Archive for August, 2004

Schaffel Schafeel

August 22, 2004 at 2:01 am Leave a comment

today version whatever times whatever

August 21, 2004 at 11:32 pm Leave a comment

catching up w/ car trouble

August 20, 2004 at 4:18 pm Leave a comment

essay # whatever

August 18, 2004 at 3:44 am Leave a comment

8/11

so behind in these things it’s 8/16 now.
ahh well catching up to do.

Carlisle, PA

On my way back from Orlando I run into a truck marked
Carlisle, PA. Fred’s new home town and the current digs
of both Simone and Jess. Two finely honed ninja theater
workers. The theater worker is a surly sort, built on wi-fi
laptops and a desire to play Doom 3. [just a note these
things don’t really obey the usual laws of space time i.e.
this one mixes yesterday w/ what happened before orlando
w/ what happened in orlando w/ what didn’t happen and
with some total fiction. see if you can figure out which is
which].

Doom 3 is dissapointing, something which no doubt
Simone will see w/ complete disgust. It’s not the graphics
that are lacking (their pretty amazing) it’s the culture. It
lacks the sense of breaking new ground. 1/2 Life knocked
video games off the shelf becuase it ignored graphics
for story, here Doom tries to marry the two together
and seems like a decent fusion, but it is just a fusion.
ID is good at making straight shooters that just
keep the adrenaline running and the finger clamped
down on the button, here ID takes it long standing
talents and waters them down, what is lost is idenitity.
I’m sure ID can make a great story game, but there’s
already been a lot of good story games, what we want
is something new, something that brings in a new culture
something like Quake that made it all 3D, Doom that started
the whole franchise (yeah even though wolfenstein came b4).
What is dissapoining about Doom 3 (even though I wanna buy it)
is that we felt let down. The pioneers of a genre have no new ideas.
They’ve caved into Microsoft’s Direct X, and yeah they’ve probably
made a game that’s still a little more fun than your average FPS.

8/12
Orlando is a hurricane. We’re walking around in it over to Lee’s house.
Lane and Phil have shrooms and are bumbling around the neighborhood.
At one point we run into Phil and he’s getting to know a tree. It’s a cool tree
though, chopped down at the roots, towering over the street, it seems like a giant
bushy friend. We make plans to see JuJu in Tampa, but I break off and go hang out
w/ Pete Barber (another story in itself) while they hang w/ Anna and Chris. When
I head back to the house no one is there and I leave a note, went to tampa, see you at JuJu.
Tampa’s traffic is really light, much less backed up than usual and in Tampa Hot Wax has
graduated from ragga-drum and bass to actually hosting a decent dancehall selection. I pick up
another old school rankin 12″ that blends disco and eighties bass into one perfect
whole while a soulful mc spits kingston slang on the needle. For an early show JuJu is packed.
About 200 fill the orpheum and the one local band I catch is trying to be the
Blood Brothers but has a sense of humor. I run into some guy from Tallahasse who tells
me Orlando’s best thing is it’s metal scene. I run into Matt/ Astropec who I’ve known through
AIM for about a year now and apparently has been talking to Travis for years.
And I FINALLY run into Jack Spatford who seems un-eventful and tells me that
McCraney and The Social have turned down Lightning Bolt 3 times now. JuJU could
hardly even get a gig in Orlando and things don’t look good for Deerhoof either.
You’d think McKraney would realize these acts can bring him money by now but
Spatford says that Mike just doesn’t seem to get it and we talk about getting
Lighting Bolt up to Orlando next time they come through via either Lane, Pat Green,
or Backbooth (wills pub amazingly turned them down too). It’s a good night and
I wanna play my records when I get back home, but the power is off and everyone
is away. I crash on a cough and me and J.T. hang out in the morning before I leave.

8/13
Tansi’s mother always pointed to that spot on the street where the buildings broke
and a ray of sunlight broke in and shone down on a metal fortress made of brick
and incased in steel. “That’s where the americans breed the babies we’ll sleep with
when we’re older,” she said. Tansi was an infant then, making it up from 8 and then
into a viable profession of navigating the go slow by bike while other couriers spent
their days smoking ganja in Capetown’s numerous ghettoes. Their pants ripped and thrift store t-shirts always gave them the appearance of hipsters while the strange women of the u.s. put down their muzzled beers and stradled legs to let another in for a second. In magazines he head stories of black nationalists starting clothing lines, working their way out of ghettoes, fullfilling a dream of pride so far away it seemed like a speck of dirt on the american’s walls.
He worked away from the other carriers. His isolation wasn’t so much a product of being shy as that he had work at home everyday and didn’t socialize, so he ended up outside of the group but frequently on time. This lead to him being the least trusted of the pack. The manager knew the other boys and their ways, but Tansa remained an enigma. He sat in the front row and watched the teacher run through their lessons, but he went immediately from this to packages and then home to finish dinner before anyone could get there. He spent most of his time wondering around the various american embassies where no one else bother to go. A group of grafitti writers had entered the city as of late and they hailed down Tansi every time he entered the forbidden zone, check this shit out, one said and sprayed on the final lines of a helicopter that crashed into an insect that was piecing together an afro. They both laughed and the writers invited him to get some beer, but he went home instead and worked on a patched pair of jeans for tomorrow.
Tansi had known from day one as a courier that he was looking for one assignment, an entrance into the American’s citadel. It came in the form of a news wire the manager dispatched, It had to hit the American building by noon and Tansi took the job on even though he knew there was no way to ever make the deadline. The go slow was locked w/ cyclists and cars on monday and his approach would have to be made by foot, literally leaping from rooftop to rooftop until a fire escape could let him down under the bridge and from there he would have to swim to the other side. His shirt stained and his jeans reaking water he made his way from the street and to the American’s fortress in time for them to start serving lunch.
The first American Tansi saw was a green man with nervous manner. He seemed on the verge of collapse and a group of chips and wires made up his left eyebrow where a very nervous hand had plucked away silicon revealing a base layer of skin not unlike his own. The American lumbered, his back bending back up to straight and his artificial breath letting out sighs as a green puss began to form in his hands and his eyes seemed ready to roll back. He followed the man’s stumble down a corridor till he collapses in a bed. There the body remained still until a voice intoned, “don’t mind him, we’re all sick here,” the american said, his body obviously rocked w/ jaundice to the point where he seemed bloated with liqour, “we’re all gonna die soon.” The man took his letter and looked it over, “You came through the river here right?” “yes,” tansi replied, “then you may as well start working here,” he said, “come back through around 9 a.m. we’ll find something for you to do.” and the man turned around and slumped on his desk a few minutes later a rich snore erupted and Tansi found his way out where he found the americans making loving to his mother, “Go home Tansi,” she said, “we’ll talk about this later.” the whir of the g.i.’s arms and his decaying flesh seemed slightly more natural as Tansi made his way through the door.
More tomorrow. To tired.

Peace,
A

August 17, 2004 at 2:14 am 3 comments

FEELING LIKE A WEARWOLF… (chorus feeling like a wearwolf, feeling like a wearowolf)

August 12, 2004 at 2:38 am Leave a comment

updates due

by my count need to write

08/09, 08/10, 08/11, and now 08/12

no idea if I’ll have an internet connect tomorrow
in Greensboro

08/09

New York is a brilliantly small town comprised of lilliputs villages
of all the cultures that make America prominient. It’s a strange home
where you find yourself in a park from a movie every 3 blocks and filling
times with the age old game of train-fu. Train-fu is the art of buying
12 dollar train pass and crusiing new york by as few stops as possible.
you walk entire sections, the east village to soho to the gugenhim to
central park. the jogger of central park sits by us as we read his plac
establshing him as new york’s first runner of the central park resevoir.
I never make Williamsburg or Fusetron by passing the entire area by
2 stops into cypress hill. New York is home, always, somehow. It’s double
package of foriegn experience, entrenched structures, and it’s uncanny
ability to be everything you’ve been to before only compressed like
spray paint into one un-formed whole. It exists slowly outside of time’s
contraints. There is no worry that East Village will ever be adabonned,
Astoria will always be a great place, these things are temporary, but
every generation of grafitti writers and wealthy gallery owners leave
their mark. The city becomes a concurrence of signs, of culture, of
people leaving one district for the next. Where will Williamsburg relocate
now that it’s residents climb the economic scale? It’s crime rate is soaring
as bohemians become sucessfull enterprenuers. Austin, TX is losing it’s
populos of under-acheivers for houston and dallas, Willismburg for philly
and astoria (which is already looking nice) and the east village is getting
new residents. Ultimately an economic climb is gonna come. We of the
google, the flash script, the gallery trotting girls that mob the L by night,
the indie-loving boys that scrimp down kim’s grottoes, austin’s emo-sapiens,
Seattle’s grungy bottle rims, are becoming sucessfull. the counter culture slows,
Brookylnites call for the cops who’s absence of patrols let them party for 10 years
un-abated, now to protect their wealth from mobsters and cypress hill. A change
is gonna come. We’ll all be yuppied in 10 years time. Garnered in galleries, corned
with wealth and wine collections, wondering why our kids can’t seem to find jobs.


Andrew Jones

August 12, 2004 at 1:06 am Leave a comment

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