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| Monday, April 30th, 2012 | | 10:04 pm |
I enter a coffee house and the first thing I see is a woman crying. Rather, she is trying not to cry, straining to restrain tears which will not be denied. She hammers at a smartphone, punching weakly at the keys. Whatever she is reading is difficult to believe. Her lips are melting downward, her eyes are welling up. Her face contorts in anguish, her shoulders begin to buck. There is a persistent high-pitched whistling from the nearby espresso machine. A frothy foam is forming, a line queues next to me. A silent sea of people, arrayed around her like spokes. There’s occasional breezy laughter, someone tells a kindly joke. It’s really overwhelmed her, she pushes at her face, as if she shoves with force enough, it would return to its proper place. She flings the phone into her bag, dabs a napkin lightly across her cheeks. She leaves the cafe quickly, drops limply to the sidewalk, and drowns in disbelief. she’s been gutted burnt, cast down, rejected objecting to it now a morass of morose denial choking sobs like gunsmoke drifting through a crowd. I would whisper the heart is an anvil
razor blades on stonebut you don’t share sorrow with a stranger and she already knows. | | Wednesday, April 25th, 2012 | | 1:02 pm |
I imagine myself as one of those insane sea captains they write about in stories. I have a long scraggly white beard. An ugly scar--a remnant of misspent youth--walks from my scalp to chin. My clothes are old and grey, and stained with wine and regret. I often think about my wife, buried in the farmlands of Pamplona. Now, I am married to the sea. The crew fears me, thinks me mad, but it is my name they call when the storm front marches across our bow, when the lightning flares its crown, and thunder rings so loud you’d think the gods were inventing new ways to fling mortal men around. I curse the gods, the men, and all the living in between, slinging laughter at the littleness of these. It is important that I be obsessed, or that the men think I am. People draw strength from conviction more than reason. I shout of whales, sharks, and mermaid’s bosoms sparkling in the surf. When facing the great expanse, those whose lives are bound to yours must make their captain into myth. What they don’t know, and wouldn’t dream, is that I would cast them willingly into the darkest things; a frothy maelstrom swallowing us whole, monstrous beasts feeding fathoms below, and the tidal waves that would dash away our everything. I will spit in the face of nature until we are not but forgotten flotsam careening beneath the gulfstream. When that morbid moment comes, I will grip the wheel firm, steel my feet beneath me, and let the mainsail fly like a tongue of flame. I'll lick my lips with vigor, and call out the name of my long-dead Spanish wife. The men will look with question, I'll focus my one good eye, gesture to the horrific clouds, and say, “It is now our time to die.” Listen to the rudder break, the mighty masts falling to the deck. Hear the keel crack, and panicked rush of breath. The water bears us all away. Start the Stormlord vigil, and watch the dolphins play. Sleep, sleep, sleep...in the icy endless deep. | | Wednesday, April 18th, 2012 | | 4:52 pm |
If promises were like pocket change we’d store them on shelves leave them in unmanageable piles strewn about the room like dandelion seeds until every step and wooden nook was covered with intentions. People are consumed like apples. Knifed-out cores plucked free of stem and seed rendered into moist meaty segments and devoured. We like to eat the easy things. Those components that renew life are inedible and often filled with poison. Stack all those promises into a tiny earthen jar. Place it against a wall drop more in every evening until it overflows like a tributary swollen from the rain. Take it to the change machine. Drop it in the tray. The meter displays a number charges you a fee showing you in minutes exactly what our words were worth. | | Friday, February 18th, 2011 | | 12:14 pm |
My fatigue and passion are in an act of constant lovemaking. They meld into a mélange of heated exhaustion. Is it my body or my mind? The relationship between the two has become difficult to discern. The passing of time is both noticeable and rapid. How do we communicate now? The current parlance is a pretext, a huge coming-together that pushes apart. There is an arms race of written characters; abbreviations meant to represent actions: I see your “lol” and raise you a “rofl”. I can’t wait to be part of your network. Clue me in, make me part of it, the sooner I am aggregated into data, the quicker I will belong. At that point, when I am optimized in the search engine, I can be found, identified, and admired. That is the goal, I think. The desire for connection, to be relevant within the limitations of technology, is the (not so) new way. 140 characters. Wall posts. Hash tags invert the meaning of seemingly honest statements. There are no secrets, save the darkest ones, and even those live somewhere with someone and may just show up on a screen someday. Then, when even that is exposed, our weeping is the only thing the network will miss, and perhaps that too is a lie. The manufacturing of identity is hard to believe in. Everything can be diagramed. Relationships are catalogued. What people see is what we control, and even that is sold to advertisers. Everyone is the manager of their own personal brand, and what I know about us is what we tweet, which icons we choose, and which digital mediums we embrace. I see pain set in so many; jaws permanently clenched, eyes rimmed with tears, and words that come stuttering off the tongue, making little sense and never telling the truth. The conditioning of the new way has made people distrust emotion until it can be processed, transformed from a raw force of nature into digestible digital commodity. My physical embrace is temporary. Those 300 *hugs* are forever. I don’t talk because small talk is THE talk now. Face-to-face is just another update and conversation is an old meme. I may never know who we are and what our motivations may be, and just ten years ago those things seemed so easy. It is locked away deep, our true selves, a diamond ring in the black abyss and the sharks are in between. I see a thousand emotions on a thousand walls, but I will never witness you scream or cry, and as the distance grows, I’ll stop wondering why. | | Friday, April 2nd, 2010 | | 4:52 pm |
the predators stalk the herd whispering to each other wondering which of us will twist an ankle, fall below or spend too long drinking at the waterhole. “Be not troubled,” whispers the shadow beneath the trees, “We’ve more than time to kill.” “Do not worry,” I tell you. “Stay strong of mind, fleet of foot, and you shall remain safe. They come when the moon is high, when the riverbed has run dry, (theirs is a coward’s way) but they cannot unnerve the herd. When you run, we fly with you. We will be warm and frothing at your side, with another day’s life in mind. And should you fall, should they drag you down with their knives and claws and teeth so long their mouths and lips cannot conceal their wickedness, we will mourn you, and weep our acknowledgement of your pain. In the herd, we are one and the same. Though we are preyed upon, we need not think as prey. I know what you would ask of me: “Why not avoid them? Take rest when they too are sleeping, quench thirst only at brightest day, when they’ve tired and gone away?” They are not like us, child. Theirs is a constant hunger. They do not ever go away. | | Monday, March 29th, 2010 | | 11:49 am |
- I have been pretty unhappy of late. A summary: 2 friends died before their time, I was the vicitim of some online fraud that cost me a few thousand dollars, and my job situation is very tenuous and unstable. It has been a challenge to keep my head up, but so far so good. - My job: I've been at my company for 10 years and I have no idea what is going on here anymore. I took a new position in a different group a couple years back, and my career life has been pretty challenging since then. They are laying people off in my old development team nd I've been farmed out from game development to our Marketing group doing project management support for throwing events and parties. I've been told very clearly the position is temporary, but I don't know how long or if/when I will be laid off before a new role opens. The job market is very, very bad for what I do. Preparing for a period of unemployment - Depression: I've always been given to dark moods, but I kind of figured out that they were the reason for my struggles in life, so I learned to ignore them. As a result I've had a long run of good fortune and positive developments in the last decade, going from drug-addled artist on the edge of flaming out for good to a solid and stable life environment. I've been dealing with lots of existential crap in the after the death of two too-young friends. I'm working hard to see the bright side of things, but it really is work. - Self: I am in this space where I'm avoiding everything and everyone. Utterly anti-social. My mental state is such that I feel like I'm just going to be a massive buzzkill for anything I do. I feel like this is unhealthy and needs correcting. - I am thankful for Jessica. She has been working really hard to keep me level when I've been erratic and not myself. I don't know what the point of this post is, other than to acknowledge my own struggles in some kind of public way. It seems like I'm so out of touch with how to express myself. Never figured that would happen. I hope you are all well. -j0 | | Monday, March 1st, 2010 | | 2:14 pm |
Updates
- ![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif?v=92.1) zerodimensions #3 is up - Have started getting my act together for a trip to south america this summer. I haven't traveled there before, but buenos aires has been on my list for a very long time. It's been 3-4 years since I last left the country. It's time. - Am planning to buy a vst synth called Massive today. I have been continually dissatisfied with the sound of my bass tones while making music. Either too electronic or bad-sounding. Let's hope this helps. - Funkbox the cat continues to have weeping eyes. I have made a vet appointment, because I keep thinking he is sad. - saw Sasha on the top of frozen Medjool this weekend. A lot of hilarious drunkenness was had. now I am sick. - i hope you are all well. Going to try to reconnect with this thing more. I find that the new mediums--facebook, twitter--etc. just don't make for the right audience to actually talk about things. I hate them, in fact. Not very 2.0 of me. love, -j0 | | Thursday, February 25th, 2010 | | 12:14 pm |
| | Monday, November 23rd, 2009 | | 3:00 pm |
When someone dies, I fight desperately to close wounds I cannot see. I get into a mentality where I must find a way to anchor down my memories and connections to the newly dead so they can't find a way to take them away as they pass. Casual encounters and chance meetings are now catalogued and processed into immortality. I find myself trying to take the memory of a person that is no longer and transform them into something that will always be. I am thinking of firecrackers now; big explosions of color illuminating my surroundings like miniature falling suns. Some flare up quickly with a hiss, blooming into brilliant combinations of orange, purple, pink, and blue. Others pop, fizzle, and descend in a relaxing sequence of white strobes, comforting me, making me think of popcorn. Then there are those that are comprised of a single violent BOOM, the ones that make young children cry. My favorites are Roman Candles. You can hold them in your hand and fire them into the sea. I love the warmth and vibrations, watching the colors fly and finally fade beneath the waves. It is the closeness of it that gets me. It’s always over more quickly than I want. * * * August, 2006: Why won’t this thing fucking work?!I am in the desert at the Burning Man festival. Tuesday night. Wind is howling. I have been here for four days at this point. There is dirt in my eye. That is what my brain was thinking at the time. The party is in full swing and I have responsibilities to our camp. We have some computer-driven art projects that require an electronic generator running at all times. The art is visually interactive and contained in a metallic dome. Kids are tripping out. A light changes inside and everyone inside says “ohh shiiiit!” or “wooooah!” followed by laughter. It is totally blowing their minds. My responsibility is the generator. The two goals are: 1) power must be on at all times and 2) it must not disturb our neighbors. The generator itself is older, a loan from my campmate Hans’s mother, and sounds like a train of Harley-Davidson motorcycles rolling through an airplane hangar. Long ago in San Francisco, it was determined that we would dampen the sound of the machine with cinder blocks and run it some distance away from the installation. Tests were done and the solution deemed viable. It was very scientific. We’ve had a problem since Sunday night: the generator is shutting down intermittently, causing the art to disappear and the computer system to reboot. The dome suddenly goes dark and various drug-addled partiers moan their disappointment in unison. I rush over to the generator enclosure, kick over cinder blocks, yank on the motor, and it starts up again. At each interruption, the creator of the project—let’s call him Mr. Bell—appears out of the darkness to lambast me with a tantrum worthy of the rock gods. He is Axel Rose and I am the bumbling manager who forgot to take the blue M&M’s out of his dressing room. As the week progresses, Mr. Bell has clearly been partying. This amplifies the severirty of each sequential tantrum as well as my inability to take him seriously. He is in a dress and telling me I am incompetent. He is painted blue and wondering if I have an IQ above 50. Wearing mime make-up, he tells me how unacceptable the situation is. Meanwhile, a young woman clearly interested in having sex with him sits on a couch for 15 minutes, completes a crossword puzzle, and rides off on a bike painted like a cheetah. Mr. Bell is displeased and tells me about this as well. By Tuesday, I am unable to cope with the failure of the generator. I’ve figured out the problem: the high winds are running in all directions and stopping sufficient air flow from reaching the generator, causing it to overheat. I remove some cinder blocks and it runs perfectly, but is now too loud, resulting in complaints from neighbors. There seems to be no sequence of actions I can take that will keep the thing running AND prohibit noise. I am tired, bleeding from the hands, and flattened from my last session with a ballroom-gown wearing Mr. Bell telling me that I should be publicly hung in the center of the festival. Why won’t this thing fucking work?The weather and stress of the environment has me very fatigued. I stop thinking rationally, moving wood and cinder blocks around for aesthetic reasons instead of useful ones. Look, I tell myself, a cinder block castle to save the generator! Yay! Eventually I just sit next to the thing with a hammer in my hand, listening to it cough and hiccup fuel while the exhaust blows in my face. Eventually, The Viking showed up. Now, we call Hans a Viking, and with good reason. At 6’4” and broad-chested, he looked very much the part. Red-blonde hair spilled down his back with facial hair to match. Pagan trinkets hung from his hair and adorned his body. Also, his name was fucking Hans Andersen. It doesn’t get more Nordic than that. You could just imagine some ancestor of his leaping over the front of a longboat in a horned helmet, yelling a blood-curdling tribute to Thor before burning everything he saw. At that moment, he towered over me. Odin had willed him to my side. MWAH MWAH MWAH MWAH, came the noise. The Viking was talking to me. I shook the exhaust fumes from my head and looked upwards, trying to make sense of what this 700-foot tall person was trying to say. “Whatcha doin’ down there, Josh?” he said. “I am killing myself with this gas-powered generator, Hans. My time has come.” “Hmm,” he said, kneeling down and taking my hammer. “How much have you slept?” “I don’t know. It’s so hot during the day and I can’t keep this thing running at night. People keep yelling at me about it.” The Viking reached over and turned off the generator. The kids moaned and then it was dark. He grabbed my shoulder and helped me stand. “You’re useless right now, Josh. You are tired and need sleep. We can fix this tomorrow.” I didn’t like the sound of that. “No, I think I can fix it. I just have to move a few—“ It was at that moment that The Viking put me over his shoulder. Gently, like you would a child, except I was a two-hundred pound man with an attitude. Goddamn,I thought, Hans is MAN strong. He placed me on a couch next to a space heater with a father’s kindness. I did not protest. Switching on the heater, he spoke in soothing tones. “Get some sleep, Josh. Take it easy, enjoy what’s going on around you. It’s never worth it to put up with that kind of shit.” The Viking walked off into the evening. I slept, deep and restfully. * * * July, 2009: When you work for a corporation, it is an uneven road. Security and reliability walk in tandem with isolation and ingenuous behavior. The paychecks and health benefits validate the choice, but inevitably there will be times when you feel more like a resource than a person. Occasionally, someone will screw you over and lie to you using the intangible nonsense language of business in order to make it seem logical rather than fucked up. Today is one of those days. My boss lied to me, demoted me, and has not explained himself in a way that makes sense. He has had my loyalty for six years. Now I am off a project that I was chosen to spearhead because someone else thinks that we should have a different structure. Now, I have no direction, my career has been set back at least a year, and I’m just an afterthought. Corporate shit, through and through. It’s not that big a deal in the scheme of things, I know, but when you make the choice to pursue a corporate career instead of things you’d rather be doing—art, travel, music, whatever—you want to see the sacrifice as a smart choice. It’s important to me to feel like forsaking these things will eventually result in a strong and solid center for my future. Then a man in business-casual slacks and a Hawaiian print shirt tells me that he’s taking that away without real explanation. Nine years here and I have nothing to do, my life is suddenly in turmoil. So I am walking down the street. Angry. Near tears. Frustrated at everything: playing the game. Selling out. Buying into the terminology. Action Items. Proactive. Self-starter. Playing ball. Ducks in a row. Team player. Quitting poetry. Quitting art. Music. It’s cold outside and I’m in shorts and a sweater, gritting my teeth and running through scenarios that are more in line with my thoughts: knocking over desks and ergonomic chairs, telling my boss that he is a phony, setting fire to filing cabinets, and flipping everyone the bird as I walk out the door. Mostly, I feel helpless. Chained to the job, the paycheck, health care, all these mundane things that keep me alive. I am angry and resigned. “Josh!” I'm in the center of a crosswalk at 3rd & Brannan and there is Hans. He’s 3 feet behind me, gesturing at his bad knee—he’d told me recently that his ACL was torn and he’d be getting surgery soon—motioning me over to him. He’s smiling wide in his cargo pants and T-shirt. He works nearby, so I see him often, but right then his goofy grin was just what I needed. I turn around and we exchange big manly bear hugs. “How’s it going, buddy?” he says. “Just a fucked up day, I guess.” “That sucks, dude, it’s good to see you.” There is a cacophony of horns and angry, inconvenienced motorists. It dawns on me that we’ve been hugging in an intersection and the lights in our direction have just turned green. Our hug is not as important to them as it is to us. “I think they’re pissed.” Hans laughs in an amused, defiant way, and we continue to hug. “Eh, Fuck ‘em.” * * * I know that you are no longer here, but I can’t find it within myself to pretend to know where you might be now. To me, that’s religion. It’s a fiction for me to say you are in a better or worse place than you were here. It is the definition of unknowable. If this might-exist place is real, I will not claim to understand where or what it is. I just know that it is not here, it is not now, that your laughter will have to live only in my head going forward. For that, I am greatly saddened. Many will remember you for your excesses, and rightly so. You took pride in living life on your terms, as you chose. You were a being of energy and hedonism. The Viking was a force of powerful emotions. I saw you in periods of strength, desperation, ecstasy, and sorrow. I loved you for your wild will, but also for the kindness that came when others were weak. Those moments may have escaped your memory, but not mine. When I drink, your face will be in my mind. When I walk the sands again, I will hear your loud laughter. I will celebrate your strength. You will be remembered. * * * Last week: “Woah, up a hill even! You’re looking way more spry than last I saw you!” His face is red, but smiling. He moves his crutches up the hill slowly. He’s a big, tall man, and bearing that weight on one leg is not easy. “Yeah, I know. It’s great actually. I got the surgery done and, well, I was prepared for some pain, but I don’t think I was properly prepared for just HOW painful it would be. For awhile, I just couldn’t really move, and it was pissin’ me off because I couldn’t do anything. The pain meds were making me loopy and I had to get up much earlier for work because Janet had to take me. This hurts, but I feel like I’m making progress.” The rest of our friends have pulled way ahead of us, eager to begin celebrating a double-birthday party. Janet, Jessica, and I walk slowly with him up one of those San Francisco hills that define the city. He’s laboring, but happy to be moving. Just last week, he was fuming at a party because he couldn’t really move. The lack of freedom was frustrating; having to ask people to get him food, drink. Being dependent on others was not something he enjoyed. “How long you got left?” “Well, I’m about two or three months in and it’s supposed to take six. The rehab hurts, but whatever. The worst part seems to be over. I can move now, though it hurts, and that’s really what was frustrating me. All the pain and no progress.” We arrive at our destination, happy friends at a happy occasion. “Hey, man, I really appreciate you waiting for us. It’s hard to walk up the backside all the time.” “Of course, man. You’re my friend.” I closed the door. * * *
Come, brother,
Let us grab our spears and fight.
Though we be not Noble Men
when we meet our end
we will be welcomed to The Hall
just the same.
We shall scream our battle cry
from the long boats
like wolves at night.
When we are dead
and our blood is spent,
they shall celebrate us on the pyre,
they will celebrate us in flame.
Though we be not Noble Men,
when we meet our end
we will be welcomed to The Hall
just the same.Goodbye, my friend. | | Friday, September 11th, 2009 | | 3:17 pm |
There’s a pop outside. It could be anything: gunshot, car backfiring, a plank of wood dropping to the ground, a door slamming. Well, we think, hope everybody is OK out there. We breathe deep, bow our heads, say a prayer, watch TV, whatever it is we need to do while contemplating the quite-possibly-newly-dead. I enjoy walking around the city, but only when walking is the purpose for doing so. Usually, it isn’t. I am commuting, erranding, lifting, pulling. There are always burdens to be born and what is life meant for if not the carrying of heavy things? It is easy to dillute our environment into an organized series of checklists. That is how I have been trained to approach problems throughout my working life: take a complicated issue and break it down into little, insignificant pieces. Do it well enough and people start defining you with terms like “task-driven”. In some worlds, this is the highest of compliments. It’s possible I may be working too much. After three weeks away from the office—this is the most in 9 years time—people here seem to be speaking a foreign language. They are stressed out, communicating in empassioned tones, waving fists, gesturing furiously at a whiteboard flowcharts. There is urgency in everything. If one were to simply observe the gestures and body language, you’d think that a monstrous asteroid was hurtling towards earth and we, the mighty employees of Video Game Company X, were in charge of creating the machine that would destroy it and preserve humanity. It may be time to choose something new. | | Wednesday, July 15th, 2009 | | 4:43 pm |
cannons point in your direction they came with the moon tides shift whitened wrists fingers locked dangling from the cliffside, we are say the words you need pray to whatever works make it a mantra that counts don’t let the phrase dangle finish with a flamethrower ignore the wounded fire because the guns are pointed at you. | | Friday, May 8th, 2009 | | 4:00 pm |
Hello Everyone. I don’t mean to bother you, but this is some serious business: SHARK ATTACK IS TONIGHT!! In spite of the capital letters and excessive use of exclamation points, I assure you,SHARK ATTACK is a demure occasion meant for the finest people. Scoundrels and persons of low character will not be admitted. When I say “THIS PARTY IS GOING TO BE OUT OF CONTROL AND OFF THE HOOK ALL AT ONCE”, I say it respectfully to you over a mint julep. Here, have a mint. Even in the face of mad beats on the dance floor, fresh breath is a boon. Since you are a person of taste, I can tell you this: SHARK ATTACK IS BLOWING UP, WOOP WOOP, WOOP WOOP. This is not hyperbole, dear friend, but rather a statement of fact regarding the quality of the club, which in my opinion is likely to be very high. Bear in mind, I understand the endless burdens placed on individuals of such high esteem. I do not invite your company lightly. You are an important person with a demanding social calendars. Not everyone can freak-it-on-until-the-break-of-dawn-cuz-t he-beats-is-on. If you need to find me this evening I will be at the location on the flyer below EXPERIENCING A MUSICAL JOURNEY UNLIKE ANY YOU HAVE IMAGINED. This is my personal guarantee. Whether we meet or not tonight, please, have a pleasant evening and wonderful weekend. Sincerely, Joshua D. Ostrander aka "j.zero" Club Shark Attack – May 2009  | | Friday, April 10th, 2009 | | 12:59 pm |
Life has been very busy of late for me, so this month’s Shark Attack post is unfortunately brief. Do not let the brevity of the message underscore the level of my excitement, which is HIGH. We’ve got Braceface, Orko, j.zero, and the birthday girl Starr bringing another month’s worth of dance floor damage tonight. In addition, we have the inimitable DJ Solar in the guest slot this week. If you haven’t seen him drop it at the popular city Sunset parties, you haven’t lived. Seriously, it’s that fun. As always, I guarantee a good time! See you.  | | Thursday, March 26th, 2009 | | 1:19 pm |
business man white button-down black tie blood-soaked shirt cuffs spattering the walls with red gesticulates during his presentation “If you’re gonna cut it,” he says “You need to get INSIDE real deep just go at it like a violent child does that’s right, fuck yourself up in there make a huge mess! This is the formula to success.” so there we are all of us driving letter openers into our abdomens presenting our entrails for executive review organs and innards conceal the spreadsheets and soak the complementary catered sandwiches. “That’s it!” he says. “Get in there, claw away at that shit.” an animated heart is the final slide pumping gouts out of its valves off the screen to the eviscerated we. “Thank you for your time. There are evaluation forms available for your use. Please take a moment to let us know what you thought of the course.” It is not yet lunchtime. | | Wednesday, March 11th, 2009 | | 11:33 am |
Shark Attack this Friday!
I have to admit, I wasn’t ready for the world to end yet. However, since we are almost certainly destined for oblivion—the pundits say the world will be officially designated as “totally screwed” by next Wednesday I think--I say it’s a fine time to go dancing! After a month off, Club Shark Attack is back and ready for the wickedness. The last Shark Attack was totally off the chain, and we’re ready to devastate your face once again. We’ve got all sorts of sounds to prepare you for hand-to-hand combat in a desolate neo-future; electro, house, Tibetan throat singing..perhaps not Tibetan throat singing, but I guarantee the music we do have will be enjoyable to listen to. Let it not be said that Shark Attack is insensitive during these dire times. When the doom comes, your only refuge will be our dance club. It will beTHE safe haven when flesh eating government Robocleansers are rolled out into the streets. Here are some additional things that we’re offering to help you weather the storm of annihilation this Friday: • DJ J.zero’s “How to Make a Crude Yet Defensible Shelter from Fragmented Aircraft Parts” Workshop. • $5 Cover • Zombie Conversion Tank for those who just want to get it over with • Unstoppable Dancefloor Mayhem • Debut of DJ Starr’s new book “The Barter System and You: Surviving in the Post-Apocalyptic Economy” • Booze • 401K Planning with the Annie’s Social Club bartenders. [Note: Annie’s Social Club bartenders are not professional financial planners and may hit you with a pipe if you ask them about your 401k—Shark Attack not liable] • DJ Orko’s “Pitfighting for Food 101: Holds & Hidden Weapons” dancefloor tutorial Wait, that’s not all! We’ve got a new RESIDENT DJ, Braceface, in the mix! She’s an outstanding DJ who blew the roof off the place as a guest in January and is now part of the Shark Attack crew. Yes! If you haven’t had the pleasure, she’s got an excellent new mix up that I encourage you to hear: Continuous high quality: http://soundcloud.com/braceface/mix-bitchesgetstitchesTracked mp3 version: http://soundcloud.com/braceface/sets/mix_bitchesgetstitches_trackedListen to this thing. It’s good. Tell her what you think this weekend and I’ll buy you a drink. Serious. Details are on the flyer below. See you there!  | | Saturday, January 10th, 2009 | | 10:23 am |
It is time to get down.
One of the few good things about hard economic times is that people seek cheaper diversion more often AND on the cheap. It's a great opportunity for smaller events and activities with reduced costs to grab new enthusiasts. I couldn't think of a better time to revive Shark Attack. Low cost. Small venue. No unnecessary crap. Just good music and fun. We'll be rocking out at Annie's Social Club tonight. DJ Braceface is going to going to wreck the environment as guest DJ. She's got quite the presence around the minimal scene here, and I've seen her drop it at qool as well. Quality. It will be a great night of awesome dance music. I guarantee a good time. Here's the deets:  | | Wednesday, December 17th, 2008 | | 4:20 pm |
| | Wednesday, November 5th, 2008 | | 12:06 pm |
One of the great barriers of our time has been destroyed. I am invigorated and hopeful, cautiously optimistic about what could be. I am not exuberant. I did not party on a street corner or drive down avenues honking my horn. We did not cheer the conquering hero. I smiled, mainly, and cried. This is a great victory, a moment in history that will shape our culture and bridge gaps long seen as insurmountable. I don’t really know what to say about it save that I, like many, never thought I would see the day. Now, here it is. I did not celebrate extravagantly. We broke a bottle of champagne and quietly acknowledged the moment. Turned on the television. Masses cheered in Chicago. The the faces of students at black colleges around the country ran slick with tears. Oprah buried her face in the shoulder of a stranger. Jesse Jackson wept. It was beautiful. It is difficult for me to celebrate too freely. As one barrier is destroyed, another familiar obstacle is re-established. Again, gay people face the prospect of being told their partnerships are not welcome here, that they are wrong and invalid. It will be written in our constitution and is meant to be indelible. Some heads were hung low amidst the raised fists last night, and my love goes to them. I believe it will happen. Each vote, the numbers close. Each legal challenge is held longer and with greater certainty. The time will come, but it kills me that it may not be now. More patience is required. We cannot ignore that many of the new voters who appeared for Barack Obama also voted for this intolerance. Six of ten black voters. More than half of the Latin vote. Half the white vote. I am sure many of them can be convinced to feel differently. And while I am ecstatic about this victory, I really do feel that more could have been done for this cause on the national stage. Barack Obama’s support deteriorated seemingly, gradually less commited during his trek to the center. In the debates, he and his running mate were evasive, refusing to take stands and instead relying on vague non-committal terminology. One strong word and some of those voters change their minds. It is my hope that this was a tactic used to win, and not one of conviction, but it is often hard to tell. It is difficult for me to feel elation without caution kicking in. I cannot deny that yesterday left me euphoric and energized for the future. It is stunning, in truth, liberating and visceral, beyond anything I imagined would happen and that is the truth. I just can’t help thinking about those who have lost while everyone else gets to win. When it comes to the dialogue of change, everyone deserves a seat the table. Everyone. | | Tuesday, November 4th, 2008 | | 8:10 pm |
This changes everything. It really does. I am blown away. I didn't even vote for the guy in the primaries. So why do I feel like crying? :) EDIT: Just lost it. I couldn't watch all those kids crying at Howard without bawling. | | Monday, October 13th, 2008 | | 2:06 pm |
- I may have to come to terms that I have lost my ipod. Of the fancy material things I am privileged to own, this is one I love. All that music in one small place, and it was a gift from icka, which increases the special factor. Where are you, my little friend? - Given the numbers we're seeing, I don't think the Bradley Effect is going to be much of a factor this election. In fact, I hate that it's being thrown about like some kind of scientific theory that needs to be debunked. Ingenuous polling is not what is giving the Democratic ticket 11 points right now. Mr. Obama is making his case, and he's making it well. Mr. McCain is not. - As for all those desperate scary rallies making the news--Arab, terrorist, traitor, beat that boy, "take the gloves johnny!"-- that is about race. Bet that. Mr. Lewis should not have clarified because Mr. Lewis was right the first time. - Song of the Week: Geion - Reminiscing (dubplate version) - I always get nervous when a candidate tries to take credit or apply blame with respect to the economy. Market forces are just so beyond politics much of the time. What is true now could be different in a week, a day, a month. Scary. - I have renewed my love for salad and chai tea. Delicious. How are you? peace. |
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