Reggie Watts @ Aura

PICA is throwing a holiday fundraiser at Aura, in Portland, Thursday, December 6. It begins at 7 p.m. and features Reggie Watts, recently of Maktub and now an emerging hip hop comedian/performer working the art festival circuit. Check him out on YouTube here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NQs9a-cAEZ0&feature=related

He came to TBA:07 and played at the Someday Lounge and brought down the house three nights in a row.

Come see a major new talent perform and give a bit of your stash back for the arts.

Everyone says it's been a long time so I won't say that it's been a long time...I'll just say tomato

There's this thing about not blogging for a long time. It feels like a friend you really want to see but is too emotionally demanding for a quick coffee or dinner. Once you're in, you're in for the long run, for the long conversation and soon you are riding the long sine curve of jobs, relationships and daily minutae that plunks you right down into a horrible Seinfeldian universe. I don't know why I feel this way about revisiting the blog--people are spilling their guts on a minute by minute basis around the world without any kind of existential crisis about their wordvomit. I think that my hesitancy to blog derives from a sense, that I've developed as a writer, of writing as a largely solitary exercise and a process that takes long, agonizing periods of time to compose any given document. The thing that I'm learning about myself as I write on the blog is that the format is given to immediacy and surface; the ease with which one can generate an account, write a piece and post it has never been easier. It's a really interesting moment in technology and how technology mediates our expression. The questions that are raised in my mind fall along the lines of machine-human interaction and how these interactions are affected by the technology we use to express ourself. I once attended a thesis defense by a friend of mine who was known for his use of the internet and hypermedia techniques in telling stories. He often created and then posted his stories online. During his defense, someone asked him about how technology changed the way he constructed Story. He said that telling stories may not have been possible in the beginning without technology. Language, for one, is a technique for communication developed by early humans. In those days, language became very useful very quickly for a variety of reasons, some having to do with commerce and others having to do with organization, and others dealing with the development of the human mind. So language was the original development that helped us in the attempt to represent the world outside of us. And so we told stories. Then oral storytelling is important for millenia. Sure, we write things down during this time, but by the time alphabets are developed and then that paper is invented and ink, the basic elements of telling a story have been ingrained in us for centuries. Not to mention the idea that writing at first served a purely commercial purpose, counting loaves of bread and tracking deliveries, etc. But then, as my friend pointed out, the novel developed. This was a key moment in the technology of telling Story, because it created a physical form for the words. Once a physical object existed for the words we told each other, that was the day that mythology began to die, my friend said. And now, with what seems like an orgy of new media creation, we begin to wonder if we are simply trying to recreate a form of storytelling that brings back mythos.

Here I am

A week ago I sat on the beach with my wife. We took pictures of each other in our post-wedding bliss. Here's a sample:

Sitting Beulah

So I'm sitting here yet again with my lovely fiancee in our favorite bar in Portland, Beulahland. We just had dinner and called our folks to tidy up schedules for the wedding coming up in a month. In a month, I just said. Say that again three times. Oaf. Take me out back behind the alligator pen and whip me. But as the event gets closer, I think over and over to myself that it's coming, that I should be really nervous, that boots should be shaking. But there isn't any of that. Well, there's a bit of nervousness, admittedly. But it's so low key as to be without consequence. I'm feeling so in love with my lady and she's in love with me that I feel distanced from all of the traditional stresses of weddings. We have done this thing the only way we know how: DIY, low-budget, friendly. It's a great thing to be in love.

My friend Josh, in these kinds of moods, would talk about how he has married the most beautiful woman alive. I feel the same way.

Transformers....

Rock the house. No, really, I say that admitting to burning an effigy of Michael Bay after Armageddon came out. A truly horrible movie that I heard was pitched as "Dirty Dozen go to space." And Ben Affleck...is a bad actor. Get over him. Ew. But Transformers is amazing in many different ways. Actually, it's also not very good in certain ways. But there's something compelling about the movie that transcends all the nationalistic images of efficient armed forces (I've never seen planes in the air in response to emergency as fast) and goofy over-the-shoulder shots of gooey-eyed adolescents lusting after each other. The main thing that makes this so enjoyable are the Transformers themselves. In any good sci-fi movie, which this is, that places technology--and usually alien, completely unknown to human technology--at such a central position in the narrative, the movie succeeds in drawing you in to the plight of the machines. And I don't mean the silly evocation of pathos in a dying robot's eye-lights. I mean we're drawn into the relationship between man and machine, the interaction of organic and inorganic, the tete-a-tete dance between two very different kinds of life. And I say this knowing that the main mechanism by which this works is to make these machines as human as possible.These robots talk. They walk upright. They are shaped humanoid. But the thing that separates the machines from the men is that they preserve a kind of above-the-fold heroism usually reserved for gods, monsters and evil geniuses. The good robots, of course, have the will to preserve a long-forgotten way of life. The bad robots possess a will to power to colonize and destroy in the process. Here is where the central struggle takes place--over the battlefield of noble intentions. The good robots are protectors, recognizing the humanity of humans, whom they choose to defend. The good robots take the shape of popular cars and trucks (in the movie, all GMC products, I think), and this is interesting because they are aligned with capitalism, with the American Dream, with buying shit to make yourself feel good. An interesting move. The bad robots are saddled with the ambitions of empire-making. There is a sense that they can't help themselves, that they are compelled by inner demons (tiny robotic demons, no doubt) to take over worlds and appropriate the technology for their own good.

(Of course, the interesting thing here is when one considers the United States' own not-so-subtle gestures toward empire and how that dovetails with the negative connotation built into robots, stormtroopers, and other evil colonizing forces in the movie universe. It's kind of an elaborate game of reverse psychology--viewers are convinced that the spectacle of movie colonization must be much worse than reality.)

Anyway, the bad robots talk in lower octaves. They have single-minded motivations of retaining an object that promises a huge payoff of more conquering. Also interesting are the shapes these "evil" robots take. They take the shape of a police car, a tank, a multi-purpose army truck called "bonecrusher" and a super fast jet. It's interesting that these are the shapes the bad guys choose to take, especially considering that throughout the movie, the armed forces, the FBI, the government and the police, to a lesser extent, are positioned as highly efficient and effective organs of national defense.

Ok, that's enough intellectualizing. Don't see the movie for plot. Don't see the movie for good acting (though the teenage lead is quite good). It's a fun ride and has all the things a blockbuster should have: big explosions, cursory plot, romantic entanglements, dropped characters, a simple battle between good and evil.

Oh la la. I can't wait to see Live Free or Die Harder. Boom.

Nothing to do with July 4th

First: Thanks to my great friend Mary for commenting on the blog. She's not even in country and she's spending time on the 'net. She said something in response to one of my posts that I liked. She said that she was looking around a table of people she's made friends with in Spain, where she's taking a class, and thought that it was really cool that she got to meet with all of the disparate personalities and get to know them in the short time they spent together. And that made her think of being in a place where there are nurturing and spiritual people around her. I had to agree with her in that sense, the sense that it's really important to have a cadre of friends and associates around you to uphold and support you in times good and bad. There is the rub, really: finding that place, ferreting out those folks who are best for you.

I've at least found one person in the world I would rather be with than anyone else. I'm going to marry her in about a month. Ay!

My second day

It's the end of my second day at PICA. A little tired, but that's good. Now the question is what to blog about? I promised (largely to myself) that I would blog everyday for a week. I missed yesterday, but I posted twice on Sunday, so I'm counting it. So for today...I worked out last night and this morning before work. The gym culture is so interesting to me. I go to 24 Hour Fitness and it's actually a little on the awful side. Like McDonald's or Target or any of a number of other chains, it's built for volume. There are lines and lines of exercise equipment, lines of people stairstepping or ellipticalling or treadmilling. Everyone doing the same thing, with minor variations. And besides aerobic machines, there are five acres of free weights and anaerobic machines. And mirrors all around, floor to ceiling mirrors that actually make you look really good while you're working out. Then when you go home, one look at your old crappy bedroom mirror and you are thinking about the next time you can go to the gym. Everything is built to inspire you to come back and that desire is based on dissatisfaction. The dissatisfaction with your self, with your present. There is always the possibility of the future implicit in gyms. You enter the gym slightly pudgy or slackly muscled, and you run a half hour and tone your arms and legs with weights--and then, after a period of time involved in a regimented workout schedule, you suddenly realize you've lost a few pounds or made that thigh quad stand out. Yet even then it's not enough; you come back and you come back, you subscribe to a series of magazines and watch television shows that reinforce the desire to be something better than what you are right now. So you're left to continue with the gym, with the supplements, with the bi-weekly yoga and the vegetables.

As I'm writing this, I realize that there's something missing here. I've described an ideal situation--and the thing is, gyms are built around an expectation of the ideal. What makes gyms sort of palatable is that only a small percentage of people actually get sucked into the "bigger, faster, stronger" thing where they end up a health nut and doing pilates twenty hours a week. Most people are fallable to a great degree; they don't come regularly, they don't eat healthily for very long periods of time, they essentially fall off the wagon of an addiction most people aren't really addicted to, at least physically. The addiction is psychological, to the ideal of a perfect body, a non-polluted physiology, a clear mind.

One might go on and on about culturally-mediated behaviors, etc. One might agree with a thesis that stated that going to the gym is something arbitrated by the bombardment of information that surrounds us. But beyond the sweat towels and dirty socks, if we make the leap to all the other retail chains that are around, there might be something to be said about how they operate in terms of creating desire. It's a bit like holding the carrot in front of the donkey. There's always a rider on the donkey, the person or thing who is controlling the movement, the direction of the donkey's attention. At the risk of calling everyone donkeys, including myself, there it is. I think there needs to be an ongoing conversation about how we consume. Of course there is a kind of metaphysics of consumerism going on in our culture right now. Adbusters is the first that comes to mind. Michael Moore is another, in his Awful Truth days. And living in Portland, I see evidence of awareness of capitalistic manipulation everywhere. Yet despite this awareness, I think we've decided to live with it rather than change the intentions of the donkey. For better or for worse, eventually there will be a moment when we must face how we get and consume our goods. Until then, I ride the elliptical machine and watch The Colbert Report; I buy my clothes at Banana Republic but recycle all of the extant paper in my house; I love summer blockbusters and I learn about global warming from a movie. There are trade-offs everywhere.

Pics of Taya, my love

These are from a trip Taya and I took to Lewiston, Idaho, my hometown, at the end of March. It was really fun, and we got to see my family and my new nephew again. These pics are of us goofing around in one of my favorite places on earth, the confluence of the Clearwater and Snake rivers, which come together at the foot of the city.

It's a little strange...

So Taya and I are getting married in less than two months. We're ready; we have lots to do, but the details aren't too hard to manage right now. In a month, maybe we'll be tearing our hair out. But now, not too bad. The strangest thing is thinking about how things might change after the wedding. We've been together for five years, so I don't think that the structure of our relationship will change too much, at least in any significant way. I don't find myself nervous about how we will act differently toward each other; we have pretty much ironed out all the big issues between us. The marriage certificate is, in my view, only a surface formality of commitment. It's only a piece of paper, really, a piece of paper issued by the state that sanctions our union. Blah, blah, truth. But the real thing that I am looking forward to is the deepening of my feelings for Taya--which are already at a point where I think of "us" in a kind of metaphysical togetherness kind of way. But there are the little details that I look forward to: using the words "husband" and "wife," making long term plans for house and babies, thinking about the future in a way that includes not only me and Taya and our careers, but also leaving a space for dreaming and creativity. I think that the biggest thing that will change is that a kind of potentiality will open up--a space that allows for our own, individual potential, but also for a kind of shared potential. A space in which we can play with ideas about the future, discard the ones that seem unlikely or unrealistic, and develop the plans that seem right.

We went out with our friends Tod and Jen last night. They are great and fun and models, in a way, for us. They've been married for...how long?...seven years? eight? And they have developed a really cool and admirable life for themselves; they have two awesome kids, a house, a couple of yuppie cars. They have all the trappings of success and a solid middle-class life. But they've also retained a sense of fun and spontaneity and youthfulness--as well as a compassion for other people that I find refreshing. Plus, Todd is the only one I know, besides my friend Lisa, who can keep up with me as regards knowledge of pop culture. So kudos to T & Jen.

One final thought about the changes after the wedding issue: One sits in a coffee shop and blogs about a single relationship. Then you look up, pause, look around at all the people sitting and standing about. You think about all the varied emotions and characteristics that connect the pairs and groups of people together. Every relationship is an idiosyncratic thing, and these connected entities walk around all day, with each other and alone. But you see these people in the coffee shop, and in the present moment, every one of these people have traveled through much different psychological landscapes to arrive together. How did they all get together? you think. But that's not the point. The point is that relationships evolve over time and it's important to remember that change is good and healthy and needed, you think.

My good friend Mary

Has made me rethink my blogging practices--or my lack of said same. I haven't been very good about writing lately, but it's time to re-commit and make the following declaration (largely to myself, as no one really reads my blog): I intend to write every day for a week. See where it takes me. It may take me nowhere; I may discover a new talent & interest in writing and blogging.

So here goes, for Saturday, June 30, 2007. I have some news to report: I just got a new job that I start on Monday. It's at PICA, Portland Institute for Contemporary Art. It's a very cool organization that puts on an annual arts festival, TBA. It stands for Time Based Art but is punny for To Be Announced. Check out the website for PICA and for TBA at www.pica.org. I'm super excited to be involved and I'm looking forward to learning more and more about contemporary performance art than I ever thought possible.

And in other, more personal news, I'm getting married in August. Taya and I are deep in the midst of planning right now, but right now, it's mostly details. The big pieces are in place, like the catering and the reception site and the location. Now the big decisions are what color the lanterns should be (I vote for white. They'll be red.) But the wedding thing is really interesting and would take several long blog entries even to address at a superficial level. Suffice to say at this point that Taya and I both entered into planning knowing that we wouldn't have a ton of money, so we decided to 1. keep the guest list down, 2. Do a lot of the decorating ourselves, and 3. Use friends and family for help and support whenever possible. I think it's worked out just fine to cut corners and costs but still put on a beautiful and fun party. Who needs to spend so much diniro? Especially when there are houses to buy and babies to have.

My good friend Mary Kreta is probably satisfied as of now with what I've written. If you aren't, Mary, well, I'll be back tomorrow. Maybe even later on today, depending on whether the inspiration strikes me.

I Heart American Idol (Not so grudgingly anymore)

I think I became aware of the Idol behemoth a couple of years back. I'd heard about it, of course, (how could you not?), but it really hadn't entered my consciousness until the very end of season 4. The ads began to seep into my head, and that damn, viral jingle found its way to the very tips of my vocal cords in a subconscious kind of way. But I did not tune in to a show until the audition portion of season 5. The rapture of those waved on to Hollywood was really appealing; however, what really got me was the looks on the faces of those who weren't chosen. And I don't mean those overblown losers, the angry ones with red faces and mirror-practiced grimaces and the chair throwing fits. I was taken with the losers who looked into the camera, gave a careful and guarded smile, and walked away. The quiet ones who didn't make a big external show but you knew were hurting inside. The long shot from behind of a young man walking into the arms of his girlfriend just put me away. There was something here, I said to myself. Something, dare I say, culturally meaningful. Maybe I'd jumped the gun judging this show so harshly and without requittal.

Anyway, after the auditions of Season 5, I found myself tuning in on Tuesday nights. At first it was to watch House, one of the best shows on television. Wonderful lead-in, Idol, to a show that deals death and vicodin and passive aggressive doctoring all in one cozy hour. Idol brings you up, plays with your dreams and your aspirations for celebrity, hangs you there to wait until Wednesday for the results show. But Tuesday nights became a kind of repast from the daily chaos of graduate school and, at first, was a real escape. I wasn't invested in the contestants, I told myself at first. But then the season wore on and my thoughts turned increasingly to considerations of the contestants. Katharine McPhee? Beautiful and talented, articulate and wholesome. Taylor Hicks? Also a wonderul soul singer, but a bit of a blowhard. Who did I want to win? Every time Ryan Seacrest paused while giving the results, with his card in hand and the artificial hush spread across the crowd, I was in suspense with everyone else. During the commercial breaks, I fell back into my chair, exhausted with the anxiety of expectation. But after the break, I was always back into the show, attentive to every moment, every flat performance, every intonation of the judges.

And now, with two weeks remaining in Season 6, I've watched nearly every episode, have very definite opinions about each contestant, and find myself a little flush with emotion when my favorites are voted off. Last night, when LaKisha left? Nothing but sadness for her. And part of it, at least for me, is that the Idol producers give the audience just enough personal information about each contestant--not enough to "know" the character of the contestant (because that's what they are, simply characters, enhanced by behind-the-scencsters), but just enough to keep you interested. It's pure and simple condiditioning--I know a few choice details about each contestant that makes me hungry for more. When I don't get any further information, I'm forced to take what I can, and that's the performances. So I'm invested in LaKisha, in her child and her job as a bank teller. But that's as far as the personal connection goes. Given to character development, I begin to love the on stage drama of her weekly decline that fails her earlier promise, not to mention the sub plot of the Simon-LaKisha kiss. Now that we're down to three, who is it? Blake is from the Northwest. I'm from the Northwest. I'm hooked.

What is it about Idol that grabs people? And by people I mean 37 million of us, every Tuesday night. And on television? In the age of the Internet, it's unheard of. Each season tops records set by the last.

To be continued...

New Fiction

I've been thinking a lot lately about new fiction. The conversation was started at my writing group. One of the group brought in an essay she is preparing for a conference in Romania, of all places. The essay's thesis, so to speak, was this: Outlets for the short story have dramatically decreased to the point that a short story writer is unable to support oneself by writing short fiction alone. This brought about quite a discussion, and the consensus was that this is true, to a point. The financial part, certainly. Three of the members of our group are well-published and really fantastic writers, but they must supplement their income by teaching, freelancing, or working office jobs. They write, but must work other jobs to pay the bills. But the other side of this debate is that outlets for fiction have increased with the Internet and with the rapidly decreasing costs of self- and small press publishing. It seems that many small journals are "flourishing" around the country. (Quotes mean that these journals may be small, labor of love projects that aren't really financially viable, but are publishing great pieces.) The debate about fiction outlets begs the question: is the short story surviving? I think the answer is a resounding "yes." This is a time when many, many people are writing fiction, poetry, creative nonfiction (a kind of large, amorphous field that has yet to be defined) and other kinds of genres that also are difficult to categorize. With a cursory google search of literary journals, many pop up--and not simply self-indulgent journals run by a group of friends. Any MFA program worth its salt runs a literary magazine, and many journals have sprung up with only a web presence. Many publish quality stories by well-recognized authors as well as up and coming writers. At final glance, this is a good time for fiction writers.

Of course, it would be nice to make a living by simply writing short stories. But that day, if it ever existed, is over, and fiction writers have to be satisfied with publishing for fifty bucks and a year's subscription until they work their way up to the admittedly few national publications that pay well for stories.

Like any model, I think this model has its pros and cons. It's a kind of weeding out procedure, on the one hand. On the other, there's a lot of fiction out there published in the New Yorker or Harpers that just isn't that good. Why is it published? My sense is that nepotism plays a part in publishing, just as in any other industry. For those of us without connects, it's a matter of making a name for oneself in the small, well-respected journals that eventually translates to a book deal or a series of pubs in magazines with national distribution.