October 17, 1pm
Allow me to say, right off the bat, that artists, those wonderful, hungry, wistful, socially conscious adornments of fate and destiny, have always inspired me, and driven me to spend more money than I have.
Ok, with that said, I must acknowledge, again, someone who I hold dear as an amazing artists, and social contemporary; whose work speaks beyond the band they are promoting for; someone who knows that his silkscreened work will last long past the event, and will bring memories, for those who attended the event, of a performance perhaps better than actually witnessed. You see, this is the work of someone who could quite possibly be the best soap opera writer of our day. The star: usually a cuddly little teddy bear that you would be best not come anywhere near. The story: like any good daytime soap: he keeps you guessing. The feeling you get when consuming the message: a bit queezy at first, then euphoria.
Jermaine Rogers of Houston, Texas has his finger on the pulse of the underbelly of the American Day, where we wander around bright streets and avenues in the inner city, waiting for the bar to open; not so we can drown our miseries in a pint, or a shot glass. No! But so we can share our true selves with the other loesome creatures who share a desire for pranksterism.
It’s cowboy kareoke. It’s punk rock twister. It’s Bad Movie Night. It’s comments from the bartender like “drink this. I don’t know what it is, but I’ve been pouring all of the overfilled drinks into it all night.” And you drink it, not giving a shit who sees, or doesn’t see. It’s not about who sees you. Who cares about being seen? it’s about knowing that the only thing getting you through your existance is knowing that there are others like you out there. Good luck America. You’re going to need it.
Jermaine Rogers: I salute you brother.
September 23, 1pm
I did go to “Off the Wall” yesterday to check out their posters. They’re on Haight Street in SF, and have a reputation of stocking the most recent posters by the best artist. I saw a lot of great Emek and Rogers prints, along with others. No Kozic though. The prices were reasonable as well. I scoured and purchased a Chuck Sperry for $15. The salesman was a bit of a prick when I asked for a cardboard tube though. He wanted to charge me $2, I told him I was surprised, and that “Artrock” doesn’t charge for tubes. He says “we’re not Artrock.”
No shit.
They also do framing there, but it doesn’t seem to be archival quality. A customer was asking the guy if one “had to get these framed. Couldn’t I just tack them to the wall?” I almost went up and punched the guy in the throat. As my wife, an artist and archval framer, says “If you’re spending the money on a piece of art, don’t you want to preserve it for a long time?” It’s an investment, right? I want her to go to Artrock and get them to work out a deal so she can frame in their space.
The Sperry piece I purchased is a poster for a book release show, if I remember correctly (it’s at home and I just got it). you’ll recognize it though as the cover of a Jello Biafra CD from last year. the CD only has Osama on it. As you can see, the poster shows him along with that other wacky clown, GW. The piece I posted is not the exact one I bought, the text is differnt.
I checked out the Firehouse website, and was displeased to find so few posters to gave at in their gallery. I had to search around a bit to find something similar to what I bought to post here. Also, they scan their posters to look like they’ve been ages in an old west style. I understand copyright protection, but this did not make me want to order from their site.
Link
September 23, 1pm
Dear Jermaine,
Although we have only spoken on the phone once, I regard you as a friend. Has this ever happened to you before? Me either. when I ordered that MC5 poster from you, I figured it would be sent, I stuff it away somewhere until I had the funds to frame it (sometime in 2015) and that would be that. But no! Instead it never got to me. I emailed you…emailed you again. You emailed me saying that you sent me three previous emails and that you only received one of mine. It went on like this for a few weeks. A few more lost emails here and there between the two of us, and then you got the smart idea of asking for a phone number exchange.
After three more lost emails between the two of us, I get a phone call from you. All I expected was a brief business conversation. What I got was beautiful, man. A twenty minute conversation about the fine art of silkscreening, how to get the band you love to allow you to make a poster for them, family ( I hope your daughter and wife are safe), and of course, talk about Hurricane Katrina, never once thinking about “what if it happened here”. Now it’s happening here…or should I say there. You live in Houston.
I still have yet to receive the poster, but what I’m most concerned about is the safety of your family. San Francisco may appear to be a world away from Texas and Lousiana, but in our hearts you are right next door.
Be safe, and be certain that you will survive and thrive. And when I do receive your fabulous work in the mail, you can bet it will be the next one framed and up on the wall. Even if that is in 2015.
Check out Jermaine Rogers’ site here.
September 14, 9am
I’ve been a bit busy lately with school beginning. I’m a high school teacher, and the year has just begun. We’re in the third week of the term, and my schedule continues to change. More on that in another post, I’m sure.
I teach, or should I say taught, as of today I don’t teach Media Literacy anymore. Anyway, I have taught Media Lit at the high school level for about a year. I have my degree in it, and I want to impart to the kids the imporatnce of not being duped by mainstream media.
Below you will read an amazing story of a non-New Orleans resident, as a matter of fact, a non-American resident, stuck in N.O. during the hurricane, and her experience with local law enforcement.
I ask, who’s to blame for the way these people were treated? The local law enforcement feared mob mentality, while all these people wanted was to get the hell out of Dodge.
Enjoy.
You can hear Lorrie tell this story first hand in audio (Act two of
This American Life) -- http://thisamericanlife.org/
although the numbers are a little different (1000s vs. 80-90)
Hurricane Katrina-Our Experiences
Larry Bradshaw
Lorrie Beth Slonsky
Two days after Hurricane Katrina struck New Orleans, the Walgreen's
store at the corner of Royal and Iberville streets remained locked. The
dairy display case was clearly visible through the widows. It was now
48 hours without electricity, running water, plumbing. The milk,
yogurt, and cheeses were beginning to spoil in the 90-degree heat. The
owners and managers had locked up the food, water, pampers, and
prescriptions and fled the City. Outside Walgreen's windows, residents
and tourists grew increasingly thirsty and hungry.
The much-promised federal, state and local aid never materialized and
the windows at Walgreen's gave way to the looters. There was an
alternative. The cops could have broken one small window and
distributed the nuts, fruit juices, and bottle water in an organized
and systematic manner. But they did not. Instead they spent hours
playing cat and mouse, temporarily chasing away the looters.
We were finally airlifted out of New Orleans two days ago and arrived
home yesterday (Saturday). We have yet to see any of the TV coverage or
look at a newspaper. We are willing to guess that there were no video
images or front-page pictures of European or affluent white tourists
looting the Walgreen's in the French Quarter.
We also suspect the media will have been inundated with "hero" images
of the National Guard, the troops and the police struggling to help the
"victims" of the Hurricane. What you will not see, but what we
witnessed were the real heroes and sheroes of the hurricane relief
effort: the working class of New Orleans. The maintenance workers who
used a fork lift to carry the sick and disabled. The engineers, who
rigged, nurtured and kept the generators running. The electricians who
improvised thick extension cords stretching over blocks to share the
little electricity we had in order to free cars stuck on rooftop
parking lots. Nurses who took over for mechanical ventilators and spent
many hours on end manually forcing air into the lungs of unconscious
patients to keep them alive. Doormen who rescued folks stuck in
elevators. Refinery workers who broke into boat yards, "stealing" boats
to rescue their neighbors clinging to their roofs in flood waters.
Mechanics who helped hot-wire any car that could be found to ferry
people out of the City. And the food service workers who scoured the
commercial kitchens improvising communal meals for hundreds of those
stranded.
Most of these workers had lost their homes, and had not heard from
members of their families, yet they stayed and provided the only
infrastructure for the 20% of New Orleans that was not under water.
On Day 2, there were approximately 500 of us left in the hotels in the
French Quarter. We were a mix of foreign tourists, conference attendees
like ourselves, and locals who had checked into hotels for safety and
shelter from Katrina. Some of us had cell phone contact with family and
friends outside of New Orleans. We were repeatedly told that all sorts
of resources including the National Guard and scores of buses were
pouring in to the City. The buses and the other resources must have
been invisible because none of us had seen them.
We decided we had to save ourselves. So we poured our money and came up
with $25,000 to have ten buses come and take us out of the City. Those
who did not have the requisite $45.00 for a ticket were subsidized by
those who did have extra money. We waited for 48 hours for the buses,
spending the last 12 hours standing outside, sharing the limited water,
food, and clothes we had. We created a priority boarding area for the
sick, elderly and new born babies. We waited late into the night for
the "imminent" arrival of the buses. The buses never arrived. We later
learned that the minute they arrived to the City limits, they were
commandeered by the military.
By day 4 our hotels had run out of fuel and water. Sanitation was
dangerously abysmal. As the desperation and despair increased, street
crime as well as water levels began to rise. The hotels turned us out
and locked their doors, telling us that the "officials" told us to
report to the convention center to wait for more buses. As we entered
the center of the City, we finally encountered the National Guard.
The Guards told us we would not be allowed into the Superdome as the
City's primary shelter had been descended into a humanitarian and
health hellhole. The guards further told us that the City's only other
shelter, the Convention Center, was also descending into chaos and
squalor and that the police were not allowing anyone else in. Quite
naturally, we asked, "If we can't go to the only 2 shelters in the
City, what was our alternative?" The guards told us that that was our
problem, and no they did not have extra water to give to us. This would
be the start of our numerous encounters with callous and hostile "law
enforcement".
We walked to the police command center at Harrah's on Canal Street and
were told the same thing, that we were on our own, and no they did not
have water to give us. We now numbered several hundred. We held a mass
meeting to decide a course of action. We agreed to camp outside the
police command post. We would be plainly visible to the media and would
constitute a highly visible embarrassment to the City officials. The
police told us that we could not stay. Regardless, we began to settle
in and set up camp. In short order, the police commander came across
the street to address our group. He told us he had a solution: we
should walk to the Pontchartrain Expressway and cross the greater New
Orleans Bridge where the police had buses lined up to take us out of
the City. The crowed cheered and began to move. We called everyone back
and explained to the commander that there had been lots of
misinformation and wrong information and was he sure that there were
buses waiting for us. The commander turned to the crowd and stated
emphatically, "I swear to you that the buses are there."
We organized ourselves and the 200 of us set off for the bridge with
great excitement and hope. As we marched past the convention center,
many locals saw our determined and optimistic group and asked where we
were headed. We told them about the great news. Families immediately
grabbed their few belongings and quickly our numbers doubled and then
doubled again. Babies in strollers now joined us, people using
crutches, elderly clasping walkers and others people in wheelchairs. We
marched the 2-3 miles to the freeway and up the steep incline to the
Bridge. It now began to pour down rain, but it did not dampen our
enthusiasm.
As we approached the bridge, armed Gretna sheriffs formed a line across
the foot of the bridge. Before we were close enough to speak, they
began firing their weapons over our heads. This sent the crowd fleeing
in various directions. As the crowd scattered and dissipated, a few of
us inched forward and managed to engage some of the sheriffs in
conversation. We told them of our conversation with the police
commander and of the commander's assurances. The sheriffs informed us
there were no buses waiting. The commander had lied to us to get us to
move.
We questioned why we couldn't cross the bridge anyway, especially as
there was little traffic on the 6-lane highway. They responded that the
West Bank was not going to become New Orleans and there would be no
Superdomes in their City. These were code words for if you are poor and
black, you are not crossing the Mississippi River and you were not
getting out of New Orleans.
Our small group retreated back down Highway 90 to seek shelter from the
rain under an overpass. We debated our options and in the end decided
to build an encampment in the middle of the Ponchartrain Expressway on
the center divide, between the O'Keefe and Tchoupitoulas exits. We
reasoned we would be visible to everyone, we would have some security
being on an elevated freeway and we could wait and watch for the
arrival of the yet to be seen buses.
All day long, we saw other families, individuals and groups make the
same trip up the incline in an attempt to cross the bridge, only to be
turned away. Some chased away with gunfire, others simply told no,
others to be verbally berated and humiliated. Thousands of New
Orleaners were prevented and prohibited from self-evacuating the City
on foot. Meanwhile, only two City shelters sank further into squalor
and disrepair. The only way across the bridge was by vehicle. We saw
workers stealing trucks, buses, moving vans, semi-trucks and any car
that could be hotwired. All were packed with people trying to escape
the misery New Orleans had become.
Our little encampment began to blossom. Someone stole a water delivery
truck and brought it up to us. Let's hear it for looting! A mile or so
down the freeway, an army truck lost a couple of pallets of C-rations
on a tight turn. We ferried the food back to our camp in shopping
carts. Now secure with the two necessities, food and water,
cooperation, community and creativity flowered. We organized a clean
up, and hung garbage bags from the rebar poles. We made beds from wood
pallets and cardboard. We designated a storm drain as the bathroom and
the kids built an elaborate enclosure for privacy out of plastic,
broken umbrellas, and other scraps. We even organized a food recycling
system where individuals could swap out parts of C-rations (applesauce
for babies and candies for kids!).
This was a process we saw repeatedly in the aftermath of Katrina. When
individuals had to fight to find food or water, it meant looking out
for yourself only. You had to do whatever it took to find water for
your kids or food for your parents. When these basic needs were met,
people began to look out for each other, working together and
constructing a community.
If the relief organizations had saturated the City with food and water
in the first 2 or 3 days, the desperation, the frustration and the
ugliness would not have set in.
Flush with the necessities, we offered food and water to passing
families and individuals. Many decided to stay and join us. Our
encampment grew to 80 or 90 people.
>From a woman with a battery powered radio we learned that the media
was
talking about us. Up in full view on the freeway, every relief and news
organizations saw us on their way into the City. Officials were being
asked what they were going to do about all those families living up on
the freeway? The officials responded they were going to take care of
us. Some of us got a sinking feeling. "Taking care of us" had an
ominous tone to it.
Unfortunately, our sinking feeling (along with the sinking City) was
correct. Just as dusk set in, a Gretna Sheriff showed up, jumped out of
his patrol vehicle, aimed his gun at our faces, screaming, "Get off the
fucking freeway". A helicopter arrived and used the wind from its
blades to blow away our flimsy structures. As we retreated, the sheriff
loaded up his truck with our food and water.
Once again, at gunpoint, we were forced off the freeway. All the law
enforcement agencies appeared threatened when we congregated or
congealed into groups of 20 or more. In every congregation of "victims"
they saw "mob" or "riot". We felt safety in numbers. Our "we must stay
together" was impossible because the agencies would force us into small
atomized groups.
In the pandemonium of having our camp raided and destroyed, we
scattered once again. Reduced to a small group of 8 people, in the
dark, we sought refuge in an abandoned school bus, under the freeway on
Cilo Street. We were hiding from possible criminal elements but equally
and definitely, we were hiding from the police and sheriffs with their
martial law, curfew and shoot-to-kill policies.
The next days, our group of 8 walked most of the day, made contact with
New Orleans Fire Department and were eventually airlifted out by an
urban search and rescue team. We were dropped off near the airport and
managed to catch a ride with the National Guard. The two young
guardsmen apologized for the limited response of the Louisiana guards.
They explained that a large section of their unit was in Iraq and that
meant they were shorthanded and were unable to complete all the tasks
they were assigned.
We arrived at the airport on the day a massive airlift had begun. The
airport had become another Superdome. We 8 were caught in a press of
humanity as flights were delayed for several hours while George Bush
landed briefly at the airport for a photo op. After being evacuated on
a coast guard cargo plane, we arrived in San Antonio, Texas.
There the humiliation and dehumanization of the official relief effort
continued. We were placed on buses and driven to a large field where we
were forced to sit for hours and hours. Some of the buses did not have
air-conditioners. In the dark, hundreds of us were forced to share two
filthy overflowing porta-potties. Those who managed to make it out with
any possessions (often a few belongings in tattered plastic bags) were
subjected to two different dog-sniffing searches.
Most of us had not eaten all day because our C-rations had been
confiscated at the airport because the rations set off the metal
detectors. Yet, no food had been provided to the men, women, children,
elderly, disabled as they sat for hours waiting to be "medically
screened" to make sure we were not carrying any communicable diseases.
This official treatment was in sharp contrast to the warm, heart-felt
reception given to us by the ordinary Texans. We saw one airline worker
give her shoes to someone who was barefoot. Strangers on the street
offered us money and toiletries with words of welcome.
Throughout, the official relief effort was callous, inept, and racist.
There was more suffering than need be. Lives were lost that did not
need to be lost.
Sarah Redman
31 Queenston Rd
Manchester
M20 2NX
tel:0161 4343903
August 30, 2pm
I had to go downtown in SF yesterday to renew my benefits for the school district. I’m a teacher, but I’m not tenured, so I have to renew every year for the first three years. This was the last time I need to do this. Anyway, I passed by Artrock; I couldn’t help but step inside, it was calling me by name. I don’t get paid until October 1st, and it’s my wedding anniversary along with my wife’s and my birthday this month; so, I was being a bit selfish and bought the two above posters.
The first one is by SF artist Mark Arminski. It’s for a Patti Smith/Allen Ginsberg show in Ann Arbor, Michigan. I love the Yin yang concept for this poster. It appears to be showing the relationship between the punk which is in music, and the punk in prose.
Link here to Arminski’s site.
The second poster is by Alan Forbes. I’ve been a Monomen fan since their early Estrus Records days; alcohol fuel injected rock and roll!!! The show takes place near my house too. The Kilowatt is still open too; a rarity in SF. This piece shows Forbes’ Coop influence. If only the model was larger all the way around.
Link here to a site for Forbes.
August 24, 10am
The Prophet Unarmed, by Isaac Deutcher. I have just completed the second volume of a trilogy on Leon Trotsky. Tragedy is the word that comes to mind. This man, so intelligent, so confident in his abilities; failed in one respect, in my opinion: party discipline. He was so devoted to it; he refused to stand up for himself. By doing this, he allowed his enemies, mostly Stalin and his followers, to push him into a corner, where he was not able to defend himself at all.
I need to familiarize myself more with the French Revolution, especially the Jacobins and the Thermidorian period. I see something very similar happening in the US today. Trotsky believed that the Bolshevik party had become a monolithic party, and therefore given up their fundamental Bolshevik beliefs. It would take years, perhaps decades, Trotsky said, for the working class to learn about freedom again, and rise up against the oppressors.
Benjamin Franklin said anyone who is willing to give up a little freedom for safety, deserves neither. Today, our citizens, along with our media have allowed the ruling faction in our country to usurp the peoples’ power. The party has become monolithic in form. It is the party over the people. It is the leader over the party. It may be that the experiment of democracy is coming to its end.
I blame the people for being so apathetic. We go along with what we are told as long as our creature comforts are not affected. We rail against anyone who is not like us. We cheer when we catch the dark skinned man who has done something un-American, yet we have nothing to say when he is quietly released and all charges are dropped. We shout out against high gas prices, and vow to boycott Shell every Tuesday, and Exxon every Wednesday, but we refuse to recognize that the cars we drive and the labor that goes into those cars are just feeding the corporations our soldiers are dying in Iraq and Afghanistan to protect.
I blame the press for following the party line, for fear they will be banished to some far away land if they print the truth, or question the leadership in any logical manner. The press, the one outlet our nation has for spreading the “truth” to the people. What is the truth today? What does Socrates say it is? How about Thoreau? What about Gandhi or King? How about Murdock, or Limbaugh? What is the truth to you?
Isn’t it the job of the press to show us the truth from all sides? Will the president meet with the mother of a fallen soldier, and answer her questions? No. And the press won’t cover it. Or if they do, the White House will continue to say the President has a very busy schedule. Perhaps an event of national security will occur, which will take the attention off of this mother and her desire to know what “noble cause” her son died for. Wouldn’t that be amazing? “The President doesn’t have time to meet with you ma’am, we’re in code mauve right now.” And, of course, the nation will gather together once again and pry that those dark skinned terrorists are brought to justice.
When they came for the Moslems I said nothing, because I wasn’t a Moslem.
When will our country wake up from its slumber? 2008? 2012? 2020?
Wake up America, the Bonapartists are in control.
August 14, 10am
Some of you may know already that Black Sabbath actually started off as a pro-Christian band. It’s true. As a matter of fact all you need to do is listen to some early lyrics. Take for instance “War Pigs”. Don’t take my word for it, check out this great Flash presentation, and sing along for yourself.
Link
Thanks to Hawkeye Joe for this great short.
August 4, 2pm
As many of you who read this blog know by now, I collect concert posters. Two recent posters I purchased from Artrock in San Francisco are shown below.
Take the time to check out premire poster artist Lindsey Kuhn’s site here. His work is unprecedented. His well known for his swampwoman series. The poster above sells for $1000.00 today.
My next poster purchase comes from Kuhn. It’s the “Season of the Witch 2” series; five posters put together to make one image.
If you haven’t seen the site for the new book “The Art of Modern Rock”, do yourself the favor and check it our here.
Enjoy.
August 3, 5pm
It’s true, you know?
Link
July 28, 12pm
I took this today and found that yes, I am funny. But funny how? How am I funny? My father would say “funnny loooking”.
How funny are you? Take the test.
| the Wit
(60% dark, 34% spontaneous, 38% vulgar) |
your humor style:
CLEAN | COMPLEX | DARK
You like things edgy, subtle, and smart. I guess that means you’re probably an intellectual, but don’t take that to mean you’re pretentious. You realize ‘dumb’ can be witty–after all isn’t that the Simpsons’ philosophy?–but rudeness for its own sake, ‘gross-out’ humor and most other things found in a fraternity leave you totally flat.
I guess you just have a more cerebral approach than most. You have the perfect mindset for a joke writer or staff writer. Your sense of humor takes the most effort to appreciate, but it’s also the best, in my opinion.
Also, you probably loved the Office. If you don’t know what I’m
talking about, check it out here: http://www.bbc.co.uk/comedy/theoffice/.
PEOPLE LIKE YOU: Jon Stewart – Woody Allen – Ricky Gervais |
 |
My test tracked 3 variables How you compared to other people your age and gender:
|
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You scored higher than 52% on dark |
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You scored higher than 0% on spontaneous |
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You scored higher than 42% on vulgar |
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