I still don't want to talk about it

My Dog is Better Than Your Dog: she’s got more clothes than Carey Bradshaw

2009-08-21T11:19:00.004-04:00

By Tess Bonacci

The look for your four-legged fuck this summer is, “bold print and flowers in metallic, or pretty pastels and bling.” according to Urban Pup Designer Dog Fashions website. Urban Pup is one of hundreds of pet fashion retailers in the United States selling metallic raincoats, varsity sweaters, formal dresses and a variety of other unnecessary dog attire and accessories. I can’t exactly say when dog obsession reached its tipping point in the US as I was living in rural Northwestern Zambia for a couple of years and was only met with the phenomenon when I returned home. It certainly was a shock leaving that tiny region of the world where malnourished people rarely eat proteins, and dogs are loathed, feared even, because the nearest life saving post exposure rabies shot may be a 2 day bike ride away. It was bizarre, as if I’d clicked a remote control and switched planets; one with half naked kids running in fields and hanging from trees; and the other with clothed lap dogs eating organic snacks and hanging out in (gasp!) indoor dog parks.

I recently came across an article in the New York Times describing a new fad known as “doga.” The pun speaks for itself, and if you are imagining well nourished, Caucasian, females in overpriced, cotton-poly blend capri pants and matching tanks bending over and manually manipulating disinterested, inbred dogs, then you are right on track. Dog and master work together on the same mat. Master stretches dog, stares into dog’s eyes for mutual deep breathing, and from the pictures I’ve seen, occasionally uses dog’s head as a balancing block. Doga classes are popping up all over the country and the sessions I’ve found range between $12 and $20 for 45 minutes to an hour. There are also DVDs and books for more fiscally conservative owners and dogs with body image issues to practice at home (‘Princess Bella, don’t even think I’m gonna spend $20 on that doga class until your saddle clipped ass has shed a few pounds!’).

After discovering dog yoga and skimming through the summer clothing lines for America’s bitches and studs, I felt compelled to investigate further (I’ve always enjoyed feeling a little bit uneasy). For $87 to $185 a night you can put your canine up in Chateau Poochie in South FL. They offer individual rooms equipped with a flat screen television, web camera and classical music. The top rooms don a crystal chandelier and a $7,000 designer Toboggan bed that a Chateau Poochie janitor sleeps beside. You can get your dog’s fur highlighted or his back massaged. Some spas even offer warm wax treatments and “extreme makeovers,” both of which sound to me like red alerts for the SPCA. Perhaps most disquieting of all though, is the dog social networking site, DoggySpace.com. The general profile for all the site’s canine members is a self-introduction and a short description of how the dog knows he is very spoiled and naughty, but that it’s okay because mommy loves him anyway. The inevitable bratty tones written in the voice of an 8 year old raise many questions; Who are the women writing these bios? Are they lonely? Childless? Perverse? Do their dog characters reflect their own hidden desires to speak and behave like pampered children? Or do the characters simply represent an unquenchable desire to feed a self-gratifying, consumerist system bent on humanizing canines while turning blind eyes on homo sapiens?

Most of us would happily agree that this all too American trend is a contemptible fading star, another soon-to-be hush hush and embarrassing fad of the past, like Freedom Fries and cheese-encased-with-meat hotdogs. In the meantime, couldn’t we just tack sin tax on these extravagancies as well as some other pet products and use the money for much needed social services? I pay a little extra for my night cap and Parliament lights, so let’s make Princess Bella paw over a few extra dollars for her doga lesson and Louis Vuitton dog bag.

The Summer of 69ing

2009-06-04T20:13:00.006-04:00

By David Cookson

On a recent trip to Ireland I realized something - they love Brian Adams there. I can’t figure out why, but they do. His songs, especially ‘Summer of 69,’ are played constantly up against classic, indy and even the pop-excessive euro pop that tends to dominate the airwaves.

There’s no accounting for taste, that’s for sure, and my musical taste is incredibly un-evolved when compared with many of my more purist or even fetishistic friends’. I can also relate to liking bad music. I have several favorites I don’t know if I’ll ever be ready to divulge.

Still, I find this unabashed ‘Summer of 69’ thing extremely disturbing and here’s why: beyond the utterly mundane and pathetic nostalgia of the song, I was pretty sure Brian Adams couldn’t have been more than an adolescent in 1969. And I’d imagine, most who revel in it, revel in their own fading, time-bloated coolness in that year.

Now I know that a lot of songs are about something more fundamental and frequently not autobiographical, still this song seems incredibly disingenuous and pandering. After hearing it several times in a day on different stations while dodging oncoming cars on country roads in Connemara, Tess suggested the completely plausible explanation that it was probably written by someone else. Prince was her best guess. I liked that. I think it satisfied me until a rambling conversation with Pat on my return that started with T’ai Chi, ran headlong back into Brian Adams all over again.

This prompted us to do some investigating. First, Brian Adams was nine in the summer of 1969 and most certainly a sexual novice. The song was co-written with Jim Vallance in 1984 (he also wrote the Aerosmith hit ‘Ragdoll’). The co writers have a divergent opinion as to the lyrical meaning of the song. In a 2008 interview with thecelebritycafe.com, Adams said:

"I think 'Summer of '69' — I think it's timeless because it's about making love in the summertime. There is a slight misconception it's about a year, but it's not. '69' has nothing to do about a year, it has to do with a sexual position... At the end of the song the lyric says that it's me and my baby in a 69. You'd have to be pretty thick in the ears if you couldn't get that lyric".

If there was even an ounce of irony in this it wouldn’t have been enough to make me like the drively ditty or Adams, but it may have been enough to make me appreciate his flip or self-deprecating humor. No such luck.

Vallance, in a more conventional interpretation of the song, says the title is a reference to a formative year and that he remembers Adams relating to it that way too citing the film ‘Summer of ‘42’ as an example.

"I wish this little "controversy" would just go away. First of all, when Bryan and I were writing the song, it was originally called "Best Days Of My Life". The words "summer of '69" only appeared once, right after "played it 'til my fingers bled". That was it! The song really was about the summer of 1969! It took us a week or two to fine-tune the lyric. At some point we realized that "Summer Of '69" was a better title, so we literally "shoe-horned" that phrase into a few more places in the song. At no time do I recall discussing sexual innuendo with Bryan ' except for one little thing. When we recorded the demo in my basement, towards the end of the song Bryan sang a little naughty bit: "me and my baby in a '69". We had a laugh about it at the time, and Bryan decided to keep it when he did the final recording a month or two later. Nobody seemed to notice, and that was the end of it until a few years ago when Bryan started introducing the song in concert by saying, "This song has nothing to do with the year 1969". The audience reaction was predictable. Let me qualify this by saying I don't pretend to speak for Bryan. Two of us wrote the song. Maybe he was thinking about something completely different ... but I was thinking about that amazing summer when I turned 17. There were brand new vinyl albums released by The Beatles, Led Zeppelin, The Who, The Kinks, Janis Joplin, The Band. It was awesome and I'll never forget it. Bryan Adams is a great writer, a great singer, and a great friend. He's entitled to his recollections as to what inspired the song "Summer Of '69". My recollections just happen to be different than his."

So it’s either a nostalgic, self-congratulatory song of coolness pandering to a scion of the Big Chill set, or it’s just a juvenile sex song about 69ing the summer away with a girlfriend in a year that doesn’t really matter. Neither is appealing.

It’s not difficult to figure out that Adams was probably trying to make a safe song/shit-hit a little more dangerous live and now either prefers to continue the charade or has just come to believe it’s really true.

It doesn’t matter which it is. It still sucks.

Gene Slacks -hosting my garage sale

2009-05-07T09:12:00.004-04:00

Gene Slacks the legendary garage sale comic will be hosting my garage sale this Saturday. I'm going to be selling a lot of stuff. I'll have books, records, kitchen gear, unknowns, furniture etc. There will be a lot of worthwhile objects. My address is 209 Hibiscus Ct. Orlando, FL 32801. Parking is scarce on my great little street. Also at noon clothing designer Kelledy Francis will be hosting a fashion show that will take a closer look the unsold clothing. I'll need some models. Anyone can model in my driveway. The sale will last from 8AM-2PM. My number is (407) 913-1426 if you get lost.

The Cryling Light Review... kinda‏

2009-05-04T19:06:00.010-04:00

This is an Antony and the Johnson's review by Bangkok transplant Andrew Jones.

Antony and the Johnson’s albums have swung all over the map. Their first foray came out on David Tibet’s Durttro label, a recording company that has been chronicling queer performers like KAOS’ digital Angel, Annie Bandez, and of course Baby Dee. Of all the performers though, Antony Hegarty’s stuff fits in the best with the glut of emo that has been a staple of indie-rock since the early nineties. His/her music makes depression sound harrowing, and the atmosphere manages to link post-hardcore maudlinness with the troubadours of folk. Its songs linked tranny circle ideas like sisters with the alienated landscapes of rock. The two, surprisingly, went together rather well. The Crying Light dispenses with rock for the simple joys of a piano. It is a simple album, that’s major emotional chord is just the despair in Antony’s voice. The major tragedy of Antony’s music is his own performance. He isn’t the woman he wants to be, but is becoming one. He is negotiating this self in a culture where transsexuals have been shot at school, thrown over bridges for their walk, and denied entry to Manhattan restaurants. The Crying Light doesn’t touch on such ideas directly; it is instead just a series of stories often marked by their own desire for annihilation. In one track he intones, “cut me intro quadrants, leave me in the corner,” in Another World he desires to escape culture. Like Robert Smith he is fond of lyrics filled with pity, asking for mercy and like Boy George he sings with genuine heart.

Antony’s use of his identity on stage resembles his idol Marc Almond. Both are queer performers, displaying that unique ability the subjugated have for developing alternative selves, work place identities, and gay selves that derive from base desires long covered over by fear or impracticality. In Marc Almond, queer is inimical to the familiarity of everyday hetero-selves. Gender and sexuality are constructions and transgression is an act of rebellion. But Hagerty is not a rebel; he makes trans-gender even homely. The mechanics of identity and sexuality construction become tools of realizing a normalized psychology, his stance doesn't differ much from the plain unassuming self-absorption of Yo La Tengo. In an era in which sincerity and simplicity are guiding values, Mr./Ms. Hegarty has shown the values of her identity as cordial to her peers. Such pronouncements stand at odds with other transsexuals like RuPaul, who promote a wild feminine approach in accord with gay liberation's attempts to form a homo-counterculture, but Ms. Hegarty's blending in is more in line with the reality of most of America’s trans-gender. The posters on Laura's playground for instance, a web board for America's transgendered, are more interested in acceptance and less in making radical statements out of their selves. When Antony sings, his conviction doesn't seem to be at odds with his audience; rather it's an appeal to their pathos.

Pathos is what has marked Antony’s career so far. His quivering voice has given simple little refrains a Tim Buckley like sense of the epic. His early worked focused on drag performance and S&M. Antony's history is rather telling. He arrived in New York just in time to watch the heydays of gay liberation wind down into the polo shirted gay couple and their simulacrum of hetero-family life. Drag with its associated glam was at most a footnote and post-stonewall Brooklyn was an exception in American culture with its acceptance of its trans-gendered residents. Gay has become essentialist in the popular imagination that it might be as constructed as heterosexuality, that it might have to do with who people prefer to be, has been lost in the noise of its mainstream acceptance. Simply put, so many of the identities people inhabit in our society are so easy to assume and maintain, that some people’s desire for a new self to get out of the psychological suburbia sincerity requires becomes unbelievable. Hagerty has made queer into sincerity. Her frankness in photographs reminds of Leigh Bowery’s performances, and her message, that I am constructing a self, that I am becoming who I want to be is lasting. It is a story of sexuality and self that is only a tragedy in America.

What's Next?

2008-07-05T11:54:00.017-04:00

It's been over two months since I've posted anything. I had considered deleting my blog. I hate to sound like a cliche, but I started to wonder what motivates me to blog, or to tell my story. Hopefully anyone that's attempted to tell their story has had a similar introspection (cliche?).

Last week I had a garage sale that was hosted by comic Gene Slacks. The Orlando Weekly blogged about the event, and referenced my blog. Anyway, it said something like if you want to know more about Pat Greene, read his blog. I thought, man I'm one of those slack asses that write something every once in awhile. So maybe I better think of something to say, force something out. I'm not sure I've ever been speechless.

In 1988 I went to London with a thousand bucks and a one-way ticket. I returned with some reluctance fifteen months later, following several menial under the table jobs, romances, journal entries, tramping most of western and some of eastern Europe, dipping into the Middle East and Northern Africa. I felt like I was on another planet when I returned. I didn't have any urge to kiss the ground upon my return. I was bored. Everyone seemed to be confused and in a hurry. I missed having real dinner's with real food and real conversations. I've sussed out some of that here over the years.

When Henry Miller returned to the states after nearly ten years of being an expatriate, he traveled the US by car, documenting his trip in his book Air Conditioned Nightmare. I read that book after returning. I felt like I had an ally. I had channeled him when I was sleeping on the bank of the Seine, smoking hash with some Algerians.

I remember telling people about my adventures after my return. I would hear things, like oh I don't want to travel like that. I want to travel in style. What does that mean? I don't know. Now I'm telling my story, like it or not.

The first four months of my journey were in London. I was a waiter at a Bistro,the Arc in Nottinghill Gate, worked construction for an Irish construction company in Wimbledon, painted an office building in Trafalgar Square.

About half way into my stay in London,broke, getting nervous, I learned to live with it later. I went with a friend to London Bridge Hospital. We volunteered for drug testing. We were supposed to get something like the equivalent of a thousand bucks to test some antihistamine.

At first I thought this was a crazy way to earn money. Then my friend eloquently stated,"You've done every other fucking drug, this is a fucking antihistamine." Maybe the idea of experimenting with something that lacks narcotic or psychoactive appeal wasn't worth the risk to me. I decided to go through with it anyway.

At orientation there were about thirty of us. The nurse told us that statistically speaking that one of us would not be accepted after all the pre-testing. We were EEGed, EKGed, scopes going everywhere. The examination was most thorough I've had before or since.

A couple of days later I get a call that something was wrong with my brainwaves (that's may be evident to everyone else). I think the call was made on a Monday. I was told to come in Friday to discuss it. They wouldn't tell me anything else on the phone.

Those days in between the phone call and the appointment, were full of self reflection and absorption. I could barely converse unless it was related to my fate. What if I have a brain tumor or Lou Gehrig's disease? I was no expert on physiology, so my references may have bordered on ridiculous. I thought a lot about religion. Should I adopt a faith? Maybe I would have to do it quickly. Could I wait until I'm in some sort of purgatorial situation? I kept thinking of all those jokes about getting to purgatory along with a priest, Dolly Parton etc..

Friday came, the doctor told me I have benign epilepsy, more commonly known as absence epilepsy. It's a non-convulsive epilepsy. I would fade out a little, as my brain sort of misfired.

The doctor asked me if I wanted to go on some medication. I opted not to. I figured that I'd gone a long time without it. I wasn't driving in Europe.

Six years later, I'm back in the states, working in an environmental lab for the county, in my third year of co-habitation with my then girlfriend Kathy. She was complaining that I was fading. I took advantage of my HMO and went to the doctor. I told them the story of the hospital in London. They thought I made it up and tried to send me to counseling. My father surmised that it's cheaper to send me to counseling. I called everyone's boss, until I got the treatment that asked for. I still don't know why they thought I made the story up. As my father says if people don't believe the stories about your life, you must be doing something interesting.

When I finally got to see a neurologist, Kathy and I had broken up. The neurologist wanted to talk to anyone that I was really close to, like a girlfriend. Kathy and I still got along, she agreed to talk to the doctor. When he asked about my behavioral traits, she said, "he seems fine for awhile, then I'll say something, he seems to be somewhere else, then he might look at me, and ask, what's next?"

The Passing Of The Florida Rail Pass

2009-04-22T17:21:00.012-04:00

I had just finished reading the Donkey Show by Michael Patrick Welch. I think I was somewhere near Biloxi. The sun was rising. I could see water on both sides of the train. I don't know how long we were nearly inert, and I didn't care. The announcer said we should be moving soon, and we'll be in New Orleans shortly. Yes train travel can be slow. I'm not even sure why we weren't moving. I don't mind slow, most of the time. I'm a baseball fan too. My least favorite assessment of a film , is , it was slow.What does that mean? That phrase -it was slow- usually makes me curious, maybe there is actually a story. If you pay attention, more might be going on during those slow times than during a car chase or an explosion.

I was glad to have finished the Donkey Show. Michael is a friend of mine from New Orleans. I really love his novel about teaching creative writing in one of the worst high schools in New Orleans. It is also about falling in love, struggling to get by and mostly about living in New Orleans. It had been my favorite city in the United States. Henry Miller had noted it as a bright spot in this country in his book Air Conditioned Nightmare. It was a book that meant a lot to me years ago.

My trip was almost exactly a year before Katrina. I was evacuating Hurricane Frances, before I was even sure it was going to hit Orlando. I bought a one-way ticket to New Orleans. The cost of the ticket was thirty one dollars. I only paid for the journey outside of Florida. I had a Florida Rail Pass. It cost two hundred and forty nine bucks. It was good for a year. During that year I was free to ride anywhere in Florida. I took several trips to south Florida, and some short rides, like to Kissimmee (ten or so minute ride) for lunch.

I haven't been to New Orleans since that trip. I'm almost afraid to see it. Katrina, makes me sad in so many ways. When I got to New Orleans I wanted to stay. I always felt that way. I'm not sure if I would still feel that way. It seemed like another country to me, that was what Miller found appealing about it.

I had hotel reservations for the weekend that Katrina hit. I was going with several others to see the reclusive musician Jandek. The show was canceled, a minor subplot of the devastation.

Jonathan told me to meet him for a drink a little after five at a bar in the Marigny district. He was getting off work. He would take me over to his apartment after that. I could stay there for a few days, while he shacked up with his girlfriend. Jonathan performs with Michael in his band and in skits for reenactments of episodes of the Donkey Show.

Jonathan departed, and said something like I'll see you in a couple of days. I went to get a beer after he left. I ran into a few Orlando acquaintances at a pub on the edge of the Quarter. There was a crew of five of them. We drank a beer. I went to a payphone. It was a year before I bought my cellphone. Payphones were getting scarce, but there were some around then. I checked my messages from the payphone. I had several messages. One from Contos, Alex, Tess and Kay. They said they were headed for New Orleans.

A couple of nights later we were all together. Apparently they left the Hideaway in the middle of the night and drove towards New Orleans. Alex said that it was raining so hard until around Gainesville, and he doesn't remember seeing any other cars on that stretch.

I told them about the great artist warehouse that Michael took me to. Bands played all night. It was in a very rough area. The owner of the warehouse was a German artist in his sixties. He showed me bullet holes on the outside of the building.

We ran into Trish too. She was staying in some posh place in the Quarter. Alex, Trish and I walked out of a bar and the sun was up. It had been up for at least an hour or so. I had fallen into the New Orleans myth. I was drunk, and going to bed late morning. I would be ready for that night.

I was in New Orleans for about a week. I barely saw Jonathan. The trains were all canceled. Last minute plane flights were exorbitant. The Greyhound was also canceled.

We roamed the Quarter watching the spectacle of Southern Decadence weekend. It was a large gathering of the Bear's, not the animals, but the large hairy, gay subculture, huge hairy guys wearing thongs, John Deere hats, looking like they could hit a softball out of any park. Michael and his girlfriend Morgana gave us a tour. They said that the crew had toned it down a little, since the police cracked down on public indecency. Michael told me of seeing a bear sodomize a very willing bear in broad daylight, just off the main drag. I didn't see anything like that.

I finally reluctantly (because I love New Orleans) got a ride home with Trish. Alex and I rode with her. We were the last of our crew to leave town. I hadn't seen much of Contos. He was reuniting with some old cronies of his. He used to live in the city. Kay and Tess were hanging out together.

I didn't want to leave, but I had some things to tend to. The next year the train route from Jacksonville to New Orleans was discontinued. Katrina put an end to that. I don't know that it's coming back.

I just found out that the Florida Rail Pass no longer exists. I asked someone at Amtrak about it. They said it ended in September, and there are no plans of bringing it back. Alex and I bought our pass at the same time. We were both working out of our house, so we would just hop on the train when we had some free time. We had a lot of it then.

Tampa's Taco Bus

2009-04-21T12:38:00.022-04:00

Forest mentioned Tampa's El Taconazo,the Taco Bus in his post about the Airstream Ranch. He wasn't aware that I've been a longtime fan of this place. Just about every time I go to Tampa, I stop and eat there.

It seems that the El Taconaza has officially changed it's name to the Taco Bus. Just about everyone referred to it as the Taco Bus. Thanks Forest for the photo.

I don't know when I first heard of the Taco Bus, maybe 2004. Carrie Mackin told me about it. Carrie could easily have her own post and plenty more. She's living in New York now. She ran the late great Covivant gallery. I was in a show at the gallery. Carrie clued me into several great places in Tampa, especially in the Seminole Heights area, where the gallery was located and the home of the Taco Bus.

She also told me about Mauricio Faedo's Bakery on Florida Avenue. It's a twenty four hour Cuban bakery, near the gallery. I remember stopping by the bakery with her, stocking up on guava pastries following a night of drinking at the legendary Hub bar in downtown Orlando. My friend Alex and our friend Tampa Steve introduced me to that place awhile back. Cheap, plenty of character, looks a little like 40's LA.

Carrie told me that I can't leave Tampa without going to the bus. She was right. Now I hear about the place all the time, even though we are an hour and a half from it.

I have another foggy memory of going with Summer Redwine (that's her real name), Lisa Parani and John Contos. It seems like our dinner was around fifteen bucks, maybe twenty. Whatever it was, everyone was very satisfied with the food and the price.

The Taco Bus is an old school bus, that is painted colorfully and looks like it should be in Mexico, but I'm glad it isn't. The food is authentic. Now I'm remembering the two hour discussion I had with some friends regarding what authenticity really means, especially at this point. If there is anything authentic, this is it. The food is excellent.

The bus is located behind a small Mediterranean revival house on busy Hillsborough Blvd. near I-285, and not far from the USF(University of South Florida) campus. The bus is where the kitchen is located. The house is the restaurant, although we've always sat outside next to the bus on the picnic tables, with the thatched covering.

I remember setting up my installation at Covivant the night before the show in 2005. I was up most of the night. I slept on the couch in the gallery. I heard some pounding on the window. I saw Alex, we headed over to the bus, for my one of my favorite things, a Mexican breakfast. It brings me back to the scary bus ride through the Copper Canyon in Mexico. We stopped at the home of a very old but very alert woman. She made us homemade tortillas. I used her outhouse after the meal.

Sitting at the picnic tables, listening to ranchero music playing through the not so perfect sound system, while watching the women cook inside the bus, spicy aroma's surrounding us, is as close to leaving the country as I can get without hopping on a plane. Oh yeah, the Taco Bus has plumbing, and indoor bathrooms.

Wherever the Road Takes You

2009-04-04T10:47:00.019-04:00

Article By Forest Young

Often obscured by the spectacle of large destination parks are a constellation of improbable and well-hidden gems sprinkled throughout the Central Florida corridor. While most cultured Floridians know this fact, it is still jarring and exhilarating to witness a seemingly "backwoods" neighborhood being uncannily hospitable to modernist architectural tomes such as the Winter Haven Leedy residences. It has now been some time since Pat and I made our pilgrimage to the Weaving/Thomasson Residence (aka Nikole's) and to Winter Haven — an unlikely beacon for the Sarasota School of Architecture.

The next significant discovery for me would come unexpectedly on the roadside of I-4 near Exit 14 in Seffner, Florida. A month ago I was sitting sleepily in the shotgun seat of a speeding Hyundai. Kristen and I were driving to a meeting in Tampa when I turned my head and saw a luminous installation erupting from the grassy shoulder of the interstate. Eight Airstream trailers were buried at measured distances from one another and angled in such a manner as to provide an overall windswept gesture. The installation immediately recalled Ant Farm's iconic "Cadillac Ranch" in Amarillo, Texas from 1973. Later that day when I asked people in Tampa about the Airstream installation on I-4, they simply shrugged their shoulders.

Fearing that it was a mirage or worse — a sleep-deprived hallucination, I went to Google Maps and typed in the coordinates for the area of Seffner closest to my sighting in order to view a satellite image of the site. When I saw the aerial picture of the land where I briefly glimpsed the row of Airstreams, there were no indications of any kind of metallic submerged vehicles. I was, however, able to find a semblance of evidence from the Google Maps street view camera. I am constantly making sure to obtain evidence of these discoveries — to substantiate my unlikely claims made about these impromptu Florida trips — and mostly as proof for myself. Armed with the evidence that an Airstream installation on the roadside of I-4 did in fact exist, I vowed to return to the site and see the installation up close and personal.

Last Friday, I drove towards Seffner with great anticipation. Prior to driving, Kristen and I treated ourselves to lunch at El Taconazo — or the "Taco Bus" as it is affectionately known in Seminole Heights. As Kristen and I made our way back to Seffner, we kept our eyes peeled for the reflective glint of the skyward-pointing vehicles. A quirky GPS navigator voiced by an Austin Powers "sound-a-like" actor informed us that we were close. There were rumors that the installation was a mere publicity stunt for a local Airstream distributor. After turning off of I-4, we took a series of consecutive right-turns and pulled into the lot of Bates RV. A man with a stern expression met us at the gate and bluntly asked us if he could be of any help. We asked to see the Airstream installation and he shot back: "Why?" I responded that I was a fan of Ant Farm — the iconoclastic art collective whose videos, performances, installations and built spaces echoed the revolutionary zeitgeist of the late sixties and seventies; I wished to know the intentions of the piece. He smiled suddenly, which caught us both off-guard, introduced himself as Byron and beckoned for us to follow him. We walked hastily to the rear of the complex and all hopped in a well-worn golf cart and headed out to the shoulder of the interstate. While driving, Byron attempted to explain the conceptual rigor behind the installation.

I will now do my best to re-tell the telling. The Airstream has long been considered the "Cadillac of RVs" and to commemorate the 35th anniversary of Ant Farm's "Cadillac Ranch" in 1973 Frank Bates — the co-owner of Bates RV along with his wife Dorothy decided to create a sister installation called "Airstream Ranch" that was in conversation with the aspirational spirit of the first. Bates chose eight vehicles by adding the numbers 3 and 5 (e.g. 35th ≈ 3 + 5 ≈ 8). As we pulled up to the row of eight, Byron reflected on the numerous events that had taken place on the land near the installation. There had been a series of "redneck" weddings, eclectic outdoor concerts, art and architecture lectures and golf cart tours. Like eight falling dominoes frozen in time, we were immediately taken aback by the sheer scale of the vehicles which had eluded us from the interstate. Kristen candidly hopped off the rear seat of the cart and begin snapping pictures of the installation. Meanwhile, Byron asked me how I had first discovered Ant Farm. I responded that while in graduate school at Yale I had been privy to an extensive multi-media Ant Farm exhibition held in Paul Rudolph’s Art & Architecture building. Byron then disclosed that he and his wife were adjunct professors at the Yale School of Management and that his daughter had graduated from Yale College the past year and was currently living in Nicaragua.

After thoroughly documenting "Airstream Ranch" Byron encouraged us to get back to the main complex in order to catch Frank before he flew off in his cherry-red helicopter parked on the rooftop heliport. We managed to intercept Frank as we pulled up in the golf cart moments before he embarked on his afternoon flight. Frank greeted us with boundless enthusiasm and a sincerity that seemed anachronistic — mannerisms more befit for a bygone era. Frank recounted his ongoing struggle and courtroom drama with Hillsborough County whose elected officials questioned the artistic merit of his installation. Frank was clear to articulate that this was not a publicity stunt, but rather an informed art installation that sought to bring back a sense of hope to the I-4 passersby. In both installations — in Amarillo, TX and Seffner, FL the tailfins and silver streamlined bodies embodied the hopes and dreams of America. Set against a contemporary climate of American automotive pessimism, the two sibling installations could not seem more relevant. Untold citizens from the community had come out in defense of "Airstream Ranch" including professors from the USF School of Art and the Arts Council of Hillsborough County. The conclusion that the defendants argued: "This is art."

I told Frank that I would be back to support his efforts in any way I could and thanked Byron for a generous tour of the installation and surrounding facility. When I went to the website for Bates RV I was enamored with the company's slogan: "Wherever the Road Takes You ... You Can Count on Us." Indeed.

Book Review- Jonathan Lethem - You Don't Love Me Yet

2009-04-07T01:33:00.024-04:00

This review of Lethem's not so recent book is by Bangkok freelance writer Andrew Jones, he's a former Orlando resident. It appeared recently in Associated Content.

Orlando's Greatest Living Performance Artist Needs A Bicycle

2009-04-03T13:51:00.012-04:00

Many of you know or more likely know of Brian Feldman, Orlando's greatest living performance artist. He's gained fame by bringing pillow fighting to Orlando, jumping three hundred and sixty six times for leap year, sleep walking, riding the Lynx, sitting in Ikea, txt and fax.

He may seem like the guy who has everything, but he does lack something. Transportation. He needs a bicycle. He's had bikes stolen, run over etc.. Now he is bikeless (his favored form of transport). A great performance artist can't risk being late for his own performance, unless that's the performance.

I'm putting a plea out to the extended community to donate a bicycle to Brian Feldman. It doesn't have to be the hippest bike, but it should be a comfortable ride , and if it is aesthetically appealing, all the better. I'm hoping to get enough of a response that Brian has a choice. You can email bike@brianfeldman.com and maybe send a picture of the bike or a brief anecdote. If you want to throw in a light, lock or something like that, that would be cool.

Hello Roanoke-Hello Deleuze-Hello Economy

2009-03-29T13:18:00.006-04:00

Matt Ames Latest

Check out Matt's Roanoke New Wave Cinema. It's a fresh release.

And The Beat Goes On And On

2009-03-24T22:03:00.011-04:00

I've been told by two different women this week, that lots of young men go through a Kerouac phase, but not many women do. I know a few woman that do and have. I know I did. I haven't read anything by him in years, but I definitely did my time. I used to skip high school and take the city bus downtown (Orlando), wander down the railroad tracks etc..

I hitchhiked through Europe, and parts of the U.S for a few years. Now I won't pick up a hitchhiker. I still think about those journeys though. I'm not done traveling, but I do play it safer and more comfortable.

The story goes that Jack Kerouac wrote Dharma Bums in the College Park section of Orlando. On The Road was published while he was living there. It's funny, I lived in the house across the street in the early 90's. I was way closer to my Kerouac phase then. I had no idea he used to live in the house across the street. The house that my friends and I used to call the Bob Seger house. The house that had two Trans Ams sitting out front, and seemed to have a constant Bob Seger soundtrack blaring from inside the house and from inside the Trans Ams.

The Kerouac House as it is known now is part of the Kerouac Project. It hosts, I think four writers in residence a year. They do three month stints. They are given a food stipend too. I've never heard about any freight hopping or hitchhiking writers staying there, but I don't everything.

Wednesday March 25th, jazz musician David Amram will be doing a book signing at Urban Think in Orlando. Thursday Robert Frank's film Pull My Daisy will show at Rollins College. Amran will discuss the film afterward. Friday Amran will be at Stetson in Deland. Saturday Pull My Daisy will be shown in Melrose Florida. I think it's all free.

Oh yeah. I almost forgot to mention that Kerouac co-wrote and narrates the half hour film. Allen Ginsberg, Peter Orlovsky and Gregory Corso are a few of the legendary beats that make appearances in the film.

Gene Leedy

2009-03-24T16:22:00.012-04:00

A couple of months back, my friend Forest and I took a field trip to Winter Haven, about an hours drive from Orlando. A typical response from someone who lives in Orlando would be, Why would you go to Winter Haven?

Well, Winter Haven is quaint, but that's not why we went there. It is the former spring training site for the Red Sox, then the Indians. The Indians went to Arizona, the Red Sox are training in the Ft. Myers area. Plus it was January, still a little early for spring training.

We were invited by Nikole Helmers to stay the night. She knew that we are architectural buffs, nerds. She owns one of the Gene Leedy houses. It's directly across the street from his own residence. Forest and I were anxious to drink Scotch with one of the founders of the Sarasota School Of Architecture.

Leedy along with Paul Rudolph, Ralph Twitchell, Mark Hampton and Victor Lundy were the founders of the Sarasota School. Forest received his masters from Yale. Paul Rudolph taught there and designed the Yale Architectural School.

The Sarasota School is a mecca for mid-century modernism in Florida. A bad economy can do more for historic preservation than good intentions that lack the funding during boom times. Hopefully these gems will remain.

Nikole took us on a tour, pointing out the simplicity of the construction, the use of plywood, cement blocks and other materials that can be bought at Home Depot.

If you want to take a self guided tour, check out the Leedy site.

MAMMA

2009-03-23T14:32:00.011-04:00

I think it was around the Summer of 2002 when I met Matt Ames. I was living in a house behind the old Mills and Nebraska lumber yard. I loved that place. My house, Matt's and the lumber yard were demolished in 2005 or 2006. Condos or something else that Florida doesn't need were supposed to go up. Now there's a huge field. I think it's thirteen acres of construction materials, piles of dirt and no real sign of anything to come. The truck traffic is occasional. I have to admit that kind of thing is my silver lining to a bad economy.

Anyway, when Matt moved into the duplex next door, I was friendly, but made no attempt to be his friend, at least for a couple of weeks. Then I noticed a bumper sticker on the back of his old pick up truck. It said. Philosophy Inc. Where reality is always on sale. I had to investigate. I knew that I had a possible ally.

I knocked on his door and pointed to the back bumper of his pick up truck and said, "we need to talk." I repeated what I'd just read. He smiled and laughed a little. He told me that Philosophy Inc. is his business, selling ideas.

I don't remember exactly what we talked about at first, but we covered plenty of esoteric ground. I remember standing in his front yard. A woman that I had briefly been involved with sped into my driveway. She got out of her car, and walked briskly towards my car. She glanced my way then put an envelope under my windshield wiper.

I said "hey".

She said. "Fuck you Pat Greene!" She got back into her car and sped away.

Matt looked at me and laughed a little and dryly said "She seemed upset, but she was cute."

Matt and I have been friends since that day. I would stop by his house when he got home from work. I worked out of my house at the time. Matt would decompress by watching King Of The Hill. There might be some Derrida or Foucault sitting next to the TV for later or a Soylent Green DVD. His old girlfriend used to refer to Matt's endeavors as genius studies.

Like me and most of my friends, he had all kinds of kooky things around his apartment. One was a small objects tester. It was still in the package. The idea was if you can fit something through the small hole of the Small Objects Tester, it was too small for a child to play with. I think it was made by Ronco or some shady company like that.

I guess I started to call Matt's apartment the Matt Ames Museum Of Modern Art (MAMMA). In the past few years, I've put on art shows at my house. I now call my house (with Matt's permission and encouragement) MAMMA. The location can change at any time. Matt's going to Virginia Tech. He's getting his doctorate in Educational Technology.

The Cinema Of Matt Ames

2009-03-23T16:01:00.018-04:00

Matt is a musician, photographer, graphic designer, film maker and so on. He isn't bogged down by technique or locked into any conceptual rigor, but he is a conceptual artist, someone who seems influenced by B-movies, Godard, Dylan, John Cage, Beverly Hillbillies,punk rock, politics,literature, Henry Flynt's avant-hillbilly antics, living in Virginia, Florida or going to grad schools that don't satisfy his needs. He's also very funny.

I really love his films. He acts, narrates,writes and directs. He's involved his whole family and newcomer Mapopa.

Check his latest.

Based On A True Story

2009-03-22T13:43:00.004-04:00

The year 1926 is engraved on an emblem on the facade of the train station; the building is large and mission style. It has become more exotic over the years following the razing of other structures of that vernacular in the vicinity. Now it looks more like it should be in Latin America. It’s less than two miles from my house, but it feels much further. It’s one of my favorite buildings in Orlando. I was headed to another place that feels like Latin America. Miami.

On the train I was reading David Foster Wallace’s short story, Girl With Curious Hair. I had two seats to myself. I had a few pages left, when a woman, who may have been in her sixties sat next to me. She asked if she could sit next to me. I said yes. I didn’t really want her to sit next to me. I was happy with the extra empty seat. Then she started to tell me about the noisy person next to her. I ignored her and continued to read. She left a few minutes later.

That night in Miami I was at Churchill’s in Little Haiti. It was the first night of the International Noise Conference. I was supposed to play the next night in my new band Dos Geniuses. I saw Jeff from the Miami band Curious Hair. I told him about me reading Wallace’s short story on the train. I asked him if that title was the inspiration for his band name. He said yes, but he had never read it.

Everything Is Unremarkable

2009-03-22T13:50:00.011-04:00

When the train reached West Palm Beach, I got off and bought a ticket for the Tri-Rail to Pompano Beach. My father was going to pick me up in Pompano Beach.My father and his friend Jerry were waiting in the Pompano Tri-Rail parking lot, in his black Honda Accord. Jerry was driving.

We rode about three miles back to my father’s place. My father was going to loan me his car while I was in South Florida. He has cataracts, and can’t drive until he is operated on, which is supposed to happen soon. Jerry and his girlfriend Sherry are taking care of my father.

When I see my father I think of an aging Falstaff. He is around six foot two, probably at least two hundred and fifty pounds with a wild full head of silver hair. His dialogue, completely unedited, his life has been extremely colorful and now his anecdotes are delivered matter of factly. They can shock the uninitiated.

When I was fourteen in the seventies, he was arrested for the biggest mortgage fraud ever on the east of the Mississippi. He was charged with one hundred and fifty four counts of mail fraud, and accused of only two counts. He spent fifteen months at a minimum security prison on the panhandle of Florida. When he got out, he said he was going straight. A few months later he was smuggling pot. He continued for another decade. He finally quit when a colleague named Eddie was murdered execution style in Colombia. My brother and I used to call him Uncle Eddie.

My father likes to tell the story of the chief of a tribe in Colombia that he bought tons of pot from. The chief was wearing a loincloth, a Los Angeles Dodgers cap and several gold chains. The chief lived in a thatched hut, drove a pickup truck that was fully equipped with every possible accessory of that time.

Now my father goes to church. He had always made fun of religion. He read the Bible in prison. He used his knowledge of the Bible as artillery against the pious. He would correct anyone that seemed to be interested in saving him. He was a con man who could convince others of just about anything. The game was more interesting than the conviction.

Sherry made us some black beans and rice and salad. My father told me that he was thankful for their help. He then told me that Jerry is a nice guy, but needs constant affirmations.

“I don’t have time for that shit. I like the guy, but I’m not going to tell him every five minutes.”

Then he looked me in the eye and laughed as he said. “You and I are dick heads. We know we’re dick heads. We don’t need that.”

I hugged him when I left. I wanted to get to Churchill’s. I was about forty five minutes from there. I hugged Sherry and Jerry. I looked at my dad. He’s using a walker. He needs a knee operation, but he has pulmonary problems, that make the operation dangerous. He had just given me the details of his medical condition, finishing with- “All I can do is pray.”

About six months earlier, I visited my father. About four in the morning one night he woke me in a panic. He thought he was having a heart attack. I took him to the emergency room. It turned out that he’d torn a muscle in his chest.
When he came back from being checked, he laughed and said, “Do you know what the doctor said about my condition? Everything is unremarkable.”

We're Still Here

2008-04-30T10:31:00.004-04:00

John Benson, the owner of "the bus" is coming to town Friday. I've only briefly met him, Greg is our connection to him. We never did the show to nowhere. The destination, also known as nowhere was unavailable. Did that make any sense?

I think John will be here for a little over a week. Greg says there are plans to do a show around town with a local band. After that, the bus heads towards Maine, then across country back to Oakland. I wanted to ride to Maine and beyond, but some responsibilities at home will keep me here. In the meantime I've booked Athens Georgia's Melted Men for June 13th and Sunburned Hand Of The Man for October 10th. I don't have a venue for either yet. I might do the Melted Men show at Stardust. They haven't toured in five years, so they've lost some of their following, I think.

I went to Benoit Glazer's big white house the other day to witness a great performance by Benoit his wife and kids playing a composition by Pulitizer Prize winning composer David Lang. David Lang was in attendance along with one of my favorite artists Mark Dion. They are visiting artists at the Atlantic Center For The Arts. I did a residency there in 2001. I think about that place all the time. I've remained close to the other artists, even though they are scattered around the country.

Orlando isn't exactly a cultural hot spot, sometimes it's awful, but you can occasionally find something interesting or you have to do it yourself.

Miami

2007-10-21T22:47:00.001-04:00

Miami. I'm going back Wednesday for a few days.

In the process of getting plenty of documentary footage of the noise scene, I was recruited by the shadow puppet ladies for a performance. I was asked to be a part of their shadow puppet show while the Laundry Room Squelchers played. The thought crossed my mind that I might be violated, or at least I hoped so. I was the only male puppeteer. The performance was improv. I don't have the video footage of it, but I'm sure there would be a general agreement that it doesn't look like the work of grown ups. I used one of those stuffed horses on a stick as a prop for awhile. I ended up giving several female performers piggy back rides while the light cast our shadow to the audience and the squelchers supplied a chaotic soundtrack. The sheet was pulled down eventually exposing us. There was plenty of unabashed butt slapping, faux mayhem inappropiate laughter and puddles of sweat. It gets hot on Churchill's outdoor backstage, but I was not violated.

On the way over to Little Haiti, where Churchill's is located Mr. B a drummer who plays in several bands from several barely related genre's told us how he had met a man, the topic of the hour, with many aliases, who was apparently dubious in every way. There were plenty of stories of get rich quick schemes, bad art, couch surfing, speculation of axes to grind, auxillary personalities, hero worship and poorly articulated dreams.

He met the man whose real name is still a mystery, from a domanatix acquaintance, "she's Asian", B. said, stressing that Asian domanatrix's are in demand and that they are tougher to find than one might suspect.

I admit my knowledge of supply and demand is rudimentary so I didn't delve. I don't want to look stupid.

The Road To Nowhere

2008-03-22T03:04:00.012-04:00

It was 9:57AM.I woke up on Alex's couch in his garage/shop, an American flag draped across my body. I looked around and saw the conveyor dryer that I helped him fetch in Charleston, it seemed to be taking up a lot of space. The end of the belt was a few feet from my head. A Miller beer can made into a pipe was sitting on the floor underneath the belt. I remembered smoking pot with Alex. I think Alex has smoked pot less than twenty times in his life. I have no idea how many times I've smoked. The funny thing is, I hadn't smoked in a year and a half before my fiftieth birthday in January. Lately I've smoked quite a bit. I want to sing the praises of marijuana, like someone who has connected to some religion, I want to tell others, smoke some reefer, it eases traffic congestion, maybe you'll rethink some of those goals that you were never really interested in, but you think are good for you.

I'm fifty. Wow. I remember Alex saying to me in between hits, "you are clearly going to live until at least ninety, look at you". Of course we were stoned.

The night was incredible, adjectives wouldn't be sufficient to wrap up the details, the vibe or any other part of the evening. Neptune played on "The Bus". Neptune is a band that started as a sculpture project. They had one guitar that looked like a medieval torture device. A couple of people estimated it weighs 50 lbs.. I picked it up and I think that estimate is about right.

Mark drove the bus down Orange Blossom Trail (Hwy. 441). we tried our best to make a route that ended up in the Hoops parking lot as the band played its encore. Hoops is the dive bar where we began the trip. Our timing wasn't even close. That sort of precision may be easier in a world that is more regimented, a more corporate music world. We ended up going near Apopka and heading to George's Hideaway on N. Edgewater. We ran into our friends John and Courtney. It seemed like a crazy coincidence, running into people we knew in a another dive bar outside of town. Just before we pulled into George's we were pulled over by a cop. I didn't get out of the bus, but according to accounts by Mark, Alex and Greg the cop seemed stunned by the bus. The bus looks like a post-apocalyptic vehicle ala Road Warrior. Noise streamed out into the street as the band continued to play. Alex ran into the bus, in the middle of the cops questioning. He said. "The cop wants the band to stop, but they sound so fucking good, I can't ask them to stop." The music continued. The band later said they didn't know we'd been pulled over. The cop asked Mark, "What is going on here? What is this?" Mark said it's a private party. I've known Mark since 10th grade Spanish class. I can't picture anything but a deadpand delivery from him. Mark was wearing a bus driver uniform shirt with an American flag on the sleeve, he had a few days of stubble on his face and red suede hush puppies on. The shirt was from an actual bus driving job he'd had, but it all looked very thriftshop.

We were pulled over for not having tail lights. I think there was some sort of toggle switch inside that solved that problem. He also warned us about noise violations. The cop ended up letting us go. Mark later said getting pulled over was the highlight of the trip. In retrospect I agree. If he or any of us had been busted, maybe not.

We were going to have a second show. There was some agreement against that idea, mostly by the band. I think they were getting little shocks from electrical shorts or at least that's what I heard via someone else. I was at a post-decision making point. I had been drinking, later I compounded it with pot. I'm a lightweight with pot.

After parking the bus in Greg's yard and knocking parts of his and the neighbors fence down, Alex and I bicycled to the Hideaway. We split a pitcher of Blue Moon. It may not have been necessary, but we drank and soon after smoked.

In two weeks we're planning another bus trip. I think it's going to be called "The Show To Nowhere." Freddie and Johnny's psychedelic, soundtrackish band will play on the bus. We're telling everyone to bring sleeping bags and tents. We'll probably leave Friday night and come back Saturday night. We're not telling anyone where we're going.

Degrees Of Seperation

2008-03-17T13:08:00.008-04:00

"We need to talk to someone, who's not a sailor or frat boy, to see what's going on around here." Alex said to me. I was thinking pretty much the same thing. We were both visiting Charleston, SC for the first time.

Alex was right. Five minutes later we were drinking beers with Jake and another Alex. They had guided us to the Upperdeck bar. Jake said he'd been on "The Bus", the mobile venue that the band Neptune is playing on Thursday. He said he spent a few months in Oakland, and met John Benson the proprietor of the venue. Jake also knew what's yr. damage?, Greg, Nelson and Adam Wood's longtime band. I have played with them at least one time that I can remember.

The next night we were planning on going to the warehouse show where local noise maker's Small Pox were playing. We arrived around 11:30PM, the show was already over. We headed back to the Upperdeck, trying out a couple of other bars. Earlier we were drinking at a ghetto bar named Frankie's, $2 for 24 ounce High Life's. It wasn't a special deal.

After last call, Alex decided to go deep into the ghetto to get some more beer. Genna a young woman from the hostel had joined us. She said this is supposed to be the 7th most dangerous neighborhood in the country. Genna and I sat in the truck watching Alex interact with the locals inside. We wished we could hear, but we didn't make any effort to get closer. Alex exited giving a beer a piece to two guys walking around the convenience store. Then it became apparent that a middle aged black man was hassling Alex for a beer. He said he would take one of our bags that were in the back of the truck if Alex didn't give him a beer. He warned Alex that he is not in his element. Alex told him to fuck off or something like that. The guy persisted. Alex then sternly said, "Mr. Greene could you step out of the truck." I got out and stood on the other side of the truck. The guy seemed pretty intimidated. He left saying something like I'm kidding. We ended up back at the hostel sitting on the porch until around 3:30AM drinking beers with some girl who said she couldn't get a room. She seemed a little sketchy. Alex said she looked pregnant.

The next morning we went to Rutledge's Coffee House for breakfast. Then we met up with the guy who sold Alex a conveyor dryer for his screen print shop. Alex found him on Craigslist. The guy told us plenty of stories. He had several creative revenge stories. He told us a guy tried to screw him over and wouldn't pay him, so he hired a private investigator to follow him. It turned out the investigated guy was sleeping with three other women other than his wife, one was a prostitute. Our guy sent photos to his wife, she filed for divorce. Then our guy placed an ad on craigslist under man seeking man. It said something like happily married guy who likes occasional cock. Our guy had the ad directed to his phone, so he could field the phone calls. A guy responded. Our guy told him, one of my fantasies is to have someone show up at my place of business and pull their cock out. The respondee said that he had always fantasized about doing that very same thing. Our guy told him to show up Friday at 2PM when all the employees are out cashing their checks. Friday the guy whipped his dick out as scheduled. When the whole thing went to court, the guy told the judge about the a guy whipping his dick out at his place of business, under the guidance of our guy. The judge said that sounds a little far fetched. Our guy won the case. They still live two blocks away from each other in a gated community.

The Field Trip

2008-03-10T21:57:00.006-04:00

Yesterday evening I saw a truck pulling a pontoon boat past the 7-11 down Mills on the corner of Virginia. There isn't anything unusual about that, except for the timing.

Earlier that day I went on a field trip with Jane and her brother Neal or it might be Neil, he shares a birthday with me, although, he's in his mid-20's. Anyway I'm drifting.

We made plans Saturday night, to go to Geneva, Florida the next day (Sunday) to see the grave of Lewis Powell, one the people involved in the Lincoln assassination conspiracy. Powell also known by his alias, Lewis Payne was supposed to take out Secretary of State William Seward, as a part of a holistic slaughter designed to knock off the top of the chain of command. Seward was stabbed in the face by Powell's Bowie knife, ended up disfigured but lived seven more years continuing to serve as Secretary of State to Andrew Johnson, who also survived, after George Atzerodt got nervous, drunk then wandered the streets throwing his knife into the road and failed to follow through on his assignment to kill Johnson.

I think there were a total of 16 Confederate soldiers buried in the Geneva Cemetery. We saw several with small souvenir shop type Confederate flags next to their tombstones. The flags were fairly fresh. Powell and couple others had plaques next to them placed by the Daughter's Of The Confederacy. We also saw some creepy looking contemporary tombstones with high school yearbook photos, hyper real etchings, air boats, deers and water logged stuffed animals lying around like flood victims.

After leaving the cemetery, we decided to head east on Hwy. 46 towards the St. Johns River to get a beer. We drank a couple of beers and had some undercooked conch fritters at the Jolly Gator fish camp.

On the way over we pulled into Fort Lane park. We read the plaque on the beach of Lake Harney. It stated that Fort Lane is named for Colonel Lane 1810-1836. He was a mathematics and philosophy professor prior fighting in the Second Seminole War.

When I got home from our field trip. I looked up Colonel Lane or John Foote Lane. He entered West Point at 13, graduated at 18. He was a professor, engineer and a soldier. He also received a posthumous patent for inventing the pontoon boat. He died at 26, after getting encephalitis, then going insane he put a sword through his head. I felt a little tense when I saw that truck pulling a pontoon boat down Mills avenue.

Can You Break A Twenty?

2008-03-06T22:08:00.007-05:00

May of 2006, I was in Knoxville. I had a voicemail that said something like this is Leon's sister in New York. My number is 1-800 something, call me Leon wants to tell you about something, but he doesn't have long distance on his phone.

Leon is a friend of mine. He owns a coffee shop in Cherokee, NC, which is very close to Knoxville. I had never met Leon's sister and wasn't aware of her. When I finally reached Leon, he said, I know this may seem off the wall, but that's why I'm relaying it to you. He then told me that the touristy Summer stock play Unto These Hills was looking for a few guys to play 1830's American soldiers. Leon gave me a number to call. The next day I was doing a dramatic reading with a guy named Cochise. I got the part. I don't think I had much competition. I was given a small weekly salary and a pretty nice apartment.

I didn't have any lines. I also ended up playing a Spanish monk, a preacher, a member of the spirit clan and I've probably forgotten something. I felt like I immediately achieved outsider status within the ranks of other actors, but not in a way that I was left out of their socializing. I was actually invited to parties all the time. I rarely went. I remember going to the casino that doesn't serve alcohol. Lights were flashing bells ringing and I was stoned. I hadn't been stoned in quite awhile. I won $15.25. I came in with $5 and left with $20.25. I don't think I have the gambling gene. I left high with my money watching the cocktail waitress deliver cokes and sprites.

Unto These Hills is about the U.S. government sanctioned Cherokee removal from the area to Oklahoma, also known as the Trail Of Tears. The production that I was involved in was a new one. One that broke stride from the previous, from what I was told. A lot of people didn't like the new one. I had no point of reference. I had never seen the old one. I would see people in Leon and his fiance Natalie's coffee shop that would talk fondly about the last year and not so fondly about this year. I hung out at the coffee shop, hiked, read and tried to find enjoyment in a place filled with fast food restaurants and souvenir shops. A friend of mine says it looks like International Drive in the mountains. He was referring to the touristy strip heading towards the theme parks in Orlando.

Dr. Matt was an ally I had there. He also played a soldier. He was researching his dissertation for UNC-Chapel Hill. He asked if I had ever seen Herzog's Stroszek. I told him I had VHS pirated copy for years. Matt told me the final scene was in Cherokee. I watched it again when I came back from Cherokee. It's a very tragic episode. Leon told me they used real Cherokee cops for the filming. He said some are still cops here. I got a $140 ticket a couple of days before I left. I still say I wasn't even speeding, but I was in a place that has been hit hard by the white man and now the imperial force of McDonald's, Taco Bell etc. have a comfortable grip on the community. I've heard plenty of people say oh the people that live on the reservation and get plenty of money from the casino's. I know that the amount they get is negligible when your employment opportunities are mostly minimum wage or near there.

It seemed like the critics of the play wanted something more entertaining, which I thought sort of whitewashed the history. Leon told me they're like most of America they want to be entertained, but they do take this history very seriously. Leon told me that some Cherokee's won't use $20 bills because Andrew Jackson's picture is on the bill. He was the man who sent them walking west in horrible conditions, all ages, the healthy the unhealthy. Many died of diseases, exposure, malnourishment and on and on. I've worked as a substitute teacher. I've never seen this addressed in the history books that I've seen in classes. Then again how do you really address history and get the feel of pain, context, nuance or whatever you're trying to convey?

Sorry to return to pop culture of the 60's, the 1960's, but I was just watching a series on PBS about sixties music. They kept showing clips of the bands playing in the sixties and then finishing the segment with a reunion shot of old men in dodgy haircuts that emphasized their age by refusing to let go of something that was romanticized and should now just go away. Revival bands, productions that play the pain down, they employ people. People need to make a living.

Have you seen Stroszek? It's about a foreigner in search of the American dream. It ends in Cherokee.

To The Best Of My Recollection

2008-03-05T21:23:00.003-05:00

The way I remember it, I first heard heard I Won't Get Fooled Again by the Who when I was in the eight grade. I also fell in love with Led Zepplin after hearing a new song called Black Dog. I bought the 45, then the album Led Zepplin IV. It's funny how there is still power in those songs when I hear them. I think it's more than nostalgia. I've always felt that I wasn't such a sucker for the sentimentality of the past, but I am a romantic, there does seem to be some conflict. I'll admit to listening to Lou Reed's A Perfect Day thinking back on a day that seemed perfect with a woman that I felt like I like was in love with, but now her memory isn't as clear the song lyrics. I said for years that I Won't Get Fooled Again should be blasting at my funeral. I've also requested second rate comics and dubious parlor tricks. I won't know what's going on, so have at it.

I guess I am a sucker for the sentimental and the nostalgic. I still love what I think of as classic rock. I just love it when I hear something that digs deeper than the standard commercially represented standard fare. I love to hear a Hendrix song that makes me think back to my dig for more than what all the other kids were listening to, the lesser known pieces. I was the only kid I remember who tried to find value in Yoko Ono after the Beatles split. She was very unpopular at the time in populist circles. My search led me to John Cage, Stockhausen, Fluxus, Zen Buddhism, contemporary art and an eventual reexamination of Yoko as an artist.

Sunday I rode my bike over to the Orlando Museum Of Art with Jane. We went to see the Norman Rockwell exhibit. I'm a freelancer at the museum and have been resistant to Rockwell. Lately I've given him a more thorough look, Jane and I listened to the long lecture by a distinguished expert, I think that's how she was introduced, along with educational credentials. The lecture was mostly anecdotal, but gave some insight to a man who was apparently more thoughtful than I thought. He was an active participant in the civil rights movement. There are some very moving works on display, there are plenty of others that strike me as the Americana that I think seems more wishful than actual.

After the lecture that was more accommodating in content than length, Jane and I may have been a little hasty in passing through the exhibit, we were hungry. We rode to my house and ate a late lunch. It was a nice day. I took a break from my cynicism and thought who cares if I'm sentimental, nostalgic or whatever.

Dilated

2008-03-05T20:54:00.002-05:00

It's been almost two months since my monumental birthday, but life doesn't seem all that monumental. I spent several hours with dilated pupils today. I had my eyes checked, while my friend David waited around for me and then drove me to Stardust, the local coffee shop, video store, restaurant and now bar. Stardust still has a huge selection of hard to find films and some rare beers too. As I waited for my pupils to recover I drank a Belgian ale. I think it was Belgian. It tasted like that part of the world. I don't remember the name. My vision was still a little foggy and I didn't recognize some people that recognized me. I'm also a little more reclusive than I used to be. I'm not sure what kind of alibi that is.

I'm supposed to get new reading glasses and the doctor asked me if I want some distance glasses. I asked. Do I need them? He said maybe for long night drives and at the theater. Did he say theater? Yes. Does he say that to everyone? It seemed odd. He said your insurance pays for two pairs. I said, yeh I'll take the theater glasses too. He said, you might not need them very often, your right eye is still 20/20, your left is 20/25.

My eyes are clear now. Its been about seven hours since the dilation. I'm craving another Belgian beer or something that tastes Belgian.