Stronger Loving World

A Cultural Criticism WeblogE-Mail Murdervision

Tuesday, November 25, 2003


Hi. I'm browsing through this wonderful new site I've found, a respository for "lost" comic book content, particuarly Morrison related. Some Invisibles artwork that was redrawn when the collections were put out are interesting - -some of the Ashley Wood panels that were scrapped for the collection are kind of provocative and weird-the feeling you wish Invisibles artwork was through the whole shebang. In any case, right now I'm reading The New Adventures of Hitler in its entirety. Early, pre-Doom Patrol Morrison. Had not yet worked out his surrealistic quirks and noxious sense of weirdness-this is unhinged, ambient, nonsensical stuff told through a mythological lense. It makes good reading, I think.

Thoughts: Blogging purely with text is lame. It's a riotously poor use of the medium to throw words up here every so often with nothing to connect it to-the bastards who divorce words from pictures, ungelling the logical and cerebral cohesion of Sumerian Cuniform, ought to be shocked to death with fountain pens. I'm going to try to turn this site onto a photoblog, because until then, this shit just don't do anything for me.

Sunday, November 09, 2003

MurderVision Relocates, Embalms Baby in its Trans-Semen Prison and Freewheels to Brooklyn

MurderVision is relocating to Brooklyn, NY, in often lambasted "A Tree Grew in" Williamsburg. My roommate has neither a "fauxhawk" or "dresses like he's from the 80s." In fact, all those people died a few months ago when T.A.T.U. appeared onstage performing media satire gay-funk at the MTV Awards and FischerSpooner imploded in on itself, taking everything north of Metropolitan Avenue with it. Sorry, fuckheads, if you want people to make fun of, there's still the Lower East Side, which is as lame as it ever was.

A list of things I'm going to try attend this month. More productive than mass e-mails, I guess. If you would like to attend any of these, e-mail me:

+Sunday November 9
@ The Culture Project
45 Bleecker Street @ Lafayette
212-253-7017 DJ Spooky and Synchronic Records
in conjunction with Mutiny Sounds Productions
invite you to a special preview screening of:

Mutiny: Asians Storm British Music
Directed by Vivek Bald
Produced by Claire Shanley and Vivek Bald

Doors open at 7:30pm
Screening at 8:00pm

+Sunday, Nov 9th:
War Games: Digital Gaming and The U.S. Military (Galapagos Art Space)
A multi-media presentation on the historical relationships between the video game industry and the U.S. military by Village Voice writer and New York Underground Film Festival director Ed Halter. Topics include gaming's military roots, how real wars have been depicted in commercial games, how the U.S. Military currently hopes to win new recruits through games like America's Army and Full Spectrum Warrior, and how contemporary artists invoke gaming's role in the new military-entertainment complex through game-related artworks.
(7pm $6)

+Saturday, Nov 15 Morr Music Tour feat. Ms. John Soda,
B. Fleischmann, Christian Kleine@ Tonic NYC


+November 21st and 22nd- Kaiju Big Battel,Warsaw, Brooklyn

-If you've heard about this thing and you're not bursting with intrigue or confusion, you're a bolder, more experienced man or woman than I. I am personally intrigued as fuck and would love to see ECW vs. Japanese cutesiness vs. NYC post-ironic kitsch vs. Bananas in Pajamas IN A STEEL CAGE.

Wednesday, November 05, 2003

The Revolution Will Not Be Analyzed

Praise J.Hoberman: He's written an enlightening review of the new Matrix film that hails its pyrotechnic grandeur and Biblical scope over its supposed metaphysical insights, and he's managed to do so without referencing one critical theorist! (P.S. If you are a film reviewer and you've used the phrases "Baudrillard he ain't" or "Desert of the Real" once in the past year, please dig your frontal lobes out with a spoon and flash back to the overpriced graduate school seminar from which you draw your context. Whoops, I forgot: there is no spoon. SO USE A FUCKING A FORK.)

Instead, he addresses the writer whose stylistic traces appear all over the science fiction and fantasy of the last 50 years, but who is not very often credited as such: my idol, William Burroughs

"There's a hint of Burroughsian grandeur to this cyborg-against-cyborg ballet mécanique and, at this point too, my notes began to resemble an undergraduate Burroughs imitation: BX cable squid spaghetti static electricity! Machine-gun machine-hell Armageddon!! Infernal orange and blue orgone-light tentacle vortex!!! This battle, which seems to last the better part of an hour, is absolutely gorgeous, even before Niobe's spaceship barrels into the force field of total abstraction."

Go team! Oh man, I'm going to have a giggly orgasm when I see this thing. I hope it ends with Zion actually being a simulation inside a pretentious graduate theory seminar! And Keanu Reaves will break his pencil after scratching his chin in contemplation with it. Then he'll try to sharpen it, but whoa: THERE IS NO PENCIL. ROLL CREDITS.

Actually, I was hoping they complete the anime-vibe of the giant, hulking robotech beasts lumbering in the previews and have Yu Gi Yo appear with children's cards or something. That would be something.

Sunday, November 02, 2003

We Don't Live Here Anymore

"What more can a Poor boy do?", Dock Bogg fills out in the most soulful, rhythmic cracker drawl I've ever heard-over a tightly strung, sharp banjo in "Sugar Baby", Dock Boggs is, as I so often explain him, the only folk singer to sound consistently like he was about to die from a crack overdose. It's obvious by the baby-like wah wahs in his brittle, southwestern voice that his teeth aren't all there, so when I listen to Boggs I instantly form a mythology of the man's mouth. He lost it in a bar brawl, he chewed on too much beef jerkey, he gnawed his mother to death for sleeping with his sister. It doesn't fucking matter. What matters is that when i listen to this music the story of a mouth, the story of a voice occurs-distant embodiment, an imagined parallel universe that soaks us in and drowns us like the muddy corpses of battered wives thrown into the Mississippi River. Or was that just a story? I can't tell with the man who wrote "Pretty Polly", a first person romantic tragedy about a psychopathic lover who leads his wife to a shallow grave he dug the previous night, then, after she has exhausted herself weeping in pure terror and heartbreak, buries her alive. Boggs shifts to the third person as the song drawls to a close and the murderer walks away, "He poured the dirt over her, then he began to go". Are we here, in the moment, killing eachother out of pathos and confusion, or are we all the ghosts in the background of our favorite songs, that omniscient musical narrator who manages to wail melodically despite the emotional intensity of the universe they inhabit. (The most frightening character in a campfire ghost story is, of course, always the subject, the narrator, the storyteller. Yes, a girl and her boyfriend were murdered by a man with a hook. But what is more frightening is that a storyteller, a ghost remained in the background of this drama to narrate it to us.) It helps when these stories of a tragically upended world are narrated by cultural heros, rogues, those romanticized conservative upkeepers of culture we call "cowboys".

There are no cowboys here.