"1969"
The Stooges
Well it's 1969
Okay
All across the U.S.A.
It's another year for me and you
Another year with nothing to do
Last year I was 21
I didn't have a lot of fun
And now I'm gonna be 22
I say oh my and a boo-hoo
It's 1969
Okay
All across the U.S.A.
Its another year for me and you
Another year with nothing to do
Another year with nothing to do
It's 1969
1969 1969 1969 1969 baby
And it's 1969 bayyyyyyybee
Baby
Baby
Baby
Sep 4, 2009
Sep 3, 2009
Sep 2, 2009
Verses
The following interview is pieced together from a series of tape-recorded interviews with John Cage during his recent visit to New York. They were made at parties, in flats, and in taxis.
INTERVIEWER: What about Marshall McLuhan?
CAGE: Just this: the media is not a message. I would like to sound a word of warning to Mr. McLuhan: to speak is to lie. To lie is to collaborate.
INTERVIEWER: How does that relate?
CAGE: Do you know the Zen story of the mother who had just lost her only son? She is sitting by the side of the road weeping and the monk comes along and asks her why she's weeping and she says she has lost her only son and so he hits her on the head and says, "There, that'll give you something to cry about."
INTERVIEWER: Yes, somebody should have kicked that monk in the ass!
CAGE: I agree. Somebody said that Brecht wanted everybody to think alike. I want everybody to think alike. But Brecht wanted to do it through Communism, in a way. Russia is doing it under government. It's happening here all by itself without being under a strict government; so if it's working without trying, why can't it work without being Communist? Everybody looks and acts alike, and we're getting more and more that way. I think everybody should be a machine. I think everybody should be alike.
INTERVIEWER: Isn't that like Pop Art?
CAGE: Yes, that's what Pop Art is, liking things, which incidentally is a pretty boring idea.
INTERVIEWER: Does the fact that it comes from a machine diminish its value to you?
CAGE: Certainly not! I think that any artistic product must stand or fall on what's there. A chimpanzee can do an abstract painting, if it's good, that's great!
INTERVIEWER: Mary McCarthy has characterized you as a sour Utopian. Is that accurate?
CAGE: I do definitely mean to be taken literally, yes. All of my work is directed against those who are bent, through stupidity or design, on blowing up the planet.
INTERVIEWER: Well, that is very interesting, Mr. Cage, but I wanted to know what you think in the larger context, i.e., the Utopian.
CAGE: I don't know exactly what you mean there . . . I think the prestige of poetry is very high in the public esteem right now, perhaps height is not the right yardstick, but it is perhaps higher than ever. If you can sell poetry, you can sell anything. No, I think it's a wonderful time for poetry and I really feel that something is about to boil. And in answer to your question about whether poetry could resume something like the Elizabethan spread, I think it's perfectly possible that this could happen in the next four or five years. All it needs is the right genius to come along and let fly. And old Masefield, I was pleased to see the other day celebrating his ninetieth birthday, I think, said that there are still lots of good tales to tell. I thought that was very nice, and it's true, too.
INTERVIEWER: Do you think, that is, are you satisfied with the way we are presently conducting the war in Viet Nam?
CAGE: I am highly dissatisfied with the way we are waging this nasty war.
INTERVIEWER: Incidentally, your rooms are very beautiful.
CAGE: Nothing incidental about it at all. These are lovely houses; there are two for sale next door, a bargain, too, but they're just shells. They've got to be all fixed up inside as this one was, too. They were just tearing them down when I got the Poetry Society over here to invite Hy Sobiloff, the only millionaire poet, to come down and read, and he was taken in hand and shown this house next door, the one that I grew up in, and what a pitiful state it was in. Pick-axes had already gone through the roof. And so he bought four of them and fixed this one up for our use as long as we live, rent free.
INTERVIEWER: Not bad. Tell me, have you ever thought of doing soundtracks for Hollywood movies?
CAGE: Why not? Any composer of genuine ability should work in Hollywood today. Get the Money! However, few screen composers possess homes in Bel-Air, illuminated swimming pools, wives in full-length mink coats, three servants, and that air of tired genius turned sour Utopian. Without that, today, you are nothing. Alas, money buys pathetically little in Hollywood beyond the pleasures of living in an unreal world, associating with a group of narrow people who think, talk, and drink, most of them bad people; and the doubtful pleasure of watching famous actors and actresses guzzle up the juice and stuff the old gut in some of the rudest restaurants in the world. Me, I have never given it a thought.
INTERVIEWER: Tell me about 'Silence'.
CAGE: Sure. You never know what publishers are up to. I had the damnedest time with 'Silence'. My publishers, H***, R***, and W***, at first were very excited about doing it, and then they handed it over to a young editor who wanted to rewrite it entirely, and proceeded to do so; he made a complete hash of it. And I protested about this and the whole thing--the contract was about to be signed--and they withdrew it, because of this impasse. The Publisher, who is my friend, said, "Well, John, we never really took this seriously, did we? So why don't we just forget it?" And I replied, "Damn it all, I did take it seriously; I want to get published." Well, then they fired this young man who was rewriting me, and everything was peaceful. But there was still some static about irregularities of tone in 'Silence'. So I said, "Well, I'll just tone them down a little, tune the whole thing up, so to speak." But I did nothing of the sort, of course! I simply changed the order. I sent it back re-arranged, and then they wanted me to do something else; finally I just took the whole thing somewhere else.
INTERVIEWER: What was your father like?
CAGE: I don't want to speak of him. My mother detested him.
INTERVIEWER: What sort of person was your mother?
CAGE: Very religious. Very. But now she is crazy. She lay on top of me when I was tied to the bed. She writes me all the time begging me to return. Why do we have to speak of my mother?
INTERVIEWER: Do you move in patterns?
CAGE: Yes. It isn't so much repeating patterns; it's repetition of similar attitudes that lead to further growth. Everything we do keeps growing, the skills are there, and are used in different ways each time. The main thing is to do faithfully those tasks assigned by oneself in order to further awareness of the body.
INTERVIEWER: Do you believe that all good art is unengaging?
CAGE: Yes I do.
INTERVIEWER: Then what about beauty?
CAGE: Many dirty hands have fondled beauty, made it their banner; I'd like to chop off those hands, because I do believe in that banner . . . the difference is that art is beauty, which the Beatniks naturally lack!
INTERVIEWER: The Beatniks, notably Ed Sanders, are being harassed by the police lately. Do you approve?
CAGE: On the contrary. The problem is that the police are unloved. The police in New York are all paranoid . . . they were so hateful for so long that everybody got to hate them, and that just accumulated and built up. The only answer to viciousness is kindness. The trouble is that the younger kids just haven't realized that you've got to make love to the police in order to solve the police problem.
INTERVIEWER: But how do you force love on the police?
CAGE: Make love to the police. We need highly trained squads of lovemakers to go everywhere and make love.
INTERVIEWER: But there are so many police, it is a practical problem.
CAGE: Yes, I know, it will certainly take time, but what a lovely project.
INTERVIEWER: Do you think it is better to be brutal than to be indifferent?
CAGE: Yes. It is better to be brutal than indifferent. Some artists prefer the stream of consciousness. Not me. I'd rather beat people up.
INTERVIEWER: Say something about Happenings. You are credited with being the spiritual daddy of the Happening.
CAGE: Happenings are boring. When I hear the word "Happening" I spew wildly into my lunch!
INTERVIEWER: But Allan Kaprow calls you "the only living Happening."
CAGE: Allan Kaprow can go eat a Hershey-bar!
INTERVIEWER: Hmmm. Well put. Now, to take a different tack, let me ask you: what about sex?
CAGE: Sex is a biologic weapon, insofar as I can see it. I feel that sex, like every other human manifestation, has been degraded for anti-human purposes. I had a dream recently in which I returned to the family home and found a different father and mother in the bed, though they were still somehow my father and mother. What I would like, in the way of theatre, is that somehow a method would be devised, a new form, that would allow each member of the audience at a play to watch his own parents, young again, make love. Fuck, that is, not court.
INTERVIEWER: That certainly would be different, wouldn't it? What other theatrical vent interests you?
CAGE: Death. The Time Birth Death gimmick. I went recently to see "Dr. No" at Forty-Second Street. It's a fantastic movie, so cool. I walked outside and somebody threw a cherry bomb right in front of me, in this big crowd. And there was blood, I saw blood on people and all over. I felt like I was bleeding all over. I saw in the paper that week that more and more people are throwing them. Artists, too. It's just part of the scene--hurting people.
INTERVIEWER: How does Love come into all this?
CAGE: It doesn't. It comes later. Love is memory. In the immediate present we don't love; life is too much with us. We lust, wilt, snort, swallow, gobble, hustle, nuzzle, etc. Later, memory flashes images swathed in nostalgia and yearning. We call that Love. Ha! Better to call it Madness.
INTERVIEWER: Is everything erotic to you?
CAGE: Not lately. No, I'm just kidding. Of course everything is erotic to me; if it isn't erotic, it isn't interesting.
INTERVIEWER: Is life serious?
CAGE: Perhaps. How should I know? In any case, one must not be serious. Not only is it absurd, but a serious person cannot have sex.
INTERVIEWER: Very interesting! But, why not?
CAGE: If you have to ask, you'll never know.
---'INTERVIEWER' is favorite, favorite poet, Ted Berrigan...in 1962.
Aug 29, 2009
Aug 28, 2009
Bad Gurlz 4 Lyfe
One of my favorite things about movies in the summer is that they never demand much of you in the way of thinking. The September Issue may be the most done up and classy-lookin' of this year's summer releases, but it creates no less of a fantasy world than Transformers and District 9. And let's face it, Megatron has nothing on Nuclear Wintour.
She's Controlling the Jet
Pillow and Able have been witness to my joy that Disney XD is, for some reason, re-airing the all too-short lived X-Men Evolution cartoon from a few years ago. As a child I spent the majority of my Saturday mornings watching the cartoon lineup from 6AM until around noon when Momma Pet would wake up and take me to the mall or something. By the time Evolution began I had been sleeping in on weekends instead but the premise of teenaged mutants (encouraged probably by the success of teen mutants in the feature films) learning how to harness their powers while navigating the challenges of attending high school in upstate New York had me awake and transfixed like I was 8 all over again.
Evolution aired for 4 short seasons in total, the first two were mediocre and childish. Fun, but stupid. The show gets good, and, like, canonically good, after the teens are exposed to the world as mutants in the Season 2 finale. X-Men, in all of its forms, has always gone with the apartheid bent but Evolution features a post-milennial mentality about racism and social engineering that's quite apt. Everyone in their world (like ours) accepts that humanity can turn on a dime and genocide is not so much a shocking abhorration as something that reoccurs cyclically in spite of history.
Anyway, despite the shows on-point catologue knowledge of nerd-dom, the style leaves a lot to be desired. Compared to the bright colors and big hair of the 90's cartoon the X-Men in Evolution are dressed like aliens for combat (miserably, they never actually get to combat aliens like in other incarnations) and are also weirdly cautious about using their powers, presumably because Xavier, featured in Evolution as an overbearing and stangely boring headmaster, encourages them not to.
Evolution aired for 4 short seasons in total, the first two were mediocre and childish. Fun, but stupid. The show gets good, and, like, canonically good, after the teens are exposed to the world as mutants in the Season 2 finale. X-Men, in all of its forms, has always gone with the apartheid bent but Evolution features a post-milennial mentality about racism and social engineering that's quite apt. Everyone in their world (like ours) accepts that humanity can turn on a dime and genocide is not so much a shocking abhorration as something that reoccurs cyclically in spite of history.
Anyway, despite the shows on-point catologue knowledge of nerd-dom, the style leaves a lot to be desired. Compared to the bright colors and big hair of the 90's cartoon the X-Men in Evolution are dressed like aliens for combat (miserably, they never actually get to combat aliens like in other incarnations) and are also weirdly cautious about using their powers, presumably because Xavier, featured in Evolution as an overbearing and stangely boring headmaster, encourages them not to.
William Shakespeare, Antony and Cleopatra
Act V, Scene II
CLEOPATRA:
Give me my robe, put on my crown; I have
Immortal longings in me: now no more
The juice of Egypt's grape shall moist this lip:
Yare, yare, good Iras; quick. Methinks I hear
Antony call; I see him rouse himself
To praise my noble act; I hear him mock
The luck of Caesar, which the gods give men
To excuse their after wrath: husband, I come:
Now to that name my courage prove my title!
I am fire and air; my other elements
I give to baser life. So; have you done?
Come then, and take the last warmth of my lips.
Farewell, kind Charmian; Iras, long farewell.
Kisses them. Iras falls and dies
Have I the aspic in my lips? Dost fall?
If thou and nature can so gently part,
The stroke of death is as a lover's pinch,
Which hurts, and is desired. Dost thou lie still?
If thus thou vanishest, thou tell'st the world
It is not worth leave-taking.
CHARMIAN:
Dissolve, thick cloud, and rain; that I may say,
The gods themselves do weep!
CLEOPATRA:
This proves me base:
If she first meet the curled Antony,
He'll make demand of her, and spend that kiss
Which is my heaven to have. Come, thou
mortal wretch,
To an asp, which she applies to her breast
With thy sharp teeth this knot intrinsicate
Of life at once untie: poor venomous fool
Be angry, and dispatch. O, couldst thou speak,
That I might hear thee call great Caesar ass
Unpolicied!
CHARMIAN:
O eastern star!
CLEOPATRA:
Peace, peace!
Dost thou not see my baby at my breast,
That sucks the nurse asleep?
CHARMIAN:
O, break! O, break!
CLEOPATRA:
As sweet as balm, as soft as air, as gentle,--
O Antony!--Nay, I will take thee too.
Applying another asp to her arm
What should I stay--
Dies
CHARMIAN:
In this vile world? So, fare thee well.
Now boast thee, death, in thy possession lies
A lass unparallel'd. Downy windows, close;
And golden Phoebus never be beheld
Of eyes again so royal! Your crown's awry;
I'll mend it, and then play.
Enter the Guard, rushing in
FIRST GUARD:
Where is the queen?
CHARMIAN:
Speak softly, wake her not.
Act V, Scene II
CLEOPATRA:
Give me my robe, put on my crown; I have
Immortal longings in me: now no more
The juice of Egypt's grape shall moist this lip:
Yare, yare, good Iras; quick. Methinks I hear
Antony call; I see him rouse himself
To praise my noble act; I hear him mock
The luck of Caesar, which the gods give men
To excuse their after wrath: husband, I come:
Now to that name my courage prove my title!
I am fire and air; my other elements
I give to baser life. So; have you done?
Come then, and take the last warmth of my lips.
Farewell, kind Charmian; Iras, long farewell.
Kisses them. Iras falls and dies
Have I the aspic in my lips? Dost fall?
If thou and nature can so gently part,
The stroke of death is as a lover's pinch,
Which hurts, and is desired. Dost thou lie still?
If thus thou vanishest, thou tell'st the world
It is not worth leave-taking.
CHARMIAN:
Dissolve, thick cloud, and rain; that I may say,
The gods themselves do weep!
CLEOPATRA:
This proves me base:
If she first meet the curled Antony,
He'll make demand of her, and spend that kiss
Which is my heaven to have. Come, thou
mortal wretch,
To an asp, which she applies to her breast
With thy sharp teeth this knot intrinsicate
Of life at once untie: poor venomous fool
Be angry, and dispatch. O, couldst thou speak,
That I might hear thee call great Caesar ass
Unpolicied!
CHARMIAN:
O eastern star!
CLEOPATRA:
Peace, peace!
Dost thou not see my baby at my breast,
That sucks the nurse asleep?
CHARMIAN:
O, break! O, break!
CLEOPATRA:
As sweet as balm, as soft as air, as gentle,--
O Antony!--Nay, I will take thee too.
Applying another asp to her arm
What should I stay--
Dies
CHARMIAN:
In this vile world? So, fare thee well.
Now boast thee, death, in thy possession lies
A lass unparallel'd. Downy windows, close;
And golden Phoebus never be beheld
Of eyes again so royal! Your crown's awry;
I'll mend it, and then play.
Enter the Guard, rushing in
FIRST GUARD:
Where is the queen?
CHARMIAN:
Speak softly, wake her not.
Aug 27, 2009
Don't Take it Personal
In a week full of dead murderers and rapists, let's take a second and show some respect for a true innocent on the 8th anniversary of her horrific plane crash death. Of course, there's a rapist in her story too, God we let celebrities get away with ANYTHING in this country.
Hi Hater
Aren't we all feeling a little tired and terse? It's the end of Summer '09 (Labor Day a wink away).
A doozy. A DEATH doozy. Ted Kennedy and Dominick Dunne not so shocking as Michael and Mays and all of those damn plane crashes. But my.
News of Ted hit me rather hard, and my beautiful roommates Pillow and Petrova had to put up with a little maudlin, 1/2Irish, unfounded political espousing last night (love y'all). What else was I to do. I was verklempt and defensive and thinking about my Grandpa and forgiveness and non-forgiveness and war crimes and the lack of national health care and fast trains and regulated banks and why Elliot Spitzer and Jim McGreevey aren't governors anymore.
I've gone into the red twice this month. And it's really sinking in, that (economist please) this 'reception' isn't over. It'll drag on for hours. We need some effective coping mechanisms (the old [expensive] ones just won't do).
The other night at Britney, toward the very end of the show, through which we danced and sang and drank screwdrivers (cute), the ornery chick sitting next to me tried to step. I could hardly hear her. She said something about her boyfriend (who had been eye-&?%*!*$ us for over an hour) and how I should "calm down" (the NUMERO UNO COSA you do not say to me). And I got upset, irrationally upset, because I had been drinking vodka and juice and because I just don't know why some people have the urge to shame total strangers. Pillow and Pet and our girl A. Marx, in the way of comfort, told me about something really important that night : the phrase and song, "Hi Hater (You See Me)."
Brooklyn rapper Maino is responsible. I really dig the track, and its flashy remix (sort of...not really), and the resulting tall-tee phenomenon, declarative shirts printed with the title or some variation of it. I've been getting into affirmations (thanks sis and Miss and Castlemates), remembering how potent a few oft-repeated words can be. "Thank you" is my go to; so is "Many blessings," language leftover from summer mushroom trips. And now, something a bit less humble (who needs humble): "Hi hater. You see me." It is a call for unashamedness. It is a declaration of one's presence, one's weight in the world, one's fearlessness in the face of underminers and babydrinkers and the present and the future. It's a provocation. And to say it and think it and hear it costs no money and no lives and not very much time.
At a certain point in the third verse, Maino states, "When they hate on you then you know you doin' somethin'." And isn't this ego-boosting sentiment, this choice to convert "slings and arrows" into a funny foundation for personal strength, the very meat of popular artmaking? One must, at least for a little while, believe in one's efforts in spite of the storied hundreds of detractors and closed doors. One must be a bit delusional, certain one is famous without yet being famous, full to the brim with bravado--HI HATER. YOU SEE ME. I see you too. And I'm unfazed. In fact, I'm peachy.
A doozy. A DEATH doozy. Ted Kennedy and Dominick Dunne not so shocking as Michael and Mays and all of those damn plane crashes. But my.
News of Ted hit me rather hard, and my beautiful roommates Pillow and Petrova had to put up with a little maudlin, 1/2Irish, unfounded political espousing last night (love y'all). What else was I to do. I was verklempt and defensive and thinking about my Grandpa and forgiveness and non-forgiveness and war crimes and the lack of national health care and fast trains and regulated banks and why Elliot Spitzer and Jim McGreevey aren't governors anymore.
I've gone into the red twice this month. And it's really sinking in, that (economist please) this 'reception' isn't over. It'll drag on for hours. We need some effective coping mechanisms (the old [expensive] ones just won't do).
The other night at Britney, toward the very end of the show, through which we danced and sang and drank screwdrivers (cute), the ornery chick sitting next to me tried to step. I could hardly hear her. She said something about her boyfriend (who had been eye-&?%*!*$ us for over an hour) and how I should "calm down" (the NUMERO UNO COSA you do not say to me). And I got upset, irrationally upset, because I had been drinking vodka and juice and because I just don't know why some people have the urge to shame total strangers. Pillow and Pet and our girl A. Marx, in the way of comfort, told me about something really important that night : the phrase and song, "Hi Hater (You See Me)."
Brooklyn rapper Maino is responsible. I really dig the track, and its flashy remix (sort of...not really), and the resulting tall-tee phenomenon, declarative shirts printed with the title or some variation of it. I've been getting into affirmations (thanks sis and Miss and Castlemates), remembering how potent a few oft-repeated words can be. "Thank you" is my go to; so is "Many blessings," language leftover from summer mushroom trips. And now, something a bit less humble (who needs humble): "Hi hater. You see me." It is a call for unashamedness. It is a declaration of one's presence, one's weight in the world, one's fearlessness in the face of underminers and babydrinkers and the present and the future. It's a provocation. And to say it and think it and hear it costs no money and no lives and not very much time.
At a certain point in the third verse, Maino states, "When they hate on you then you know you doin' somethin'." And isn't this ego-boosting sentiment, this choice to convert "slings and arrows" into a funny foundation for personal strength, the very meat of popular artmaking? One must, at least for a little while, believe in one's efforts in spite of the storied hundreds of detractors and closed doors. One must be a bit delusional, certain one is famous without yet being famous, full to the brim with bravado--HI HATER. YOU SEE ME. I see you too. And I'm unfazed. In fact, I'm peachy.
Nostalgia
I should be wearing this outfit (or some version of it) most days, because it makes me feel like I'm 10 years old listening to the radio in July.
Aug 24, 2009
Aug 23, 2009
Aug 21, 2009
A.M.
My baby Pat Kiernan told me this morning that, at some instersection or other in Manhattan (I missed a bit of the segment), the City is trying out a set of those goofy countdown pedestrian signs. I think they're fine for other cities, like Baltimore or Philadelphia...or Providence. But Here in New York City (particularly in the Grid of Manhattan) I feel as if they might permanently alter the way walking is done, the strange and unstudied discourse between pedestrians and drivers and corners and crosswalks. There is a luck and a magic and a hilariously inexact science to being a pedestrian here. Forgive me for this hard-line, old-fashioned take, but I like it how it is.
Aug 19, 2009
Girlfight
"I don’t want to give him anymore press. He doesn’t need it. But that Santino Rice -- I was ready to take a cyanide capsule. I mean, he just sucks all the air out of a room."
Tim Gunn explains what concerned him the most about Project Runway: All Stars to Maureen Ryan of The Watcher.
TFLFriday
p: christian is at boat
a: ode on a grecian urn
p: come on
a: what?
p: HOW MUCH DOES A GRECIAN URN
a: ode on a grecian urn
p: come on
a: what?
p: HOW MUCH DOES A GRECIAN URN
Aug 18, 2009
Bad Gurl 4 Lyfe
"I have to say... And I'm not like a huge advocate of drugs for whatever reason... it is kind of fun."
Rebecca Gayheart, actress and spokeswoman, in what may be her best work to date.
Aug 17, 2009
Aug 16, 2009
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