Lefty Limbo

I’ve always been a fan of Chris Burden, ever since I discovered his Shoot performance art piece in Norman Mailer’s book, The Faith of Grafitti. You can view the clip below with Burden’s commentary.

The whole act of getting shot in the arm by a .22 rifle just for the sake of art was so far out to me that I had to see more of what he’d done. And it turned out I liked mostly everything else he did.

With his Metropolis II exhibit opening at LACMA on January 14, I’ll have yet another opportunity to see what he’s been up to (this time, for the past four years).

It’ll also be a win-win situation for my kid, whose love for cars and trains will probably cause him explode when he sees this mega marvel of design that incorporates them both in the layout.

After seeing the intricate, amazing complexity of this piece, I’m dying to somehow convince Burden to put one of Mattel’s Video Racer cars on there—yes, a car which houses a micro video camera in its hood. Can’t you imagine how freakin’ awesome that would be to see the layout from that perspective?

Hmm. Maybe I can go there myself with one of those racers in my hand and sneak it onto the track. Um, yeah, good luck getting it back, right?

So it turns out that there’s prescribed viewing hours for this piece. Knowing L.A. and all the artsy folks residing here, a long, tedious line to get in would most definitely not be out of the ordinary. We’ll have to wait and see.

Last time I really listened to contemporary Rap was when Tribe Called Quest came out with Low End Theory in September of 1991. It came out at just the perfect time; I turned 21 that October and was finally able to go to some “real” clubs, where I could bug out on the floor without any drama.

They had the perfect sound; a mix of mellow jazz with some really heavy lyrics and an overall “cool” tone. It was awesome when it first hit, but then when it went mainstream (especially when “Scenario” hit the fan), I lost interest—quickly. Then again, I always abandon anything when it hits the mainstream, like the ’50s–’60s style hats that one can find anywhere these days, in shops and on heads.

These days, having to find some good tunes for background music while working, I’ve dug into iTunes’ radio channels, and just for the heck of it recently decided to try GtronicRadio.com in the Hip Hop / Rap streams. And man, did I discover a whole bunch of stuff that I’d been missing. Not sure how much of it is really underground, per say, but it doesn’t matter, not if it has me head-bobbin’ and wincing at what they’re spitting. Here’s a few tracks which do just that. Enjoy.

If the prices were any lower, could we put WTF or STFU? Meanwhile, next time I get really excited about something, I’ll yell “MOM!” =)

It often pays to stray off the beaten path. I wasn’t about to try to take the 10 Eastbound from Downtown L.A. to Bell in the middle of the afternoon rush, so I decided to head South on Main to South Broadway instead.

Just South of 42nd Street or so began a strip of small latin mom n’ pop shops—everything from carnicerias to kids’ clothing shops and what not. The one thing I notice about affluent latin neighborhoods are the abundance of hand-painted signs, especially those adorning store fronts and shop windows. Very common too is the appearance of the Virgen de Guadalupe, Mexico’s most revered Catholic icon.

Yet, a little after 47th Street, we had our own spiritual sighting—this time, JC himself—in the most unlikely of places: on the back of an ice cream truck.

One thing I wonder—is it purely coincidental, or an intended pun, that the sign says “kids crossing/niños crusando?”

I like to imagine that the perforated one was caused by an engine malfunction, or a couple of the crew members on board having fun with the smoke machine, flipping the switch on and off until the captain told him to cut it out. I can see them laughing like kids the whole time, falling off their chairs ‘coz they weren’t wearing their belts. I’d totally be one of those goofy crew members.

One day I’d like to pull a total Christo and hire a bunch of planes to make a gigantic contrail grid in the sky. A huge one, like 100×100 squares. Yeah, that’d really do a number on our climate. Oh well, wear shorts.

I’m intrigued with the thought that everyone…and everything…has a story. We all have a beginning and end. Perhaps that’s why I’m really into worn, antiquated and aged vintage things…because their story really tells itself without words. For example: old pennies. The oldest one I have is from 1918, and I can stare at that thing for long periods of time, just turning it end over end in my fingers, wondering where its been for the past 92 years, and how I of all people ended up with it.

Nevertheless, I can’t be happier to know that I’m equipped with both a camera and a video camera 24/7 these days, as long as my iPhone 4 is in my pocket. This lifetime is speeding by like a bullet, and it’s nice to be able to capture some of its fleeting moments on the fly…such as the demise of this toy car, which I found in a West Covina parking lot.

From wherever it had its beginning, it appears it met its end beneath the wheel of a departing, or arriving vehicle. I know that it belonged to somebody, and I wonder if he/she is totally heartbroken at the absence of their car (I know Greg would be), or if they’re totally oblivious to it. Either way, it serves my memory in its departure from this world, forever commemorated here on Lefty Limbo. Well, forever until, um, the host server and its backup totally melts down or this world explodes or something.

Long ago, in my earlier days of blogging, memes were a popular way to spice up one’s blog, often with random quizzes such as those presented by Quizilla. I never really cared to do them, but one quiz in particular grabbed my attention out of the blue: What Kind of Postmodernist Are You?

Being the random artsy nerdy type, I took it, was amused by my result, and posted it to my blog.

Now, 7–8 years later, I took it again, thinking maybe I would have evolved into a different type of postmodernist, especially after having a kid. Hmm. But no, the result was the same:

You are a Deconstructionist Weirdo. Although ostensibly originating with Derrida, the theories of your particular school have long since passed beyond intellegibillity; half the time you don’t even understand what you’re saying anymore. That’s okay, though. You’re a lot more fun to party with than a bunch of stodgy new historicists.

Too funny, and still very accurate. I actually still look like that, too. Yes, low-carb diets do work.

When I saw the top flapping in the morning breeze, I pulled over immediately, thinking it was a banner draped over the switchbox (or whatever you call that thing). Disappointment met me with gooey fingers when I discovered it was a freshly wheat-pasted poster.

Anyways, folks. Another shining example of our Constitution’s First Amendment right. The poster was completely torn off by mid-day.

Ain’t it great how politics and politicians bring out the best and worst in people?

On our latest trip to Disneyland we were able to witness the annual phenomena named Bats Day At The Fun Park. This was unintentional, yet one of the many perks of having an annual pass (which I believe is the best investment ever for any SoCal family with young ones).

I knew something was up when I saw more than a handful of…well, what can I call them without generalizing…goths/rivetheads/cybergoths/gravers…anyways, they were dressed to the nines in the latest strapped, chained, buckled and chunky platform-shoed glory…some even sporting the cyber post-apocalyptic dreads of rebellion, others boasting full tilt androgyny, “Is that a dood?” “Yes, it’s a dood.” “Dood!”

The best part about this phenomena is it gives out-of-towners and tourists a real treat. Not only are these urban specimens morbidly mesmerizing, but they also give the foreigners a smack-in-the-face validation to the almighty stereotype that yes, L.A. people are fucking freaks for sure; something they can tell their loved ones when they pick them up at the airport. “It’s true! I saw them with my own eyes!” The looks on their faces as these angels of darkness fluttered by—from shock to surprise to utter disappointment—were priceless, ironic treasures which one would never expect from the Happiest Place On Earth.

Yet another plus—my What Would ZOD Do? shirt, which I coincidentally wore that day, conjured equally curious looks from some younger dark dozens (“Is there someone more evil than I? Hmmm…”) …and won critical acclaim from their older counterparts, who reveled in the evil ephemeral entity with approving nods, smiles and words, with one derby-clad lad even enlightening his friends to Zod’s existence and quoting him in true cold, Kryptonian Zod fashion: “Why do you say these things to me when you know I will kill you for it!” Excellent.

But by far, the greatest thing, and perhaps the most challenging—was trying to explain to one of our friends, straight from the tropical, sun-kissed and salsa-laden shores of Colombia, what this was all about. This was her first trip to Disneyland, and probably her first large-scale exposure to So Cal society. At first glance, her jaw hung open in disbelief. “Ay, Greg….¿por qué ellos van a vestirse así…estan locos, no?” (Oh Greg…why would they dress like that? They’re crazy, right?…)

After explaining to her that it was actually a fashion and culture, she looked even more puzzled. This especially after seeing a pasty-faced madame walking by in a full mourning dress with velvet gloves, hat and a parasol.

How could I best describe it? “Es un imagen de melancolia…tristeza y de obscuridad,” (It’s an image of melancholy, sadness and darkness) I explained. But even that was a very broad statement and not always true. How could I explain that despite the bleak and depressing image, goths and their cousins were actually amongst the happiest and most fun-loving bunch I’d ever known? The irony just wouldn’t translate. But I tried. “Pero eso es solo un imagen. Ellos son alegres” (But that is just an image. They’re happy people).

Then I remembered the everclear image of a goth circle of friends rushing to show me the slash marked scars on their wrists, like gleeful, giddy little children showing butterflies on their arms. All this commotion the result of me responding in concern when one of them said “I’ve tried to kill myself” (with a smile, of course).

Yeah, good luck trying to translate that.

So I simply said, “Bienvenidos a Los Angeles.”