I had him wrap it up, and offer it to me.

“What’s this for?” I asked.

And following the script he said, “Do I need a reason to give you a present?”

Then I said, “Awwwww.”

It never works the other way round, though. Ask Hugh what he wants for Christmas or his birthday and he’ll answer saying, “You tell me.”

“Well, isn’t there something you’ve had your eye on?”

“Maybe. Maybe not.”

Hugh thinks that lists are the easy way out, and says that if I really knew him I wouldn’t have to ask what he wanted. It’s not enough to search the shops; I have to search his soul as well. He turns gift-giving into a test, which I don’t think is fair at all. Were I the type to run out at the last minute, he might have a valid complaint, but I start my shopping months in advance. Plus I pay attention. If, say, in the middle of the summer, Hugh should mention that he’d like an electric fan, I’ll buy it that very day, and hide it in my gift cupboard. Come Christmas morning, he’ll open his present, and frown at it for a while before I say, “Don’t you remember? You said you were burning up, and would give anything for a little relief.”

That’s just a practical gift, though, a stocking stuffer. His main present is what I’m really after, and, knowing this, he offers no help whatsoever. Or, rather, he used to offer no help. It wasn’t until last year that he finally dropped a hint, and even then it was fairly cryptic. “Go out the front door, and turn right,” he said. “Then take a left and keep walking.”

He did not say “Stop before you reach the boulevard,” or “When you come to the Czech border you’ll know you’ve gone too far,” but he didn’t need to. I knew what he was talking about the moment I saw it. It was a human skeleton, the genuine article, hanging in the window of a medical bookstore. Hugh’s old drawing teacher used to have one, and though it had been ten years since he’d taken the woman’s class, I could suddenly recall him talking about it. “If I had a skeleton like Minerva’s . . .” he used to say. I don’t remember the rest of the sentence, as I’d always been sidetracked by the teacher’s name, Minerva. Sounds like a witch.

There are things that one enjoys buying, and things that one doesn’t. Electronic equipment, for example—I hate shopping for stuff like that, no matter how happy it will make the recipient. I feel the same about gift certificates, and books about golf or investment strategies or how to lose twelve pounds by being yourself. I thought I would enjoy buying a human skeleton, but, looking through the shop window, I felt a familiar tug of disappointment. This had nothing to do with any moral considerations. I was fine with buying someone who’d been dead for a while; I just didn’t want to have to wrap him. Finding a box would be a pain, and then there’d be the paper, which would have to be attached in strips because no one sells rolls that wide. Between one thing and another, I was almost relieved when told that the skeleton was not for sale. “He’s our mascot,” the store manager said. “We couldn’t possibly get rid of him.”

In America this translates to “Make me an offer,” but in France people really mean it. There are shops in Paris where nothing is for sale, no matter how hard you beg. I think people get lonely. Their apartments become full, and, rather than rent a storage space, they take over a boutique. Then they sit there in the middle of it, gloating over their fine taste.

Being told that I couldn’t buy a skeleton was just what I needed to make me really want one. Maybe that was the problem all along—it was too easy: “Take a right, take a left, and keep walking.” It took the hunt out of it.

“Do you know anyone who will sell me their skeleton?” I asked, and the manager thought for a while. “Well,” she said, “I guess you could try looking on bulletin boards.”

I don’t know what circles this woman runs in, but I have never in my life seen a skeleton advertised on a bulletin board. Used bicycles, yes, but no human bones, or even cartilage, for that matter.

“Thank you for your help,” I said.
Because I have nothing better to do with my time than shop, I tend to get excited when someone wants something obscure: an out-of-print novel, a replacement for a shattered teacup. I thought that finding another skeleton would prove difficult, but I came across two more that very afternoon—one a full-grown male and the other a newborn baby. Both were at the flea market, offered by a man who specializes in what he calls “the sorts of things that are not for everyone.”

The baby was tempting because of its size—I could have wrapped it in a shoebox—but, ultimately, I went for the adult, which is three hundred years old and held together by a network of fine wires. There’s a latch in the center of the forehead, and removing the linchpin allows you to open the skull and either root around or hide things—drugs, say, or small pieces of jewelry. It’s not what one hopes for when thinking about an afterlife (“I’d like for my head to be used as a stash box”), but I didn’t let that bother me. I bought the skeleton the same way I buy most everything. It was just an arrangement of parts to me, no different from a lamp or a chest of drawers.

I didn’t think of it as a former person until Christmas Day, when Hugh opened the cardboard coffin. “If you don’t like the color we can bleach it,” I said. “Either that or exchange it for the baby.”

I always like to offer a few alternatives, though in this case they were completely unnecessary. Hugh was beside himself—couldn’t have been happier. I assumed he’d be using the skeleton as a model, and was a little put off when, instead of taking it to his basement studio, he carried it into the bedroom, and hung it from the ceiling.

“Are you sure about this?” I asked.

The following morning, I reached under the bed for a discarded sock and found what I thought was a three-tiered earring. It looked like something you’d get at a crafts fair, not pretty, but definitely handmade, fashioned from what looked like petrified wood. I was just holding it to the side of my head when I thought, Hang on, this is an index finger. It must have fallen off while Hugh was hanging the skeleton. Then he or I or possibly his mother, who was in town for the holidays, accidentally kicked it under the bed.

I don’t think of myself as overly prissy, but it bothered me to find a finger on my bedroom floor. “If this thing is going to start shedding parts, you really should put it down in your studio,” I said to Hugh, who told me that it was his present and he’d keep it wherever he wanted to. Then he got out some wire and reattached the missing finger.

It’s the things you don’t buy that stay with you the longest. This portrait of an unknown woman, for instance. I saw it a few years ago in Rotterdam, and, rather than following my instincts, I told the dealer that I’d think about it. The next day, I returned, and it was gone, sold, which is maybe for the best. Had I bought it myself, the painting would have gone on the wall of my office. I’d have admired it for a week or two, and then, little by little, it would have become invisible, just like the portrait of the dog. I wanted it, I wanted it, I wanted it, but the moment it was mine it ceased to interest me. I no longer see the shame-filled eyes or the oversized nipples, but I do see the unknown woman, her ruddy, pious face, and the lace collar that hugged her neck like an air filter.

As the days pass, I keep hoping that the skeleton will become invisible, but he hasn’t. Dangling between the dresser and the bedroom door, he is the last thing I see before falling asleep, and the first thing I see in the morning.

It’s funny how certain objects convey a message—my washer and dryer, for example. They can’t speak, of course, but whenever I pass them they remind me that I’m doing fairly well. “No more laundromat for you,” they hum. My stove, a downer, tells me every day that I can’t cook, and before I can defend myself my scale jumps in, shouting from the bathroom, “Well, he must be doing something—my numbers is off the charts.” The skeleton has a much more limited vocabulary, and says only one thing: “You are going to die.”

I’d always thought that I understood this, but lately I realize that what I call “understanding” is basically just fantasizing. I think about death all the time, but only in a romantic, self-serving way, beginning, most often, with my tragic illness, and ending with my funeral. I see my brother squatting beside my grave, so racked with guilt he’s unable to stand. “If only I’d paid him back that twenty-five thousand dollars I borrowed,” he says. I see Hugh, drying his eyes on the sleeve of his suit jacket, then crying even harder when he remembers I bought it for him. What I didn’t see were all the people who might celebrate my death, but that’s all changed with the skeleton, who assumes features at will.

One moment he’s an elderly Frenchwoman, the one I didn’t give my seat to on the bus. In my book, if you want to be treated like an old person, you have to look like one. That means no face-lift, no blond hair, and definitely no fishnet stockings. I think it’s a perfectly valid rule, but it wouldn’t have killed me to take her crutches into consideration.

“I’m sorry,” I say, but before the words are out of my mouth the skeleton has morphed into a guy named Stew, who I shorted in a drug deal.

Stew and the Frenchwoman will be happy to see me go, and there are hundreds more in line behind them, some whom I can name, and others whom I managed to hurt and insult without a formal introduction. I hadn’t thought of these people in years, but that’s the skeleton’s cleverness. He gets into my head when I’m asleep, and picks through the muck at the bottom of my skull. “Why me?” I ask. “Hugh is lying in the very same bed—how come you don’t go after him?”

And the skeleton says, “You are going to die.”

“But I’m the one who found your finger.”

“You are going to die.”

I said to Hugh, “Are you sure you wouldn’t be happier with the baby?”

For the first few weeks, I heard the voice only when I was in the bedroom. Then it spread and took over the entire apartment. I’ll be sitting in my office, gossiping on the telephone, and the skeleton will cut in, sounding like an international operator. “You are going to die.”

I stretch out in the bathtub, soaking in fragrant oils while outside my window beggars are gathered like kittens upon the heating grates.

“You are going to die.”

In the kitchen, I throw away a perfectly good egg. In the closet, I put on a sweater that some half-blind child was paid ten sesame seeds to make. In the living room, I take out my notebook, and add a bust of Satan to the list of gifts I should like to receive.

“You are going to die. You are going to die. You are going to die.”

“Do you think you could alter that just a little?” I asked.

But he wouldn’t.

Having been dead for three hundred years, there’s a lot the skeleton doesn’t understand; TV, for instance. “See,” I told him, “you just push this button and entertainment comes into your home.” He seemed impressed, and so I took it a step further: “I invented it myself, to bring comfort to the old and sick.”

“You are going to die.”

He was the same with the vacuum cleaner, even after I used the nozzle attachment to dust his skull. “You are going to die.”

And that’s when I broke down. “I’ll do anything you like,” I said. “I’ll make amends to the people I’ve hurt, I’ll bathe in rainwater, you name it, just please say something, anything else.”

The skeleton hesitated a moment. “You are going to be dead . . . someday,” he told me.

And I put away the vacuum cleaner, thinking, Well, that’s a start.

St.Ofle -- Scratch Story

This is my favorite Lee "Scratch" Perry story;

(in the words of Adam Horovitz)
"I had the pleasure of meeting Lee Perry. We were on tour in Hong Kong, and for some reason he was there. He's a very little guy, like your craziest grandfather. He had on a shiny outfit with little things taped all over him: notes, a lot of pictures, studs, mirrors and bottle caps. Each thing had a meaning to it.
He had an old video camera and was taping everything - constantly. The sky, the buildings, all of us -- 24 hours a day, he'd tape everything around him, and he'd point it at himself as he slept at night -- except he had no videotape in the camera. He said he just liked the way people acted when they felt like they were being taped."

Best of the Best

The who still makes me go, "Whoa," after nearly 14 years.






























My inspiration, the reminder that life really is beautiful, and an amazing photographer - my grandma Ata Kando.



































My favorite photo from my old, late friend, pen pal and other inspiration, Eva Besnyo




















Whale Shark Spirit.




























Little bird.































The man who survived wearing the gold star in Nazi-infested Hungary to come to California to create me - in front of his house on the Bloomgracht, Amsterdam.




















The funniest guy, pictured here with some joker.




















The one who makes me lose my shit, even when we're not on the Zipper.




















My golden girl.




















My Lindsey. Everyone thought we were sisters, so I stopped correcting them.

Long Distance BFF.

I have a lot of friends. Some I'm really close to, others are just slightly above acquaintances.
Most of my close friends are the other musicians I choose to play with, mostly because I'd rather play music than have a night life. After reading Jessica's post earlier, I thought I'd write about someone who's made a huge impact on my life, but also someone I don't see too often. My friend; the amazing Mike Peterson.



It was sometime in ealry 2005. I don't remember the exact date, forgive me. Our friends in Cowboy Killer had just flipped their van outside of Sacramento while heading out on what was to be their first tour (incidentaly, their last one too.) Matt called us and asked if we would want to save their northwest tour by jumping on board and we all us the T.O.D. van. Biaggio and I had just been up there for the first time a month or two before that and had a blast, so it was an easy "Yes!"
I don't remember where we played at the first night, though I'll say it was probably in Portland. The 2nd night, we were to play in Seattle at some place called "The Asshole Castle" which turned out to be a house (naturally, I don't think anyone would name their bar or venue such a thing.)
Admitidley, I was in a bad mood for one reason or another...and not exactly thrilled about playing at a punk house. I'm sure laughing out loud at the Orange with Black Bats painted drum kit didn't make me look too friendly and neither did the fact that I approaced everything in the house like it had v.d.
We were first to play and our set went pretty well. After taking our gear down, I went outside for a cigarette.
I'm sitting on the porch, enjoying my smoke, when this crazy looking fucking lumberjack mountain man walks up to me. We make small talk, but no mention of him performing or anything. For some reason, he strikes me as a really nice guy despite the fact that he looks like he could go insane on someone for crossing him.



A couple of hours later, I'm outside partying when my friend Dan runs over and practically shouts "Hey! You've gotta go inside and see this!"

I went in and had what they call a "religious experience" when I watched SEAN play! Mike was laying it in to the Orange with Black Bats painted drum kit! In between songs, he slammed beers and pounded joints! I couldn't believe THIS GUY was fucking shit up so hard on THIS DRUMSET! His partner in crime; Luke is the shit too, but that's obvious when you listen to or watch them. These guys are one of my favorite bands ever! Moving on...

Since then, I've gotten to know Mike very well. I've stayed at his house, got to know his (now ex) wife, met his Mom, and have partied the baby off with everything under the sun with this guy!



He teaches drums to people of all ages at the fabulous SEATTLE DRUM SCHOOL.



He has the best decorated house in the entire tri-state area!








His cat, Ralph is awesome too!



He's my hero for several reasons, including the ones listed above, but also because he's toured the world, has great taste in music and drums, HATES RUSH!, loves to party, and has a weird sense of humour! All things I can relate to!



Another thing about Mike, is that he makes everything! Ever seen a saw blade clock? Ever known someone to put one of those circular submarine windows in their "saloon" that they've built themselves?



Not to mention the cool things he makes for his friends! Apparently, he was out one night, saw some poster and decided that the guy on the poster looked like me! So he took the posters and pasted one on a painted piece of board, gave me cowboy boots and a wiener, put a hook on it, and gave it to me. He has another that he has pasted on the bottom of an empty 12 pack box.



So much for my first contribution to Topical Thursday. Me rambling about one of my favorite people that you'l probably never meet. Unless you want to take drum lessons in the northwest, go to a SEAN show, or see The Accused on tour!

Best friends...

...are the people in your life who can go away for weeks, months, even years...and upon your next meeting, everything is like you were hanging out yesterday.

I love my friends. A lot of them are the best.

sb - bff

my sisters - lana & zeina.  

my mom is pregnant with me.  i wonder if she knew that her 3 daughters would be such good friends on top of being sisters... it's like i was born with 2 guaranteed bffs... i find that lucky.  

these are my best friends

I met Biaggio, Rob, and Catherine on New Year's Eve of 2004. They are the funniest people I know, we have done a whole lot of partying together and have been on many crazy adventures. Catherine and I lived one block away from each other in San Francisco, but we didn't know each other then. Biaggio is Rob's band mate and Catherine is his girlfriend. They play in an instrumental two piece band, Times of Desperation. Since then we have been everywhere together; every scary part of every ghetto in the latest hours of the night, and tons buildings we judged as structurally unsound in the event of an earthquake. I wonder how many hours we have spent in Biaggio's van together? Most recently they played at Skinner's opening at 111 Minna in San Francisco. It was wonderful to see so many faces from Sacramento there. We went on tour with them in the Northwest, it was my first time in Seattle. We drank absinthe, took pills every day, smoked a million joints, and slept in the van and on the ground. I hope we move away soon, Sacramento is a poisonous place where no one ever gets tired of anything.


Rob shredding his drums apart.

This is Biaggio in our friend Mike's saloon in Seattle. His house looks like a gold rush museum.

This is Catherine after some Absinthe.

Looking related.

Rob using his Argus and it's matching light meter in Portland.

In Seattle.



The boys in the saloon.

Biaggio, Rob, and I in a basement somewhere.