fanmail

Dear George Herbert Dubya,

Hi George (is it okay if I call you that?). It’s me, Sarah.

You don’t know me but I know you. I’ve been watching you these last eight years and, my, how time has flown. It feels like only yesterday when I saw that plane crash into the second World Trade Center while getting ready for school then sat in first period while my 10th grade English teacher hysterically cried on the phone with her mother for two hours.

It was pretty lame that you accused your friend Bin Laden for the hijackings and that instead of finding him, you—for no reason—decided to invade Iraq, but I want you to know that I’m not mad anymore. I’m not even pissed about the whole “Mission Accomplished” banner after a week of ground patrol or the fact that you pronounce “nuclear” like Homer Simpson does.

Because now that it’s President Obama’s first week in office, I’m feeling positive about the general future of humanity enough to finally make peace (something you should look into) with all of your mistakes and I want you to know there are no hard feelings.

In fact—and I hate to say this—but it’s weird not having you around. You were the first president of my adult life (as they say, you never forget your first) and the attraction was immediate. Watching you speak in a public setting was like following Britney Spears and Kevin Federline’s courtship—knowing that the end result won’t be pretty, but damn it’s funny to watch.

Since November’s election, however, I’ve followed your pleas for a fair view of your administration—since leaving a “29%-approval-rating” legacy is of genuine concern—and listening to the uncharacteristically introspective moments and half-assed apologies at your final news conference last week have definitely helped in this forgiveness process.

I’m not sure who will reinforce my dislike for our government or how I will survive without all those fears of the apocolypse, but I will always remember your deer-in-headlights look, that creepy little chuckle you do when you know you’re wrong and how you angered a whole nation into voting Democratic.

Don’t worry about how history will look back on your time as President. Your legacy will live on in “Quote-A-Day” humor calendars, Photoshopped images comparing you to a monkey and rolls of toilet paper with your face on it.

You can always forgive, George, but—like 9/11—never forget.

Sincerely,
Sarah

sully’s soaring saved souls

If I was a guy, I can almost guarantee that at some point during my many sweeping depressions, I would lapse into a reoccurring fantasy where I’m welcomed home from a heroic triumph to a parade down Main Street, USA. Children will be celebrating with streamers and confetti poppers and some form of the military would be doing a demonstration to assert the legitimacy of my act. The mayor would speak from a gazebo in the park downtown (that looks like the Gilmore Girls set) and the president of the high school glee club would sing the national anthem. Everyone would be holding clever signs and I would wave to every smiling face that’s chanting my name. Sometimes, it would less like Main Street and more like Anytown, but always, everyone would be chanting. It is such an ego-boosting dream to be a hometown hero; filling our quinticentially American need for social acceptance while finally giving all those years of underpaid tireless labor a slightly better emotional payoff.
Anyway, I’m not a guy (I guess the girl-quivelant would be the fantasy of being a princess of some sort in a castle of another sort, trapped—the damsel in distress), but I think I can safely say that this kind of shit never happens. No one parades their beauty queens and crimefighters down the streets anymore. These are images. The only reason I know that this is even plausible is because I’ve seen them played out in John Cusak movies and on TV and this is more what I assume depressed fifteen year-old virgins dream about (but with more Victoria’s Secret catalog models) than what actually ever happens.

And with all this skepticism and American Dream bullshit fantasies swirling around in my head from watching the Family Guy episode where Quagmire gets a key to the city after giving CPR to a woman he was spying on in the dressing room and Peter is proclaimed a “local hero” for saving someone from a burning building, I come across the story of “hero pilot” Chelsey B. Sullenberger, III.

A week and a half ago, Sully—as he is affectionately known—landed a US Airways passenger plane into the Hudson River after both engines were disabled by a run-in with a flock of birds. Captain Sully had less than two minutes to decide what to do, but his 40 years of flying experience and quick thinking saved the lives of all 155 on board.

Yesterday, Sully returned home to Danville, California and received the exact kind of cliché welcome that every John Cusak movie has had me thinking men dream about. According to the L.A. Times article, Saturday’s homecoming festivities were attended by a “cheering crowd of thousands” and featured an “outdoor ceremony replete with brass and marching bands, bagpipes, plaques and proclamations, and a slew of speeches by local officials.” A retired fighter pilot in a P-51 Mustang flew overheard and children waved American flags and held alliterated signs.

It was everything I envisioned could never happen and more. Yesterday, Sully, you lived the fucking dream. Even though everything else written about you discusses your modesty, I bet your ego is bigger than that plane you successfully landed because for this moment—in your little town of Danville—you are the man.
So enjoy your recognition (and that bonus on your next paycheck) because you’ve achieved the impossible ideal and are living the dream. Don’t try to think about how much everyone would have hated you if your emergency landing on an icy river killed everyone, just relish in the fact that it didn’t and know that every other teen movie-nerdy guy wishes he could be you right now.

compton crime down

The Compton that N.W.A., Dr. Dre and Snoop Dogg made famous is apparently no more as homocide rates in the infamous L.A. enclave are half of what they were two years ago and only a third of what they were 10 years ago. There are a lot of factors that have gone into the increased feeling of safety bubbling through the community (L.A. County Sherrif presence, influx of nationally franchised businesses, increased gang and patrol forces), but the one that has been the most beneficial is the city’s general sense of pride. In an article on the front page of the L.A. Times California section yesterday, Scott Gold discussed the numerical data and human-interest facets to Compton’s upward mobility story. Accompanied by several uplifitng photos of citizens rejoicing in church and children getting homework help, the story discussed the raise in morale and community confidence in Compton, admitting that while there is still a long way to go, the formerly dangerous territory has finally made its residents feel safe. People are walking their dogs, children are attending after school programs (testing better, too) and every day–mostly–is a good day (without A.K’s).

R.I.P. the era of Friday and coastal hip hop rivalries

Nevermind the cities that all your gang members are swarming into and ravaging like they did yours (we’ll check with Vegas, Riverside and Bakersfield in a few years), you’re well on your way to beating out Brick Township, New Jersey for safest city in the country. Congratulations Compton! Ha-ROO!

lydiawesome (Jan. 20, 2009 9:04:54 AM): It’s official now! Black president! He’s about to speak.

shenanigans on black history month

If today is a national holiday dedicated to Martin Luther King Jr. and tomorrow is Obama’s inauguration (probably soon-to-be Barack Obama Day), then why the hell are we wasting our time keeping February as Black History Month?

Black History Month started in 1926 as “Negro History Week,” a celebration of advancements placed in the first week of February because of both Lincoln and Fredrick Douglass’ birthdays. Despite the obvious irony in rejoicing black history when drinking fountains would be separated for another 40 years, the month chosen is flawed in several ways. Firstly, who the fuck is Fredrick Douglass now? Yes, he was an abolishinist who spread the word of equality for all and–as the first African-American to be elected a Vice Presidential candidate (1872)–is undoubtedly a historically important predecessor to Obama, who is he to Americans today? We might learn the name Fredrick Douglass while studying American history, but his image is far less inspirational to modern African-Americans than, say, Rosa Parks or Tupac. This is because we can’t handle what really happened on a case-by-case basis so we need to idolize personalities that represent the movement, embody the idea and whose very image speaks about the cause. No one is airbrushing Douglass’ likeness on the backs of their denim jackets, but tomorrow morning, I guarantee I will see Obama t-shirts on the Blue Line.

So if we’re all about creating a hyper reality of the Civil Rights Movement and dumbing down the facts to entice more interest, wouldn’t it be best to alter our declaration of the most “important” month to the plight of black Americans to something a little more modern? With Fredrick Douglass’ legacy subsequently picked up by more-identifiable figures with birthdays in other months–and Lincoln’s birthday linked up with Washington’s to make the very un-black history-esque Presidents Day–February is irrelevant to black history and the possibilities for a new designated commemorative time period are endless. We could take into consideration other important events in black history: The Civil Rights act of 1875 was signed in March (also the month Notorious B.I.G. was murdered), the Civil Rights Act of 1964 was enacted in July and Obama’s birthday is in August.

Or–and I know this is a huge stretch–but why don’t we just always remember the history of a people we took away from their continent, sold, raped and forced into slavery only to sort-of let them be free but not really because of ignorance and fear for another hundred years until we finally said you can’t discriminate on the basis of skin color but now we’re so culturally alienated from each other that we have to set times aside where we can ponder on the horror we hath wrought with smiles on our faces?

Yeah didn’t think so.

NO MORE INDEPENDENT RADIO IN LOS ANGELES

Yesterday, 103.1 FM was the home to Los Angeles’ hope for independent radio, but today, it’s El Gato, a spanish-language music and talk station whose takeover of a popular English-speaking one is a sign of the city’s increasingly important “Latino market.” When Indie 103.1 started in 2002, I was but a wee high schooler from the San Fernando Valley listening to Brighteyes and Saves the Day. Although the lackluster reception range of the station’s broadcast prevented me from receiving the sweet sounds of an underground revolution on the other side of the Santa Monica Mountains, it did not stop the rumors that there was finally something on the radio worth listening to.When I did finally break free of the suffocating suburban regression, I found that Clear Channel–a corporate powerhouse that holds no interest but their own–was running a music broadcast with such unconventional DJs as Joe Escalante, Dave Navarro, Henry Rollins and Steve Jones spinning tunes from The Buzzcocks to Elliot Smith to Prince.

So I—like other fellow Angelenos—enjoyed the nice change of pace, but with it came the awareness of the money and forces behind it and the knowledge that nothing is really independent or underground if its very existence was built  with the benefits of Clear Channel’s capitalistic gain.

Yes, Indie 103.1 was the Diet Coke of underground (just one calorie, not independent enough), but it sure as fuck beat Limp Bizkit block parties on KROQ and Fall Out Boy singles on KIIS. Their all-local Sunday program helped local bands like Cold War Kids, Silversun Pickups and Darker My Love get some airtime and the concerts they sponsored gave independent music listeners a reason to get their asses to Hollywood. It helped bring the Eastside music scene into a national spotlight (The Happy Hollows, Henry Clay People) and–although the layout slowly slid out of touch–it proved that there is definitely a market of listeners who are into the college-radio format.

Indie 103.1 officially signed off at 10AM Thursday, playing both the Frank Sinatra and Sid Vicious versions of “On My Way,” before launching into a loop of Clash and Black Flag songs interspersed with the message that “due to changes in the music industry and how ratings are calculated,” they are being forced to go completely online. Basically faced with the decision to turn into “one of them,” or go off the air, the station held to its last sliver of integrity and ceded. While I respect them for holding to their independent ideals and refusing to play more “Britney and Puffy” (what is this 1999?), I wish that they had put their foot down before the whole thing started and not played so much Soundgarden and Oasis. Give ‘em an inch and they’ll take a mile.

Regardless of pretentious definitions of “underground.” “alternative” and “independent,” Indie 103.1 did a shitton to help Los Angeles local music and it’s a damn shame to see it forced off the air. The Ataris were right: the radio still sucks.

mmm…beer

In a case that highlights the need for all possible information before writing a news story, I found this brief (thanks Ellen!) about how a man in central California sold his 14 year-old daughter to some guy for 100 cases of beer and several cases of meat. At first read, it’s laughable, disgusting and simultaneously sad. The only reason the authorities found out about the deal was because the other man didn’t provide the beer and the father went to the authorities to get his daughter back. So at first glance, it looks like a pure case of ignorance like that time on Cops when the car gets flagged down by some barefoot crackhead who demands that the officer help get her $20 back from the woman yonder who took her money without giving her drugs (both women were immediately arrested–duh).

But then I searched deeper and found out that CNN actually made some fucking phone calls and the case is much more peculiar than some white trash guy fiending for booze. In fact, it doesn’t seem so bad when you realize that everyone involved in the transaction is from Oaxaca, Mexico where giving your daughter’s hand in marriage is totally worthy of “$16,000, 160 cases of beer, 100 cases of soda, 50 cases of Gatorade, two cases of wine, and six cases of meat.” It’s not an issue of neglect, but of cultural differences brought about by the influx of immigrants to the central part of our state.

Not that I think that our laws should be changed (or not upheld) in the name of cutural freedom, but there is definitely a gross misunderstanding when it comes to the customs and traditions of our neighbors. Where we think that the father in this case is sick or demented, he is just doing what every father from his town does with his uneducated 14 year-old daughter: taking a dowry and getting the fuck rid of her.

We’re probably the sick ones for torturing ourselves with candlelit dinners and text message breakups when we could’ve been halfway through our 25th case of Gatorade by Christmas, you know?

copycat part deux

In a fruitless search for rugged winter wear for my mountain man, I ended up at 5 Urban Outfitters in three states (don’t ask) and it seems that the further south you go, the worse the selection of t-shirts for poseurs. Well, a good selection if you’re lame but a bad selection if you actually need a shirt that won’t get your ass kicked (like the Urkel “Whoa Momma” cami). Anyway, from the depths of the men’s graphic tees section came a familiar face staring back at me: good ol’ L’il Crazy Legs circa 1984. But instead of being on the front of my super sleek business card (which was made almost a year ago), he’s been defaced, pixelated and splattered with orange neon so that instead of being an original member of the Rock Steady Crew and helping to spread early hip-hop to Europe and beyond, he is reduced to a silkscreened image on a cheap white shirt, overpriced and sold on shelves; a hyper-real icon of the era he represents.

Now that’s funky fresh!!!!!!!

brimstone

If you genuinely fear the apocolypse, then those fires a few months ago must have really made you piss your pants. For me, I was inspired to buy a futon off a French immigrant who was here selling wines (which I also bought). But I didn’t miss the eerie ball of smoke that had a definite end, beginning and middle. It sat to the northeast of me and I couldn’t resist trying to capture its full intensity by doing a very-touristy 360 degree panorama shot of the scene (click to make larger). On one side is the looming reddish-brown dust (which reminded me of Hexum the evil, tree-cutting pollution smoke from Ferngully) and on the other is beautiful, blue Long Beach skies. Later in the day, the scene was different as ash and pestilence rained down on my outdoor items, but until my cousin got evacuated from her apartment in Placentia, methinks it was the greatest fire season I have lived through.

I’m finally uploading some photos so fuck your timly news.

vacation over

So, I’ve been out of commission for a few weeks. Sleeping in until 3pm, drinking coffee at the Village Grind, hanging out with fixed gear smut and trying my best to get my projects done. I went to Portland, where the three feet of white covering all the former green lay so thick that electricity gave up trying to light the tree and we instead opened presents covered in Patagonia down with every “thank you” looking like a cigarette puff. Dinner was served in the next town over and the yams were candied with walnuts so delicious, I’m surprised I made it to the Drambuie. I got a camera that’s worth more than a month’s rent and found my muse in a moustache from the 80s. I’ve also been digging through storage spaces and cluttered garages, sorting and organizing and clipping tons, because–don’t freak out–the fakebadtaste (maga)zine is in the works. I’ve also just been wasting away on our green and cream floral couch, creating a sick ass-groove on the right cushion and taking advantage of our overpriced movie channels.

The following movies I have watched in the last week:

• Snoop Dogg’s Hood of Horror
• 28 Weeks Later
• Milk
• Better Off Dead
• High Fidelity
• Unaccompanied Minors
• Smiley
• Harold and Kumar Escape From Guantanamo Bay
• The Ten
• The Shape of Things
• Haggard
• Drop Dead Gorgeous
• Sex Games Cancun
• Thumbsucker
• and some movie with Steve Zahn playing the same doofy sidekick charcter that he always does and is somehow mistaken for a person in the position of some authority and in an attempt to disguise the truth, wacky, awkward situations ensue (but it wasn’t Happy, Texas)

So now that I have had my Paul Rudd (The Shape of Things and The Ten) and Rob Corrdry (Unaccompanied Minors, The Ten and Harold and Kumar) overload, I think I’m ready to re-enter reality.