slate

Slate sky, rainfall, warmth inside. Is there anything quite as satisfying as spending a dreary, rain-soaked morning in bed? No alarm, no schedule, no pressing obligations. To just mummify yourself in sheets and blankets, let yourself tumble into the lulling pattern of rainfall, and find a few moments of absolute contentment. It's ephemeral, of course, because it won't be long before alarms ring and Metrocards are swiped and subways clank and the noise of the city and the office dictates yet another day. The rigors of everyday life make those sporadic rainy mid-morning moments of equanimity precious.

I spent some of Saturday watching a couple of my latest DVD acquisitions. The first was By Brakhage: An Anthology, a superlative collection of short films from preeminent experimental filmmaker Stan Brakhage. This is highly recommened for those interested in the art of cinema and all of its strange and wonderful possibilities. The other DVD I tried to watch was The Phantom of Liberty(Le Fantôme de la liberté, 1974) by surrealist extraordinaire Luis Buñuel. I say I "tried" to watch it because I passed out on the couch quite early into the picture (from fatigue, not because of the film). I had seen it before while in film school, and was elated that it was released on the Criterion Collection last year. It's a darkly humorous free-form surrealist masterwork consisting of loosely connected vignettes. The film contains an abundance of the social and cultural satire and criticism one might expect from Buñuel. His disgust with the ruling class prevails. You must avail yourself of the dinner party sequence where people sit on lavatories around a dinner table and retire to a small, nearby room to eat. Yes, it is that weird and brilliant. For the Buñuel novice, start with That Obscure Object of Desire (also on Criterion), probably his most accessible film (though still surreal). For the Buñuel veteran, well, I hope you've seen L'Âge d'or by now...

And I implore Criterion (or Kino) to please put out The Exterminating Angel (El Ángel exterminador, 1962) on DVD. This is Buñuel's finest film - an indisputable masterpiece.

As I perused my DVD library last night, it was raining outside. And I realized that I still need to see Lina Wertmuller's The End of the World in Our Usual Bed in a Night Full of Rain. At the same time, I realized that it also needs a DVD release.

“The artist creates his own moral universe.” - Sheldon Flender, Bullets Over Broadway

No, Bullets Over Broadway might not be Woody Allen's best film, though it is not his worst. I do frequently abide by the quote, however. I am not going to launch into a dissertation of morality, ethics, or Kant's "Categorical Imperative." It does so happen, however, that an artist (a writer or otherwise) must accept, and occasionally withstand, the decisions of morality as it fits into the personal archetype. Got it? Great. If you have any questions about the Categorical Imperative, just grab a Kant book or two for this year's summer beach reading.

That said, I have taken on the position of "Freelance Editor" with the wonderful new publisher Another Sky Press. No, there was no moral quandary in this decision. I am excited to be a part of the organization at its fledgling stage, and to be involved with its evolution and impending success. As you will notice from their Press page, I will be helping out with some of their "top-secret new projects." I look forward to this new responsibility and relish the chance to exercise my editorial muscle. Simultaneously, I continue with my own freelance writing, as well as my Small World screenplay.

Create your own moral universe. Be your own hero. Tabula rasa.

sifting

Twelve years ago today Kurt Cobain killed himself, and a segment of Generation X lost the potent voice from a reluctant leader. We did not look to politicans or too many authority figures for a degree of guidance or inspiration. Perhaps some members of the next generation, those behind us, feel likewise, but it is now a vastly different social and cultural landscape, not only in the United States, but across the globe.

Gen X (once known as "baby busters") came of age in a time before the Internet, cell phones, iPods, and DVD. Information came from the television or newspapers, generally. We listened to records and cassettes for part of our lives, and used turntables and tape Walkmans. Movies were rented on VHS, but we remember Beta. Cable television was actually still inventive. Going to the movies was still a relatively inexpensive, enjoyable (and commercial free) experience. And radio was still relevant.

With the influx of MP3 players (particularly the iPod), satellite radio, digital cable music channels, and cable TV music video channels (excluding the drivel on the original MTV and the pointless VH1), AM/FM radio is becoming obsolete. In a way, it's a sad occurrence, because for decades radio was a fertile ground for music both new and old. But the manifestation of corporate monopolies and the homologous programming of mainstream radio (as well as the debilitated state of popular music) has led "terrestrial radio" to a crossroads that leads to its marginalization and insignificance. It does not exactly cause me to brim with joy to write this, as I worked for several years in radio, both college and commercial, and I enjoyed it.

College radio is still home to "avant-garde" ideas and music, but it, too, has lost much of its edge and audience. The glory has faded. When the "alternative" rose in the charts and topped national playlists in the early '90s, those weird college radio stations and quirky DJs at the lower end of the FM dial suddenly became elements of the mainstream, whether they liked it or not.

It was largely through college radio, as well as the Sunday night MTV video showcase "120 Minutes," that Kurt Cobain and Nirvana became a massive part of the pop culture mainstream. And when they burst out onto worldwide scene, they brought this new generation of "slackers" (ho-hum, what frivolous nomenclature) to the forefront of international consciousness. Gen X'ers were in college, or just out (by its narrowest definition, anyone born between 1965 and 1975 is an X'er). We were trying to get a foothold on our future. This latest generational entry in a constantly shifting culture, coupled with Douglas Coupland's milestone novel "Generation X," gave this segment of society an identity. Whether we agreed with it or not, well, we'd often shrug it off with sarcasm and a smirk. That's Gen X for you - frequently aloof, seditious, and disaffected.


Times change. The paradigm is altered, generations grow up, and even "sell out" (just look at the Boomers and the hippies). But we always maintain a distinct cultural stamp, and are remembered for certain sweeping ideologies. Much of what Gen X is and was perceived to be is on display in films like "Reality Bites," "Singles," "Clerks," "Before Sunrise," and (the appropriatley titled) "Slacker." It was reflected in our music, from lesser knowns like Dinosaur Jr., Bad Religion, and Ministry to phenomenons like Pearl Jam, Nine Inch Nails, and, of course, Nirvana.

And on the morning of April 8, 1994, the news came in from Seattle that Kurt's body had been found, shotgun at his side. I was living in Buffalo at the time, just a few weeks from my move to San Francisco. I turned on the television, and the spectacle was splashed across every network. I watched with a heavy heart, but I wasn't surprised. Kurt had been a troubled man with a host of physical (and mental) ailments, and he decided to put it to an end. Some might claim that he "took the easy way out" or "did not appreciate what he'd earned," but that is immaterial. Kurt was dead, and with his demise, a huge segment of Generation X lost a timorous voice.

It is specified on the home page of this blog that "Generation X survived." Of course we did, despite Douglas Coupland's declaration otherwise in the New York Times Magazine that "Generation X is dead" (I believe that he was simply tired of the hoopla surrounding the title of his extraordinary book). We moved on in our lives. In our pop culture, bands split up, other musicians died (Layne Staley of Alice in Chains, Dwayne Goettel of Skinny Puppy, Tupac, Shannon Hoon of Blind Melon, Eazy-E), movies seemed to get worse, DVD and MP3 became the standard, the Internet exploded. Gen X navigated these changes like anyone else, we adapted and assimilated. Hell, boatloads of X'ers probably own iPods and use cable modems and have extensive DVD libraries (it can't just be me).

Yes, Generation X survived. We matured into adulthood, and we are still a force to be reckoned with, no matter what the naysayers or contrarians might claim.

Twelve years gone, blown away down the dusty trails of time. But we're still here, Kurt. And your music still serves us well.

daylight

I know that much of what I post on this blog concerns the night, because it is then when I find I am more attuned to the world and myself. The daytime is, well, that by and large concerns the workplace. And there isn't often all too much exciting or sexy in discussing the office, unless I somehow discover a long-dormant fax machine fetish.

Sometimes I feel like a stranger in the daylight.

And yes, it is daylight right now - a Sunday afternoon as I type this and gaze out the front window at the sunshine day, a cool breeze across my unshaven face. I did remember to "spring forward." I found myself drifting off on the couch quite early last night. It was early for a night owl like me, at least. One minute the clock showed 1:00 and the next it was 3:00 and I summoned the energy to trudge to bed.

Friday night our merry assortment of friends, acquaintances, and miscreants gathered at one of our usual destinations on the Lower East Side for Brian's birthday. It was a relatively mellow evening of a few drinks and genial conversation. Of course, one highlight was Robert at a phony octave descanting the Queensrÿche song "En Force." How this musical tangent occurred I can't clearly recall. It's not like Queensrÿche is in regular rotation with any of us. But I found it hilarious, nonetheless. Yes, you had to be there.

So the night dwindled as people trickled out onto the streets. I was soon to follow. Shortly after three o'clock I hailed a cab and clambered in for the long ride uptown to the 59th Street Bridge. I happen to enjoy the solitude of a cab in the small hours. Tipsy, I observe the city of neon and night creatures just beyond the windows of movement, the surge through green lights and thinned traffic. I leave the nocturnal world behind in that last bottle, left in that twenty I slip to the driver, and I head toward slumber as the night draws toward its end.

I embrace the end of the night in sleep, but I smile to know that she will be back.