Archive for December, 2002

danger

I feel very dangerous being bald. As if the trans-flux capacitor is gonna blow leaving us floating in space while the alien rips in from outside, or as if I’m gonna suddenly crack and pull a knife salughtering the nice little family kind enough to let me in. Speaking of using knives I’m applying to orange county for the third time in the last year, hopefully this time they WILL ACTUALLY PROCESS MY APPLICATION AND NOT FUCK EVERYTHING UP SO I DON’T HAVE TO STAB THEM WITH KNIVES BEFORE KILLING EVERYONE AT OCPS’ MAIN OFFICE. Aside from that applying for Dave Hickey’s residency at ACA. Hooked up my new printer. Got a job writing for a french sci-fi and horror mag on japanese horror and sci-fi flicks. How’s that for global village lifestyle? Posted my stones remix to Hrvastki’s web site. Working on promoting shows. having fun, looking forward to the new year. No resolutions except maybe smoking. Moving in with Dave and Darren.

Later,
A

December 31, 2002 at 2:57 pm Leave a comment

danger

I feel very dangerous being bald. As if the trans-flux capacitor is gonna blow leaving us floating in space while the alien rips in from outside, or as if I’m gonna suddenly crack and pull a knife salughtering the nice little family kind enough to let me in. Speaking of using knives I’m applying to orange county for the third time in the last year, hopefully this time they WILL ACTUALLY PROCESS MY APPLICATION AND NOT FUCK EVERYTHING UP SO I DON’T HAVE TO STAB THEM WITH KNIVES BEFORE KILLING EVERYONE AT OCPS’ MAIN OFFICE. Aside from that applying for Dave Hickey’s residency at ACA. Hooked up my new printer. Got a job writing for a french sci-fi and horror mag on japanese horror and sci-fi flicks. How’s that for global village lifestyle? Posted my stones remix to Hrvastki’s web site. Working on promoting shows. having fun, looking forward to the new year. No resolutions except maybe smoking. Moving in with Dave and Darren.

Later,
A

December 31, 2002 at 2:57 pm Leave a comment

my mom, my new best friend

So anyway it all basicly started when Darren said, “Oh I’m like you. I was always closer to my mother.” and something else to explain the fact that I’m apparently this feminate guy. I mean a lot of other things people said were bugging me, but that one was a new one. I was never really close to my mom, or we’ve never really been close. She’s taking a shower right now, I’m in on the computer. I shut myself away to avoid the precession of ideas I don’t want to be a part of. Everyday she asks me to be part of her paranoia, to agree that black people are dangerous, certian segments of town should be avoided, you should live your life in doors and away from the world. It’s not that I don’t like her, as much as that she needs a friend, and I’m not it. I can’t identify with her stories, see her point of view, or really relate to her on any level. Anyway, neurotically leafing through today’s events with my mom I’m consistently bothered by this new complex where ya know I’m my mom’s effemiate son etc. Which I’m not. This becomes apparent when I choose to watch tech tv and other male nerdy pusuits instead of talking to her about house colors and such. Later I buy a bunch of weird art magazines. My Dad and I always related, he was just never around. Mon Pere can get Gide, and while he seems to characterize us “bohemians,” in strange carcituaries, his fascination with the lives of coffee bar employees is at least amusing. I don’t know what I’m saying.
Today we went to return a Sweater stopped in Saks and stared at Prada Running shoes, and my mom tells me she knows her place in the world and it’s not Saks. We return the old navy sweater and get jeans which cost more than the sweater. Then go into look for running shoes. My old, much loved and adored, Chuck Taylors have meet their end, and my reluctance to buy shoes pisses her off. WE end up at some mall looking for a restruarant after failing to get prescription sun glasses and I see these running shoes at some up-scale last name of owner’s store. Go in and they have ‘m. Buy ‘m and after shave. Run home. one cigarette today. going home tomorrow. The more you come back, the better the nostalgia. I don’t wanna characterize any of my parents as horrible people, but I feel like the more explore my lives through them, the more I see that school society isn’t as important as family. Me and my family have never gotten along. I’m not as snooty as many intellectual types (My uncle alvin tells me it’s nice there’s someone in the family whose interested in more than eating and drinking). The more distance I get from them, the better they seem. The older you get the more barricades you put up, the more resistance you show, the more they have to accept you for what you are and not what they want you to be. It’s an uphill battle with families, and with people in general. I keep forgetting what I want to say and leaving this portrait half complete. I don’t think who I am was shaped from a kinship positive with me mother, but rather as her relucant friend I was always unhappy. When she got a boyfriend I remember thinking she’d be more occupied, more out in the world, instead she became more introverted, more needy, more of something I couldn’t live with. It’s not that she imposes on me, as much as that she needs someone and I had to pass her off, get her problems off my shoulders and deal with mine own. Sometimes we need space to feel connection.


A

December 28, 2002 at 7:54 pm 1 comment

my mom, my new best friend

So anyway it all basicly started when Darren said, “Oh I’m like you. I was always closer to my mother.” and something else to explain the fact that I’m apparently this feminate guy. I mean a lot of other things people said were bugging me, but that one was a new one. I was never really close to my mom, or we’ve never really been close. She’s taking a shower right now, I’m in on the computer. I shut myself away to avoid the precession of ideas I don’t want to be a part of. Everyday she asks me to be part of her paranoia, to agree that black people are dangerous, certian segments of town should be avoided, you should live your life in doors and away from the world. It’s not that I don’t like her, as much as that she needs a friend, and I’m not it. I can’t identify with her stories, see her point of view, or really relate to her on any level. Anyway, neurotically leafing through today’s events with my mom I’m consistently bothered by this new complex where ya know I’m my mom’s effemiate son etc. Which I’m not. This becomes apparent when I choose to watch tech tv and other male nerdy pusuits instead of talking to her about house colors and such. Later I buy a bunch of weird art magazines. My Dad and I always related, he was just never around. Mon Pere can get Gide, and while he seems to characterize us “bohemians,” in strange carcituaries, his fascination with the lives of coffee bar employees is at least amusing. I don’t know what I’m saying.
Today we went to return a Sweater stopped in Saks and stared at Prada Running shoes, and my mom tells me she knows her place in the world and it’s not Saks. We return the old navy sweater and get jeans which cost more than the sweater. Then go into look for running shoes. My old, much loved and adored, Chuck Taylors have meet their end, and my reluctance to buy shoes pisses her off. WE end up at some mall looking for a restruarant after failing to get prescription sun glasses and I see these running shoes at some up-scale last name of owner’s store. Go in and they have ‘m. Buy ‘m and after shave. Run home. one cigarette today. going home tomorrow. The more you come back, the better the nostalgia. I don’t wanna characterize any of my parents as horrible people, but I feel like the more explore my lives through them, the more I see that school society isn’t as important as family. Me and my family have never gotten along. I’m not as snooty as many intellectual types (My uncle alvin tells me it’s nice there’s someone in the family whose interested in more than eating and drinking). The more distance I get from them, the better they seem. The older you get the more barricades you put up, the more resistance you show, the more they have to accept you for what you are and not what they want you to be. It’s an uphill battle with families, and with people in general. I keep forgetting what I want to say and leaving this portrait half complete. I don’t think who I am was shaped from a kinship positive with me mother, but rather as her relucant friend I was always unhappy. When she got a boyfriend I remember thinking she’d be more occupied, more out in the world, instead she became more introverted, more needy, more of something I couldn’t live with. It’s not that she imposes on me, as much as that she needs someone and I had to pass her off, get her problems off my shoulders and deal with mine own. Sometimes we need space to feel connection.


A

December 28, 2002 at 7:54 pm 1 comment

update – memphis

Talked to Steven Castro today after 3 millions e-mails, and all sorts of possible failings in booking his label is Orlando. Long call. Now booking infilitrate events in Orlando and promoting them, hopefully improving the state of music in Florida etc.
Been thinking that my numerous near break downs of this year might be do to this schedule. While the issues of late have been of far greater importance than previous issues of vanity and self-esteem, it seems I spend so much time out of my self, in the world of other people. I’m projecting as my step-mother said. Keeeping the printer they gave me. Funny conversation at dinner tonight. good record shopping. Returned one xmas gift and got mc5 cd. still looking for the rapture. enjoying mc5 and ramones. really like something simple, less demanding, but mingus and coletrane still call and their racounting styles can keep my ear atuned for decades. burnt on hip-hop right now. to much for to long, ramones more fun. Might stop in Atlanta for a day. Will be home before New Years.
Peace Off Folks,
Andrew

December 26, 2002 at 11:12 pm Leave a comment

a more stable update

Stories:
Tried waltzing with J. on Saturday, you have to out your feet down this way or something she says.
We lumber around, never quite getting it right. Here I’ll lead she says, but then stops and sez
it doesn’t feel right. You need to get a mat she says.
J’s father plays old-time music and one of his musical companions has a daughter. she greets me at the door,
50 degrees or less and she has one of those flora print shirts with one button buttoned. EVerything is hanging out of her, stomach, breasts,
etc. later i run into her in the bathroom taking a shot, which is hopefully insilin to deal with the sugar
of eggnog etc.
Drive up to Birmingham cruizing through Atlanta listen’n to Roots Manuva, go through new Squarepusher again and find track 4 have a similar micro-funk to Venetian Snare’s Dance like your selling nails. Try to find record shop Rhett
knows about, think of calling Amanda, but Atlanta is big, it’s 1 a.m. and by the time I get to B’Ham I’ll be
like 5 a.m.
Several calls during the day, interupted while talking to S. twice I think, talk to Dave, Darren calls, Dave G. (who were thinking of moving in with) is having one of his THIS IS VERY IMPORTANT moments. DAve’s big on drama. I neglect to call him back.
Getting to B’Ham my mom wants to talk and we sit around for awhile and chat. I look at pictures on the wall and see my smiling confident face coming back at me till around wehn get to my Brother’s graduation photo – I had at that point developed some type of
anti-camera nervous tick and I give a large gay smile. My life makes more sense. I’m adjusting, in some strange way, to being who I am more of the time. As Dylan put it, “We are who we pretend to be.” Extra levels of shy this holiday season, as my mind does flips and flips over issues I thought I’d dealt with a long time ago.
My mom wants to open her big box tonight even though she won’t say anything. Mischeviously she complains she doesn’t know when to open gifts, “why don’t we open them tonight?” She announces as if delaying some unspoken command of her sub-conscious. No one else really cares. Our holiday whims long ago repressed to a nice night of sleep and lesser levels of greed. She has to know what’s in that box, and I’m sure when we get back from Church tonight, with or with out our insistence, she’ll be tearing at the gift wrap and staring into the thought that finds form in electronics and plastic: something she needs. And no, it’s not the idildo Rhett. Oh yeah I also fixed my mom’s computer. Might be going to my Dad’s sooner than expected.

Happy Holidays Folks,
Andrew

December 24, 2002 at 6:59 pm Leave a comment

a more stable update

Stories:
Tried waltzing with J. on Saturday, you have to out your feet down this way or something she says.
We lumber around, never quite getting it right. Here I’ll lead she says, but then stops and sez
it doesn’t feel right. You need to get a mat she says.
J’s father plays old-time music and one of his musical companions has a daughter. she greets me at the door,
50 degrees or less and she has one of those flora print shirts with one button buttoned. EVerything is hanging out of her, stomach, breasts,
etc. later i run into her in the bathroom taking a shot, which is hopefully insilin to deal with the sugar
of eggnog etc.
Drive up to Birmingham cruizing through Atlanta listen’n to Roots Manuva, go through new Squarepusher again and find track 4 have a similar micro-funk to Venetian Snare’s Dance like your selling nails. Try to find record shop Rhett
knows about, think of calling Amanda, but Atlanta is big, it’s 1 a.m. and by the time I get to B’Ham I’ll be
like 5 a.m.
Several calls during the day, interupted while talking to S. twice I think, talk to Dave, Darren calls, Dave G. (who were thinking of moving in with) is having one of his THIS IS VERY IMPORTANT moments. DAve’s big on drama. I neglect to call him back.
Getting to B’Ham my mom wants to talk and we sit around for awhile and chat. I look at pictures on the wall and see my smiling confident face coming back at me till around wehn get to my Brother’s graduation photo – I had at that point developed some type of
anti-camera nervous tick and I give a large gay smile. My life makes more sense. I’m adjusting, in some strange way, to being who I am more of the time. As Dylan put it, “We are who we pretend to be.” Extra levels of shy this holiday season, as my mind does flips and flips over issues I thought I’d dealt with a long time ago.
My mom wants to open her big box tonight even though she won’t say anything. Mischeviously she complains she doesn’t know when to open gifts, “why don’t we open them tonight?” She announces as if delaying some unspoken command of her sub-conscious. No one else really cares. Our holiday whims long ago repressed to a nice night of sleep and lesser levels of greed. She has to know what’s in that box, and I’m sure when we get back from Church tonight, with or with out our insistence, she’ll be tearing at the gift wrap and staring into the thought that finds form in electronics and plastic: something she needs. And no, it’s not the idildo Rhett. Oh yeah I also fixed my mom’s computer. Might be going to my Dad’s sooner than expected.

Happy Holidays Folks,
Andrew

December 24, 2002 at 6:59 pm Leave a comment

complex

Well I officialy have a new complex and it’s feeling waif like and girly. I fucking hate this. Last post was about this. In Birmingham, bought an max gift for mom. Hate my mom, very weird and controlling like a Daneil Clowes character. Went to Jecie’s xmas party. drove through Atlanta. Got a bunch of new records. pissed off.

December 24, 2002 at 6:15 pm Leave a comment

instrospection

Introspection fucking sucks. I hate it. Things stay the same, you think about it, you get worse, then you have to build yourself back up. Which sucks. It’s a lot easier to tear yourself down than up. Always thought I put out a resistance to the world, now I feel like the world is dicking me over. I don’t want to see things like that, it sucks and it makes me feel like I should give up. Stay at home. Never go out, never meet people, let some fuck take care of me, etc. I hate that.
Sez, “I know you have a problem with yourself.” Duh. You should. You have to box, you have to move with yourself. We’re flawed, I’m trying to deal with it. The things people tell me at Stardust in sincerity, as if their placing me in these positions is some kind of apparent, pisses me off. I feel like a little bitch. Some fuck that’s by a movement of an invisible status qou at the bottom of the barrel. Some would say I placed myself there, but after years of thrashing to be a more competent and social person, I’m still seen as a quiet passive little guy people get to run over. I have no problem with quiet anymore, but your not going to run me over.

December 23, 2002 at 12:22 am Leave a comment

Rummage

Things I found rummaging through my documents folder.

An architectural march of structures that underly Mark Twain’s blimp in his search for Haley’s comet, the LNF Pool is a list for the cognoscente, by the info-proletariat, and by hegemony opposed to the connoisseur.
Stuff gets established in ways the little eyes on top of x and y are blind to.That’s what we’re establishing here. Not the sublime, but a state goofy enough to keep us on the margins of belief. Ne roi, mais jester, as the olde saying goes.. The LNF Pool, a mailing list for people who like to do things, because they do things.
100% Not affiliated with neen.

Application Reuters.com

In my three years of freelancing I’ve learned to professionally report on issues spanning the gamuts of human affairs. I have never missed a deadline, and I’ve learned an effective ability to manage my time and skills to be able to meet competing timetables. My articles are populated with clean copy that can be published with minimal editing.

A journalist can be two things, an inventive rancouter equal to the challenges of investigating the facets in an issue, or a quick witted reporter aided by a concise style and good research skills. As a Reuters Correspondent I feel my editing and writing skills will be effectively challenged in all aspects of journalism.

French. Extremely basic knowledge. It’s been years since I studied French. I still remember the grammar and some vocabulary. I’d like to pick it up again.


Need
What is beginning to occur to me is that neen, and I know my title is need, was perhaps the only art work to come about in the 90s that seemed a fulfillment of the 20th century. Both performance and conceptual, Manetas managed to do something that caught the spirit that left when Warhol died. Art has stuttered since then for something new to do. With most work still telic (and there’s many fine things for telics to do), it’s still hard to see, but it was the business that really nailed neen down to it’s need in mass consciousness. Art is business, and it need an update, a realization of it’s roots instead of flagging about in theoretical mumbo jumbo.
Theory is important, an artist has to think about what their doing, but neen sees through the impulses of the art world to it’s root: pay attention to me and give me money. Neen is more like Henry Darger, an outsider vocation in the intellectual enterprise, it’s exists a harbinger of theory, but a theory problematic in actually executing in thought. I had this entire thing worked out once about what I thought about the art world etc. How we’d lost our abilities to connect with the audience, and how neen and net art was part of re-embodying art for popular culture. It was more complex than that. I think I might have written something down about it somewhere. Lemme see ok here we go:
list of weird avant-garde art movements

symp <– Canadian
Nadaists <— Columbian

—–

Landscape painting, that Tv show where they teach you how to
paint like that.

This last one is our line of the hour. You see conceptualism has become like that TV show in the eighties where that guy showed you how to do landscape paintings. Conceptualism relies, like the existentialists, on frequently reactionary politics. It’s reactionary so of course it keeps the status qou it’s reacting against in itself like a vaccine housing a virus. This isn’t always true, many conceptual games thoroughly shed their referent to become fully independent thoughts. Found another little clip on this subject:

the biggest problem with conceptual art these ideas is it’s ubiquity.
like the cheesy murals you see in restuarants, anyone can take a few
classes and begin to address some simple or grandoise concepts in art.
For instance the Artrom for the gameboy color raises many questions about uses of technologies, format, and cultural preconceptions around electronics.
It was produced with an obvious fore-knowledge of it’s consequences,
but where is the discussion? Where is the conclusion? It is not enough
to just ask in art, the mystery of the concept is the opening line, the
piece is the conclusion.
Oh what do you know. I did write a review of Hal Hartley’s “No Such Thing”:
No Such Thing
Directed by Hal Hartley
Starring:
Robert John Burke
Sarah Polley
Released on DVD and Video by MGM
If the world were made of ideas, than there would be no need for the films of Hal Hartley. Over the last twenty years Hal has produced a body of cinema that evolved with the same sense of advantage and pride in low cost techniques as in indie rock. His films grip you with character, storyline, and concept. His latest “No Such Thing” was planned as his first major film, however it was canned from widescreen release when Hal refused to make an edit to the film. Thanks god he refused. No Such Thing is the Alphaville of our times. While the previews for it left me skeptical, the film itself is simply the most breath taking thing Hal has done since other classics like Surviving Desire and Henry Fool, and perhaps more so. The film centers on a lowly reporter (Sarah Polley) at a magazine who intercepts a letter from a man claiming to be her fiance’s killer. She ends up on assignment to track down the monster her fiance was contacting. Like all Hartley films each character is a metaphor, an avatar of some idea he’s working with and the protoganist’s interactions only deepens the sense of conversation and critique.The protagonist is a simple example of innocence and the film centers on a biblical idea she espouses, “It’s like my mother used to say, Jesus had it figured out all good and proper. Love your enemies like you love yourself.” The monster is a monster, a real fire breathing possible incarnation of evil. I won’t get anymore into the plot, because it is riveting, and the film spins through ideas like a finely honed essay. Mr. Hartlety has here filmed a parable of our times. With planes flying through buildings, suicide bombings, and racial strife at an all time high, we no longer need monsters to remind us of our mortality or to hoist the responsibilities of being cruel, it’s just fucking implicit in our lives.
I don’t like this review as much as when I wrote it. Ahh well, also found the lyrics to Jandek’s Other Man:

Your Other Man (1/5)
Well, I guess your mind’s made up
Well, I guess there’s not much left to do
Go on, see your other man
Walk up the stairs
That’s where the stars are
Go on, see your other man
Well, you wouldn’t believe it tastes like candy
Gimme a fork, yeah a gimme a fork
Eat some potato
Shades are falling
Shades are falling
And for my final rummage. A report for my history of photography class. A respone to Sontag’s criticism of Diane Arbus:

Andy Jones
Prof. Libster
Histo-Photo-rama

Susan Sontag America, Seen Through Photographs Darkly

Growing up in the soup culture suburbia of the eighties, desolation followed the metropolis like kudzu. Strip malls exploded out concrete parking lots and closed even faster. There was an aesthetic to the whole thing. Surrounded by sedate colors and vast expanses of empty space I can remember the horror and loneliness these brittle landscapes invoked in me. A similar feeling is aroused by Diane Arbus and her photographs. As Susan Sontag points out, “Arbus’ work does not invite viewers to identify with the pariahs and miserable-looking people she photographed.” Instead the viewer is horrified, or empathizes with the subjects. Sontag says these photos don’t present humanity as one, but I feel as they capture a certain melancholia that has pestered my age. Humanity is one because humanity is alienated. A friend of mine calls and tells me she feels alone in her problems, she’s going to start seeing a psychologist. I was prescribed with depression and prozac in high school. I’m not depressed now some 6 years later, but the memory remains of that indulgence. Perhaps that’s what Arbus means to me is that self-indulgence and alienation we force upon ourselves growing up. Her work reminds me of the emo-rock popular on college rock stations that is always maudlin on the darker side of consciousness. These works provide a kind of comfort because the subjects are as messed up as we are… or think we are. There’s a kind of common humanity behind all them, that their all human and flawed, that their all really just like us.
and as an encore, my paper on Lewis Hine:
Andy Jonester
Prof. Libby
History of Photography

Lewis Hine, Social Photography

“Does art do anything?”, she says to us one afternoon. We don’t know what to say and I just stare at the table before me. We’re supposed to be taking pictures and developing photos, but instead we’re discussing art. They have these round bench room at the Glassell where I’m taking photography for the sixth year in a row or at least what seems like it. I’ve taken one picture in six years that my teacher likes, the rest she just shrugs at says, “I knew it.” My swirling collages of over exposed jumble with my step Mother’s Boston Terriers in one floating over a TV set has failed to impress her, as have my elaborate plastic army men blurred like some photo from a grunge-rock album’s liner notes. “Does it do anything?”, she says. I don’t know what to say because of course it does something: it makes me feel like I’ve accomplished something. However I suppose it was bigger issues she wanted me to tackle, after all developing photos makes everyone feel like they’ve accomplished something. I suppose I wasn’t like Lewis Hine, full of ideas about the need for social photography. I don’t think anyone ever comment that about my blurred avant-mess that, “With a picture thus sympathetically interpreted, what a lever we have for the social uplift.” My photos weren’t symbols bringing the view close to reality, I had no interest in such things. But enough with the self-pity’n stuff, I’m not Lewis Hine, but reading his manifesto does give me a bit more respect for him. Hine did some amazing things that brought the world and social issues to our doorsteps. His ability to both aestheticize and empathize with his subjects is amazing. His work requires the viewer have a heart and look close at his portraits. His work makes even the most jaded see the world through the eyes of a humanist.
I’m all art-ed out for the next couple of days and my journals are always a little melodramatic, I’m melodramatic, and a tab self-important.See you folks after the holidays.


A

going to an eggnog party tonight. doing my show on monday then driving to b-ham for holidays.

December 21, 2002 at 6:07 pm Leave a comment

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