Panda Patrol

Chinese universities clearly do not teach their students enough about Panda teeth and Panda claws; only big Panda eyes and soft Panda fur. Enclosed: Yet another example of Panda propaganda. I find it fascinating how journalists can't avoid puffing panda pieces. My friends find my fascination equally fascinating. Ergo, I was pleased to discover this article forwarded to my Inbox three times this morning: PANDA ATTACK.

In short, a Chinese university student could not contain his desire to be near the cuddly creature as conveyed when he climbed into its cage seeking a warm embrace. Imprisoned panda Yangyang "(an affectionate name meaning 'sun')" did not reciprocate the tender feelings, most likely, because he was too busy feeling scared shitless. The good news, of course, is that no one died. The bad news, Pandas bite Chinese undergrads. The Great News, shaken Yangyang has gone about his somber and suffocating routine with unwavering ignorant bliss.

I imagine a course at some Chinese University called Pandas 101. Students share stories about their first encounters and draw adorable pictures. They visit the zoo often to keep a journal of panda habits and what it feels like to look at a Panda.

Today, Yangyang is eating a stick of bamboo and laying in a tiny pool of water. I think he's looking right at me. OH he is! Hi Yangyang. I wish I could crawl in there and we would snuggle in the sun, dreaming of our Chinese homeland. Oh dear, if I could just give you a Giant Panda Hug!

What is this power that turns Chinese intellects into drooling fools. I feel dumber and number each time I see one. For now, let's call this state of mind pandelusional.


Reading ~
Out Stealing Horses by Per Petterson. Book and Bars Book Club meets December 9th to discuss it @ Bryant Lake Bowl.

Listening ~
Nina Simone . . . Download Revolution and Do I Move You
Beny More . . . Download Babaratira and Encantado de la Vida


HAPPY THANKSGIVING:

Gnarls Barkley made me do it . . .

Wow . . . i love missing the hype and then stumbling on a seemingly endless supply of brilliant content. Gnarls Barkley are retarculous:

Who's Coming with Me?

September 16th: Cut Copy and The Presets @ Fine Line
September 24th: Xavier Rudd @ First Avenue
October 7th: Jamie Lidell and Janelle Monae @ Varsity Theater
October 10th: Cold War Kids @ Fine Line
November 3rd: Girl Talk @ First Avenue

Janelle Monae - Sincerely Jane:

#42.3 - Chris Garneau - Between the bars
by lablogotheque

Afterall, the overhead is low . . .

My roommate speaks French sometimes. Not to me (for the sake of not wasting his time), but to other people who speak French. Consequently, I often enjoy the company of Native Frenchmen and Women that he acquaints with. I have mastered a few phrases over the years: I am a pineapple, I am a little girl, I am tired, Sorry, I don't know, I don't speak French and the car is not working.

To mine and the rest of America's benefit, most of Kent's French friends speak English rather fluently. When they don't, I like to imagine I am a human thesaurus, spewing synonyms from the deepest wells of my mind. For this reason and many others, I was pleasantly surprised when Kent's French friend, Noemie, invited me to the Square Lake Music and Film Festival.

We met at 9:30 Saturday morning and biked approximately 35 miles from The Hub Bike Co-op to Square Lake outside of Stillwater. The event offered a 75% discount to bikers as incentive to take the scenic Gateway Trail that departs from the State Capital and lands right in the middle of cornfields and dude ranches. In short, a two day weekend excursion became the best rest and relaxation I've had all summer.

A Peace Coffee Bio-diesel Van kindly and deliberately delivered our camping equipment to a stranger's backyard. For the past seven years, this mini-fest has been ironicallly situated behind someone's house. A slight hill and wide ditch afford the perfect layout for a small stage and a storage barn displays short films periodically throughout the afternoon and evening.

Favorite Performers:
Ragassa
Black Blondie
Fort Wilson Riot
Happy Apple
Spaghetti Western String Co.

Favorite Short: "Flesh" by Victor Rukavina & Eric Carlson


Recent Purchase: Being John Malkovich . . . and so on . . .

Possibilities . . . Many

Everyday on my way to yoga I bike up 24th Street. Once I'm sure it is safe, I take a left on Colfax and continue down this residential street to "the parking lot where all things are possible." Here is a large empty space. A vacant parking lot seemingly deserted by mankind. Uneven cement and gravel left to bake and crack in the sun. From time to time, people decide to occupy the space. They play frisbee or rest against the vacuous red brick building at the lot's edge, but always with hesitance. You get the impression that something went terribly wrong long ago: environmental disrepair causing hazardous materials to leech up from the soil or a mass grave paved over and forgotten; to be rediscovered during archeological digs in the year 3029.

In "the parking lot where all things are possible" I get the same feeling I get in graveyards. Like I shouldn't be there by mandate of some higher moral authority despite my every inkling to celebrate the desolate and peaceful open space amid encroaching urbanity. And so, in the giant empty parking lot I bike in circles. I imagine what was, is and will be infinite positional, proprietary and developmental possibilities and how I play a role by simply two-wheeling through and thinking about it. My friend Morgan and I hope to sponsor a panda party there, but not sure how.

It could happen. After all, Cinderella is a crook. And I'm thinking about starting a comic because of this guy. More to come:

C.L.: Before there were cities, every human could see millions of stars every night, and no one had any idea what they were. The best guess people had was that different gods were spinning celestial spheres on a crazy axis. What do you think you would have thought stars were, if you lived so long ago that there was no science?

John Campbell: Most people didn’t think about that, they had to get a good night’s rest so they could kill something in the morning. Maybe some nice hunters let a guy with asthma stay behind in the cave and draw on the walls and think about stars, but you’d have to be a pretty lucky asthmatic guy for that to happen. What I am saying is sometimes someone with no marketable skills is allowed to draw silly pictures instead of having a real job. In this way, comics have worked the same throughout time.

Nuff Said

Cold War Kids new album due in September: Wow.

Don't take my word on this BUT . . .

you smell. It could just be the air or something in the room, I guess. Honestly, a blanket of stank happens to be hovering in and around your vicinity. I can't believe how long it's managed to hang in the air. You know that plastic bag from American Beauty? How it dances around in the wind? The odor is a lot like that, circulating between higher and lower pressure systems between your face and feet. I wonder if it's me. I vaguely remember putting on deodorant this morning, but that could have been a dream I had between snoozes. One of those dreams you get about morning rituals you could complete if only you were capable of pushing your body weight off the cozy mattress. Still, my intuition tells me you might have crapped your pants or stepped in dog shit. But don't take my word for it.

Best News Ever

To my pleasant surprise, the City Pages have informed me that Jamie Lidell will be performing at Varsity Theater on October 7th. This show falls only three days before the Cold War Kids performance at the Fine Line, promising to make Minneapolis the greatest place to be in the beginning of October.

In honor of this good news, I have attached the three part preview/video montage of Lidell's latest album "JIM." If my hero is Jamie Lidell and Jamie Lidell is JIM, then my hero is JIM.

Part 1



Part 2



Part 3

Nancy Reagan in the Ghetto

Perhaps the best thing about the 80's is that it is over:

http://derrickbostrom.com/bostrom/2008/07/01/things-i-should-throw-out-clippings-from-the-eighties/

Playing at the Lagoon:

Horizontal Symmetry . . . And so on.

About a year ago, I visited my friend's Cabin on the East Coast. I can't remember if it was in Maine, Vermont or New Hampshire. However, I can remember an inspiring thought that occurred to me in the middle of a glassy, still lake. It was night and the detail of tall pines diffused in the dark. All you could make out was the gradient between dense woods and open moonlit sky and space. The wind was slight and the water, iron flat, reflected the shoreline like a spitting image. And it occurred to me, there in that boat, how rare it is to see purely horizontal symmetry. Studies elicit the pleasure humans feel observing symmetrical aesthetics, but more often than not the kind of symmetry we encounter day-to-day is vertical. There in that boat I felt gracious for my world turned sideways and symmetrical.

I remember reading a Robert Frost poem called Neither Out Far Nor In Deep:

The people along the sand
All turn and look one way.
They turn their back on the land.
They look at the sea all day.

As long as it takes to pass
A ship keeps raising its hull;
The wetter ground like glass
Reflects a standing gull.

The land may vary more;
But wherever the truth may be---
The water comes ashore,
And the people look at the sea.

They cannot look out far.
They cannot look in deep.
But when was that ever a bar
To any watch they keep?


And . . . suddenly the poem doesn't seem so cynical. Granted, "aesthetics" are by-nature superficial, but they are just as based-in-reality as are you and I. To see an image reflected like that is a grounding experience because it begs the question, "What's real?" And so on.

Meanwhile, I stumbled on an peace-loving and aesthetically pleasing interview with John Lennon advocating non-violence. Sharing is caring:



Reading ~ Breakfast of Champions by Kurt Vonnegut

Hearing ~ "Goin up the Country" by Kitty, Daisy and Lewis

The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, mad to eat a whole Chipotle Fajita

As an unofficial member of the unofficial street team of Daptone Records, I am happy to announce the Singles Collection of funky-fresh soul music released June 3rd 2008 by none other than the Dap Crew of Brooklyn, New York. In addition, Sharon Jones and the Dap Kings have just released a vinyl recording of Kenny Roger's "Just Dropped In." My condition is utter bliss given the brilliant mind who decided to pair the cover with retro Soul Train footage:



Funk aside, I have sworn off Chipotle for the rest of summer since a bad experience with a delicious Fajita. For some time, I suspected peppers and hot salsa have been heating my internal organs and making hot yoga feel comparable to internal combustion. I have never been so literally, fuming mad at Chipotle. Yesterday, my theory was affirmed by a practitioner of Chinese Medicine: Score one for my trivializing of much more complex and intricate processes.

Finally, could someone explain why this video is so satisfying:

Funky Elf Folk

I'm not sure if she is a Keebler Elf and she doesn't glow like that one from LOTR; still, I am fairly certain Joanna Newsom is in fact an elf. Firstly, she sounds like one. Secondly, she looks like one. Thirdly, she plays a harp and sings of kings, beansprouts and balloons (all of which are fascinations of the elves). In support of her elfish heritage and Elves everywhere, "The Book of Right-On" will be my goddamn freedom song until I can get it out of my head:



"Shallow work is the work that I do."

Why I know YOU know I am right about Pandas?

Today I had yet another encounter with Panda Propaganda: an 80's ad for some stuffed panda puppet with hugging sleeves and panda hands. Even more terrifying, the boy modeling the panda puppet was a coworker who didn't know any better at that time.

For those of you unaware of the progression of my panda preoccupation. It began with a Frommer's Budget Travel Magazine article titled Cutest. Story. Ever. [Each Period Intended] The piece discussed opportunities to play with pandas in the same fashion you might swim with dolphins in Mexico. I felt warm and fuzzy inside(like a panda feels on the outside) until I turned the page and read a quote articulated and emphasized by someone who alleged an unlikely encounter: "Touching a panda felt like meeting a Unicorn". I could not believe my eyes. Who was this person that had done two things I will never do in my entire life. I became resentful, hopeful, intrigued and terrified in the very same instant.

Like some curse, I am reminded nearly every day of this experience via Panda Propaganda. What's more, YOU have tried to convince me that this is an obsession of mine and not of the modern world's. Still, I know YOU are wrong. Because when YOU told me I was wrong, we passed a panda on a sign on the street. Because when YOU didn't believe I could find a panda in that magazine, I did. Because YOU keep getting magazines inundated with Panda Propaganda. And because YOU try to prove me wrong, when YOU know I'm right. It's like YOU fear what might happen if YOU (like me) acknowledged how unnecessarily necessary Panda's are in popular culture/the world. Call me a Panda-file, a Panda-noid Schizophrenic. YOU are just lying to yourself YOU are more Giant a Liar than a Giant Panda. We're talking King-Kong Panda Liar.

Meanwhile, whom ever thought to combine kung-fu and pandas knows me intimately: http://www.kungfupanda.com/ Who else wants to see this movie? Or should I say who does not want to see this and why are you reading my blog?

Do I like Bjork?

Yes, I think I do. Bjork is like a resourceful grown woman-child prodigy. She doesn't hesitate to assault aggravating reporters. And most importantly, We share a common appreciation for Michel Gondry.

Example A:


* "Joga" by Bjork. Directed by Gondry

Example B:


* "It's Oh So Quiet" by Bjork. Directed by Jonze.

Example C:


Example D:


* "Declare Independence" by Bjork. Directed by Gondry.





Reading ~ "The Road" by Cormac McCarthy

He rose and stood tottering in that cold autistic dark with his arms outheld for balance while the vestibular calculations in his skull cranked out there reckonings. An old chronicle. To seek out the upright. No fall but preceded by a declination. He took marching steps into the nothingness, counting them against his return. Eyes closed, arms oaring. Upright to what? Something nameless in the night, lode or matrix. To which he and the stars were common satellite.

Easter 2008: Personal Bowling Record: 160 - Thank You Jesus.

Reading ~

The sea that calls all things unto her calls me, and I must embark.
For to stay, though the hours burn in the night, is to freeze and crystallize and be bound in a mould.
Fain would I take with me all that is here. But how shall I?
A voice cannot carry the tongue and the lips that give it wings. Alone must it seek the ether.
And alone and without his nest shall the eagle fly across the sun.

Kahlil Gibran - The Prophet . . . Like the Alchemist but less redundant and more Lebanese.


Meanwhile, just when I thought I was sick of Jazz, MPR plays a self-proclaimed jazz/electronic band named Cinematic Orchestra that deliver something as simple and visceral as Breathe:

prinzhorn dance school

You've got to give it to a duo that can accomplish this much with only a bass guitar and drum set.

Some people's kids . . .

'Bird boy' found in Russia

"In Cambodia a 27-year old wild woman was recently found. She lives in the jungles, walks nude and doesn’t understand human language. However, a local policeman acknowledged her as his daughter that got lost 18 years ago while at 8. In Africa a 10-year old boy was found among the pack of monkeys. In the USA 2 girls were brought up by a pack of monkeys. In Russia a 9-year old boy became a head of wild dogs’ tribe."

. . and all this has happened in the past two months.

Mi Composicion Muy Divertido

Un dia de primavera dos personas se enamoraron. La juventud del amor era fuerte y romantica. "Te quiero," dijo Paco mientras veia en los ojos de Lucia. Toda la vida aparecia fantastica, pero es importante que sepas que toda la vida no era fantastica. Paco vivia solo en apartamento numero cuarto para que pueda invitar chicas extranas a su cama. Este era facil con tal de que Lucia solamente quiera un coche nuevo, una casa grande y las vacaciones ricas en el Caribe. Todavia, Paco y Lucia se llevaban bien y les gustaba crecer juntos. El noviazgo occurio en una cita cuando Lucia salio con Paco a un restaurante caro. "Te quiero Lucia," dijo Paco "Me quedare contigo hasta que me muera." El matrimonio era magnifico. Y la luna de miel era bellisima, pero la realidad de sus relaciones era fea. Lucia no era feliz con tal de que sepa sobre las chicas extranas de Paco. Ella pensaba que el dinero, el coche, la casa y la vida buena hacian la felicidad. Era incorrecto. Ella compraba una pistola en caso de que vea una chica extrana. Lucia era loca con el amor. Un dia del invierno, Lucia se peleo con Paco. "Ojala que no slagas con una mas chica extrana. Pienso que te mate," dijo Lucia. Despues de eso, Paco tenia miedo. Un dia del verano, Paco encontro la pistola en la cocina. El necesito matar a Lucia antes de que Lucia lo mate. El mismo dia, Lucia se murio de la vejez.

Incredible Ingestables

Hunting a unicorn is much more difficult than you would ever imagine. I have been carrying and concealing a semi-automatic for many years and have yet to grill unicorn breast on my George Foreman. Most game-hunters prefer to prey on the common deer or elephant, but killing wild animals loses its luster. I prefer to hunt magical animals. Care to join me? If you aren't comfortable meeting a stranger with a semi-automatic, I understand. I learned that lesson the hard way; still, it is my belief that no one should miss the opportunity to slaughter a unicorn if they are given the opportunity. Here are a few tips to get started.

1. Find a Unicorn. When you do, let me know where and when. This may be the most difficult step because unicorns are very rare. Have you seen one?

2. Make Peace with the Unicorn. There is a long history of unicorn oppression. These creatures have been ridiculed and taunted for many years. Children's stories depict them as gay pony types that frolic about and fly people around. Indeed, the unicorn does look a bit gay but in the same way that leprechauns seem gay chasing rainbows and obsessing over riddles. Tell the unicorn it looks nice and incredibly heterosexual. More than anything, hunting unicorns is about love.

3. Trick the Unicorn. This may involve a lasso or bear trap. Plan ahead so that the unicorn doesn't suspect anything. They are very intuitive creatures that smell bullshit on your breath. A single false move could have you impaled on its colorful swirly magical horn.

4. Shoot it. Use golden bullets.

5. Spit on it. This is so degrading that any magical spells or curses will escape the humiliated unicorn's filthy stinking carcass.

6. Gut, Filet, and Feast. You are now ready to enjoy unicorn how God intended: marinated in its own juices and grilled. Goes well with minotaur hoof bruschetta. Don't forget to sell sugary unicorn horn to children with money.

Most Extreme

Extreme doors are opened and the epic battle between good and evil swings into colossal destructive action breaking jaws and cracking skulls. Power forces chain reactions and molten lightning rains up from the earth toward the sky. Demons and dragons stalk men like helpless mice writhing in traps, quivering in the cowardess of certain death fate explosion.

The funktastic magic mustard truck drove 20,000 kilometers swerving at sonic speeds and diving down chunky stone cliff side mountain roads with funky finesse. the highest winds in the world breathing down the back of Death Eater Peter the Supernova Navigator and making his microscopic hairs raise. "Saddlebag turbo teeter and tumble time sweeps this planet faster than a galactic solar blast blazing lightyears away and colliding with infinte possibility potential. Shit, we need gas!" says Pete. Rita Frida Pork Monkey Sunflower Punk counts the stars and pinpoints a BP 13 kilometers away. "We'll never make it Supernova Navigator!" The gas light fails and the future is fleeting. "When the nightfalls and doom welts my soul with a fishhook and copper wire i cry conquered kingdom moat tear drops and wail deep dinosaur extinction sob story sounds like Pickakwehh Pow Wew Wehhh!"