July 2004 Archives

At this very moment, here is the most exciting thing about being in NYC.

holy crap,
street jazz

Marie and I are exploring downtown. I photograph a man wearing a period sheriff's costume, and holding a shotgun. We turn away; the gun goes off. We duck and cover. The last time I heard a gun so intimately, the ex-drug dealer on my block was killed. The cowboy is theatrically reenacting a duel.

We visit the only independent record store in town, where they proffer Che T-shirts and "smoking glass." The punk kids behind the counter are cute, bored, and 17, and sense immediately we are not from 'round here. Because they would have known us already. If they are anything like I was at 17, they will think about us later, longingly. There's a world outside and we are evidence.

I am standing by the trash can in the PR office. A cowboy comes over and spits in some chaw.

My aunt also grew up here but was born in 1931. She has been revisiting Steinbeck, and realizes the people she knew as a child could have been characters in Tortilla Flats: Rosarita La Ciega, the blind alcoholic; El Chotin, the man who played guitar but was always in jail; her Tia Andrea, who knew the medicines and gave them sage teas. She tells me about living in a cowboy town with real outhouses, where the two main inhabitants--poor Mexican immigrants and rich white ranchers--never mingled until WWII. She thinks the stereotypes hearken back to the Mexican-American War, when Anglos in power asserted superiority to make way for dictionary-entry colonialism. That it was easier for them to take land from a people they called lazy, meek and stupid. This is only her theory, she says, but it is something tangible when she remembers entries refused and services denied.

I am not allowed to make disparaging comments about GW Bush under my mother's roof.

We go to the "Indian Village," where several different tribes are dancing and selling turquoise jewelry, pelts, and fry bread. A man from Vancouver, BC, called Dances with Lightning, does a 20-minute long Navajo hoop dance; he manipulates woven hoops to represent the sun, the earth, the snake, the wind, the eagle. We all gather for a Lakota friendship dance, in which we hold hands and stomp rhythmic steps in a circle. We can hear the echo of gunshots from the rodeo.

My cousin is nearly 18 and being stalked by El Army. The recruiter truck, a hummer painted "YO SOY EL ARMY," rides by in the parade. His sister screams out, "Stop calling my brother! He's going to live at home until he's 105!"

Greetings from 1852. I am dialing up on a dinosauric Hewlett Packard from my mother's home in Cheyenne, Wyoming, the place where I grew up and the place I do not call home. I flew to Denver from Portland, and flew here from Denver, in a scaryass Fantasy Island/Fla. Everglades plane, which greatly increased the probability of my going like Aaliyah. (RIP Baby Girl.) The descending view of Cheyenne: house... and miles miles miles miles then another house... then plains plains plains plains house.... horse... house.... strip mall... plains plains plains house. There is so much space and softly tumbling hills, and softly tumbling tumbleweed, you could log-roll for three days straight and not reach Colorado.

It is the 108th year of Cheyenne Frontier Days, the world's biggest outdoor rodeo, and the Dodge Ram extendo cabs are as in-effect as the right-winging and nonstop consumption. The entire town revolves around this one week a year, and has every July since the turn of the last century. Because there's little else for Cheyenne (as united front) to aspire towards, its social hierarchy is built upon how long one has been volunteering for CFD, and in what sector--PR, parades, ticketing, pancake breakfasts, etc. A great amount of local prestige is awarded to those with the most time clocked--they even get to wear special shirts--although as far as I can tell, the higher up you are in the chain, the more your primary duty is public drunkenness.

The first man I see emerging from the Daddy of 'Em All PR tent is a leathered and rambunctious 57-year-old, rugged in full camo rain gear and poplar cowboy ensemble, swigging from a half-gallon bottle of Jim Beam. It is 10:45 on Friday morning. "They start drinking at 6," according to my stepmom, "and they've been waiting for it all year." As such, the media box is not so much a place for shmoozing or flashing the important card or accepting gifts of guitar-shaped keychains; This media box is a no-rules party of good ol' boys with weeklong badges who could not give two spurs if I am from the Portland Mercury or Town and Country Ham Radio Monthly or Elle Decor. The weather is dismal, 51 and raining, so everyone is muddy with the rosy bloat of alcoholism, suckling Bud Lights and hoping the cowboy hat'll keep their heads on. They are all drinking from gallon-sized plastic Bud Light steins. My plucky uncle Bob, who is on the PR committee and wears a hot-pink laminate reading "I'm Bob," insists upon buying me a Bud Light, despite my refusal. I whiff off the foam and, when he isn't looking, stash it on a faraway counter. Someone else will drink it.

The first man I actually talk to, also over 50 and wasted before sunset, cracks a violently sexist joke RE: a wet t-shirt contest, then slaps my arm and says, "No offense." The conservativism up in here can't even be called conservativism; that is too rational a word. It implies choice. This is no-holds-barred ignorance, a blind unawareness of the world outside. I can understand how it happens; when you look out your window and all you see is empty flatness and forever, and you are economically comfortable, it is easy to believe yours is the only lifestyle anyone is living, anywhere. That the entire world has sanctioned the wet t-shirt; that it is not up for debate. Because the plains stretch for miles. And all you can see is Cheyenne. And a house, and plains, plains plains, then another house and more plains and a horse. The earth is flat and no one else exists, except maybe in Colorado or Montana, where it is the same. I have only been here three days, and I feel like I'm on another planet.

Later, the sun goes down and the stadium fills. Five Miss Rodeos of America get on the mic, and each comments chirpily on A. the shitty weather and B. how glad they are to be here, because it is the amiable thing to do. Then the Marshall Tucker Band wheel onstage, and get a cheer going: "It sucks to be here out in the rain and freezing cold, but we could be in Iraq. To the people over there, let's give them a big 'yahoo!'" This banter continues in between songs--an excruciating procession of orgasm-faced solos and stoic flute melodies. I take eight photos of their flautist, who is bushy 'stached, and does not seem as self-congratulatory as the rest. He is just playing a flute. They play for at least an hour, maybe an hour and a half; after four songs I go out into the carnival, pay $3 for a bottled water and try on cowgirl hats.

The callouses were never like they are now, even at my brow-furrowest simulacrum of Satoko Fujii—pouncing keys and chord clusters, aspiring to atones—as pianist/bellwether in the Ghosts of Women Who Haunt Cliffs. I have liberated something like 3000 CDs from their jewel cases, for stacking and stowing and shipping in brown packages: to show for it, my hands are two blistered claws. MP3s, you are my destiny.

Over the past week, I've seen three unrelated eight-year-olds whipping through Irv Park on BMX bikes, trolling for gummi worms in the supermarket—all rapping "Tipsy," word for word, Mean Girls style.

Who knows how to throw a party? Our house. Thanks to 300 people for leaving beer cans in our backyard in an organized pile. Thanks to the neighbors for not calling the cops 'til 4:30 am. Thanks to Shayla and Funk and Blaker for DJing and Libretto for MCing and Scream Club for dancing and that one lady for her leotard and shiny tights. Thank you and now I'm going to take a nap.

My brain is still operating at amputee mode; I'll mine deeper when I have cavernous hours in Wyoming to reboot.

Last night, I was describing Cheyenne to some friends, that we regularly hosted high school parties at abandoned nuclear missile silos in the plains' empty guts; I spent at least three months of 11th grade climbing radioactive steel girders and spraypainting phrases like "FUK DEATH" on the walls of underground bomb shelters.

Here is how industrial-boom Americans end up living in a place like Cheyenne: In the first part of the 20th Century, after the Wild West promise of gold and cattle led US cavalries to nearly wipe out the Plains Indians, the Union Pacific Railroad lured an influx of workers, largely Mexican immigrants fleeing the bloodiest moment of the revolution, including my grandparents. The UP was grooming Cheyenne as the midpoint for East Coasters looking to pan, but eventually lost out to Denver thanks to capitalism and monopolies and steel empires and such things.

After the UPR wound down, FE Warren Air Force Base was the only enterprise that kept anyone coming. Still is. Its welcome mat, flanking the city below an overpass and near the fairgrounds: two life-size replicas of nuclear missiles. An alpha greeting, a cold war memo. 150 Peacekeepers slept here. Western expansion.

The masses will be glad to know that after three columns, one nasty beef with Davey D, and countless offers for reconstructive "surgery," Dan "Oklahoma" Savage has retired his post as hip-hop scribe. Even better news: his replacement, Larry Mizell Jr, is doing all right by the Fresh Coast.

Hilary Duff—scrubbed junior miss for upper-middle-class white America—ranks in the lower eighth percentile of likeable teen queens throughout history, somewhere after the properer cousin of Patty Duke, and a sliver above the chortling best friend off Blossom. (This is due in part to her regular character, Lizzie McGuire. Lizzie's sole life-dilemma is her clumsiness, a sickeningly endearing device meant to offset her honorable school marks; devoted friends; beauty; incredibly cool, well-off parents; and random crazy trips to Italy, where she rides around on a motorbike with a romantic princely hottie and stars in a music video. A wonderful life... except, oops! She tripped over a chair in front of a cute boy from the badminton club! POOR, POOR LIZZIE MCGUIRE.)

But for now, I will forgive, because her movie company has provided the MOST AMAZING free-time-eater since rainbow pegasus e-cards. Click on the cell phone and Hilary will call any of your friends with a personalized Cinderella story.

My desk is no longer my desk; during this transformation, underneath towering stacks of Atreyu samplers and Ottmar Liebert CD-Rs, I discovered:

* a piece of masking tape inscribed with the words "JOE GROSS," in my handwriting
* photo of Hutch Harris reading the first issue of the Mercury, accompanied by a note: "Dear Julianne: I don't know I'm playing a show until I read about it in your paper."
* 4 staplers, 3 scissors, 45 unused post-it pads in various neon colors
* 15-ish copies of Seven's Travels. Really. Sean, tell your label they could save $$ if they mailed fewer promos. (I am donating the extras to the Rock 'n' Roll Camp for Girls.)

Yesterday, one of my final duties as Mercury Arts Editrix was returning 12 pornos to Hard Times video (RENTED BY MY CO-WORKERS) (FOR A STORY) (I SWEAR ON THE HOLY BIBLE), on Broadway, at rush hour. The clerk—barechested, shaved and tanned—wore pleated pants, white socks, Teva activity sandals, a giant fluffy moustache, and a Marines hairdo a la Bottle Rocket. As he checked them in, he read off the titles—"Latino Gangbang. Bi Fuck Fantasy. Erectnophobia."—like a lifelong bingo caller, one who knows the odds of winning are obscene but is unimpressed by the fact that people try anyway.

<--->

The above represents the portion of my mind, in synapses, that is currently alotted for non-task-oriented thinking. Moving cross-country is a brain drain; whaddya know! Until I can form complete thoughts again, here are swatches of inspiration and resolve:

"Don't Fuck With My Babies," Scream Club: FYR-style uprising: "I'm gonna stick that sexist bible right up the pope's ass/gonna steal from the rich and give it to the lower class/once the truths of the revolution become self-evident/we're gonna get rid of Bush and nominate bell hooks for president." You gotta have a little idealism to get anything done around here.

"Summertime," Fantasia Barrino: Her tone is just, like, canyons, especially on the phrase "your daddy's rich/ and your ma is good-lookin'."

"The Pocket Knife," PJ Harvey: "Flowers I can do without/ I don't wanna be tied down/ White material will stain/ My pocket knife's gotta shiny blade." Pretty trad feminine/-ist agency, but sadly, the sentiment is eternal. Tambourines: appealingly provincial. (I might like it cause it reminds me of Young People.)

"Real Love," Mary J. Blige: The best summer jam of all time?

"Sai do Chao," Bonde Tigrao & Tati Quebra Barraco: This was prompted by a thread on the Miami bass list about funk Carioca, which DJ Eletro described as making up for the "weakness of Miami bass" by combining booty, techno, and Brazilian pop, with songs about "erotismo, sex, soccer and violence." I have no idea what this track is saying, but I think we can all agree that bass transcends the language barrier. The polyrhythmic / 909 ass-hit combo just slays.

"Swiney Swiney," Monie Love: Though its dietary guidelines are weirdly selective, this 1990 anti-pork number is in preparation for my trip to Wyoming, where ma thinks vegetarianism means chicharrones and sno-cap lard are still ok.

"Woof Woof," 69 Boyz: The underside of which sounds a lot like "Disco Rout"—one of the clearest NEWER examples of the lineage between electro and bass I've ever heard. Off 1997's Booty Mix V. 4: Dogs Get Crunk, which I purchased used over the weekend for $8.50. (Bonus: "Shawty Freak a Little Sumtin'," featuring a youthful Lil' Jon, the Eastside Boyz, and Jazze Pha on inchoate styles; no hint at the "WHAT"s of the future.)

I will post these, at some point, on J.Hova's and my forthcoming audioblog.

Friends,
I will be the first to own up to sociopolitical paranoia, which begins with casual yet constant freak-accident preparedness, and ends in an elaborate Masonic-nuclear vortex. *

But this, this is almost unbelievable.
Absurd. Really.

Hi Dictatorship,
packin' mama

Here's the lengthy rundown on the "Portland: home to mad 25-34-year-olds" economist/city planning panel in which I participated. One guess as to who made the comment, "You don't have to buy into THE MAN." What's up, Pia Zadora.

Scroll down to page seven, and a ridiculous staged party photo includes several fellow Urban Honkers pretending to have fun. Jona is straight tanked off that Red Bull.

Well. Hello, Willamette Week, blowing up my spot. Would I be breaking down the fourth wall if I asked you folks to come over and help me pack?

PS I love the Paragon. My doppelganger, Nicky G (ex- of Nicky G & the Groadies), hosts karaoke there every other Wednesday. Next karaoke date: July 21, 9:30 pm.

Unpacking all my warez for either sale or shipment is indeed the culling of long-lost treasure. The wound-up funk and clench of Creme Org./Bunker tour burn 2003, for one, still gives me a nasty case of TMJ--may god lift up those boys Legowelt and Bangkok Impact for day and night eternal, in their hybrid bug-cars and ass-bending goggles and Italo-disco suits.

As I recall, that tour, held in Portland at the Blackbird when it was still around, made a $14.75 guarantee from a 20-person audience, probably half of whom were either promoting the show or guest-listed. Despite its rightful reputation as IDM oasis, Portland is not exactly crawling with Dutch electro fans. (Is anywhere in the US?) I think I was one of four people dancing, including my old intern S.Lanning, who executed tirelessly this sort of hoppy clog with hands flexed at his sides, boogie-woogie style. (It was later revealed he is an accomplished tap dancer.) NYC natives warn me daily of the cabaret laws—that dancing willy-nilly in the city proper is, in authority's hawkeye, a gateway drug to petty theft, flagrant methamphetamine production, manslaughter and, of course, the most heinous of all city crimes, graffiti writing. This is an unfortunate development. Fuckall; I have already set aside bail money.

Also rediscovered whilst packing:
I've had A Living Wage: American Workers and the Making of Consumer Society checked out from Multnomah County Library since 1999 (inadvertantly jacking knowledge from budding Marxists and taking years-long advantage of America's last bastion of socialism—way to go); Aaliyah and Ms. Dynamite share a leather clothier; the Lester Bangs piece on Bob Marley is an infinitely pleasurable distraction; Orlando Bloom is America's Hottest Bachelor and, with the new dye job, only somewhat resembles Mark-Paul Gosselaar.

I would love to ramble on but there are Sunspot Jonz cassettes to revisit and Sheer Bliss videos to view one final time before they hit the out box. Guten Nacht.

Dear Omaha (Emoha),

Future generations shall be stunted by the dysfunctionality of love-relations scenarios in your music. We know it's true. When I posed this to my recently heartbroken friend, he admitted, "I conducted my relationships in high school based on BLACK FLAG lyrics. That is how I thought things were supposed to be." At a certain point, when you are 30 and writing solely about your amorous affairs as seething, inevitable, blazing trainwrecks, shielding yourself from ownership in a blind tunnel of alcoholism—and your core audience has yet to graduate from high school—you just have to start taking responsibility for yourself. Own up to your own influence. Recognize the heft of the words you put out for anyone to digest. And, for god's sakes, get some fucking therapy.

Get some therapy,
julianne.

If emo dudes can drop a whole catalogue every time they get dumped (or divorced), I think we can give a little leeway to the moms of the world for letting up on the feedback after they’ve birthed actual humans from their vaginal canals. The end.

P.S. Two years on, DJ Greg Street is officiating my upcoming marriage to the crunk tango track "Supa Crunk." Our babies will be born bouncing, hedonistic, and drunk. But smooth. And they will never leave the club solo.

tonight, jay's warehouse party, sifted through concept photos for his new black metal band (which include centaur costume, face paint, dagger and magick foot-long key) while colin meloy played solo acoustic joanna newsom covers ("oh, my loooove"), flanked by 1. 40 people, reverently cross-legged on concrete 2. dave CATS' new billboard-sized mural—a scraggy rendition of Epcot Center, captioned by "VISIT FLORIDA"

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