Wednesday, April 29, 2009

Bonsia and the Art of Fear Mongering

Last weekend Trish and I went to the CARD Center for the Chico Bonsai Society's annual exhibition. Bonsai is an ancient art-form that involves intentionally keeping trees small. But this is a massively incomplete explanation of a practice that involves mind and spirit. To quote from a piece Trish wrote on the subject of Bonsai: “A focused, contemplative grooming or creation of a Bonsai keeps the practitioner in the here and now; it is a meditation on, and integration with, the materials and the prospective result. Caring for a Bonsai piece requires the dedication and consistency of a religious acolyte, or at least that of an appreciative worshiper. To put ones' self into the miniature landscape, noting minute changes to the health and form of the plants, and the balance of composition, strips away both the outside world and the inner brain chatter; as is the aim of all successful meditations or prayer.”

As you might be able to tell, Trish is a Bonsai devotee. I'm not as knowledgeable as she, but I'll tell you what – those little trees are super cool! Seriously, there were perhaps a couple of dozen of these immaculately groomed, beautiful trees lined up in the CARD Center. We went on Saturday morning and the light filtering through the top of the wooden structure was just awesome. The Bonsai trees draw you in – you can't help but study the shape and structure of the trees. I am an admirer of nature – I suppose most of us our. But I have never really looked at a plant, in its totality, the way I looked at these trees. I've looked at the flowers, or the foliage, or the plant itself – but this was so incredible. These are genuine, mature trees – some of them 20, 30, even 40 years old. And yet, because of the diminutive size of the specimens, I was able to look at them completely. It is hard to describe – I felt like a bird, or a giant. I was able to see an entire, mature tree, from the top, or the side. We've all seen trees from below – that's how we are used to seeing them. So to see them from above and to really be able to examine the tree – it expanded my mind; it widened my perspective.

The trees pull you in and compel you to focus on the details; they are nothing but detail! After I had studied the various Bonsai trees I found myself studying the folds in the skin on my knuckles; the hairs, the scaly pouches of skin. I studied the seam in my cup of coffee and the crumbs that fell from my peanut-butter cookie to the threads and stitches that made-up the table-cloth below.

Oh the Humanity!

Later in the day I wound up in the grocery store studying the people in that place – Jesus, we are strange animals. It's hard for me to conceive that we weren't a creature that ambulated on all fours at some point during our evolution. We're barely able to properly stand upright today! Our arms are wrenched, our legs are bowed; we've got crows feet and hunched-backs. Even the most beautiful specimens amongst us are pocked with freckles, moles, and blemishes What encouraged us to walk upright like we do? We were made in God's image? Really? Maybe – in a Michael Keaton, Multiplicity kind of way; each generation has become more mangled, distorted, and discombobulated. If we are really made in God's image then she must have an awfully sore back by now.

What Would Jesus Think?

Oh yeah and by the way, here's a little shout out to the Zion Worship Center for going so far over the top in blatantly exploiting insecurity and paranoia to promote their church (business). Forget love, peace, and forgiveness, now it's all about fear of the apocalypse. Way to make Jesus proud!

Whatever – to each their own. I don't mean to pick on a particular religion; I just think using fear to promote anything is a cheap, low-handed tactic. If you have a church worth going to, explain why; why should I go to your church, as opposed to Joe's church down the street? Should I go because I am afraid? Or because your church has something to offer that Joe's doesn't?

Incidentally I had the exact same problem with an advertising campaign milk ran a few years back. The add showed x-rays of broken bones and played creepy music. The insinuation was that if we didn't drink milk, we would suffer broken bones and horrible pain. I think the mustaches on athletes was a better tact. State the positive things that could happen if we use your product – not the negatives that could befall us if we don't.

That's my two cents.

Madbob@madbob.com

Tuesday, April 21, 2009

Bubble Baths

There are equal parts of beauty and frustration wafting in through my office window right now. The jasmine is blooming; it has a thick and luscious perfume. My computer is acting up and I mashed on the “i” key so violently a moment ago that a mysterious window I have never seen before popped up from nowhere. It is difficult to concentrate on the beauty when the blood is boiling and coursing through one's veins.

All of the computers around me have turned slow. I don't know what it is. I don't know if the process of repetitive application has just made them seem slow, or if they have really bogged down under the weight of additional bookmarks, add-ons, and viruses. Regardless; they've all gone slow and this adds to my frustration. At points my life has been fluid, flowing, and radiant. Now it is bloated and pale. Last night I dreamed that I was fighting random groups of people, then running away from them. My legs felt as though they were asleep, or encased in clay; I could barely lift them off the ground. Still I plodded on, desperate, away. Then I would turn around, certain that my lame pace would leave me vulnerable and captive, almost looking forward to finally being caught, but there was no one in sight. I ended up face-down in mud and woke up screaming into my pillow: “I am so lonely! I am so lonely! I am so lonely!” The dog is barking at the top of his lungs and the dinner I prepared has sent us all running for the toilet, the check I deposited in the bank yesterday was gone before it landed, and I spend 8 hours a day locked in a small room listening to the radio.

I have been listening to a science program on the radio called “Radio Lab.” Actually I listen to it on the internet. Does anyone listen to live radio anymore? I do, in fact. KZFR is in the midst of their annual pledge-drive. I like KZFR because of the live DJ's. It is nice to know that, if you are really desperately lonely, you can pick up the phone and ask a live DJ to play a song they've never heard of, or if they have, that they wouldn't touch with a 10 foot pole. I saw the other day that Jeremey V is taking requests on the Point – but I know longer have access to a proper radio tuner. It's live on the internet or canned these days.

Radio Lab features a bunch of scientific vignettes. One scientist relates better to bugs than he does to people. He tells about how he often dreams of being an insect. In fact he says in one dream he was an insect telling the other insects how he sometimes dreams of being a human. Another scientist talks about how he relates to the element of Xenon because it is reluctant to combine with other elements. This particular scientist recalls being profoundly happy when he learned that a chemist had managed to combine Xenon with Fluoride – apparently one of the sluttier, or rather the most social, of all elements. That bitch will go ahead and combine with anything.

Today I listened to radio programs about phantom limbs, deadly mis-diagnoses, the Quaker idea of the perfect penitentiary, and the anthropological nature of morality. I listened to a disturbing, but nevertheless moving, examination of telling silences in the Bible. The narrator placed me in the point of view of the animals who were left off of Noah's Ark during the great flood; who were left to starve and drown while Noah herded their compatriots onto that square vessel two by two. When he raised up the gang-plank they could only watch and maybe wonder why this God who became infuriated with the humans he had created still found it okay to let the blameless animals also suffer for their sins. Noah would endure the flood only to become a grower of grapes, a distiller of spirits, and finally a mean-spirited drunkard. So much for happy endings. I don't understand the way people interpret the Bible. Certainly it can be twisted in such a way as to reflect God's love and purpose. But it can just as easily be manipulated to reflect God's cruelty and indifference. Ecclesiastes is seemingly devoted to this interpretation. Eat, drink, and be merry, for it matters not to God.

For my money the whole book is a ruse, an ironic joke, an ode to the chaos and whimsy of one of many universes expanding into space that never existed before it was created. A bubble bath is what the radio program said – we are all just floating on these ever-expanding bubbles in this ever-expanding bubble-bath. Call it what you will.

madbob@madbob.com

Three Fingers the Hard Way

Okay – I'm trying to get as much of this done as I can before I head down to Honky Tonk night at the Maltese. I am excited – I'm meant to be interviewing Three Fingers Whiskey tonight. Their latest CD, “Pleasure the Drinker,” is hot off the presses and they are going to be throwing their CD-release ho-down extravaganza at Duffy's on Friday the 24th. Three Fingers Whiskey are a rarity these days – a straight up country rock band. They're not new country, alt-country, or Americana – what they are is country. But you can read more about them in the interview.
In the mean-time there is a lot to write about and sometimes blasting it off in this short span of time with a definite start and stop point can be just the way to go about it – similar to tearing off a band aid or ripping out your itching stitches. It is best to slug hard off the bottle, get your head swimming, and then do it. It is not that it will be any less painful, hell, it will likely be more painful if you follow this approach. But the decision making period will be decidedly brief. It is my firm belief that we all fear pain a lot more than we should. Like Patrick Swayze quips in the movie Road House - “pain don't hurt.” Of course the cute doctor lady ends up smirking when she is injecting Novocaine into his wound and he grimaces. Theories are just theories. Life is for the living.

Easter Blows Up!

Easter weekend was a mash-up – Saturday I guzzled hand grenades, Mickey's Big Mouths, on the east bank of the Sacramento River a little bit north of the small town that is Los Molinos. Later I gazed into the dancing flames of a beautiful simmering bonfire. I saw good friends and made new friends in spite of myself. Easter is one of those bizarre holidays – quasi-religious, quasi-pagan, entirely alcoholic these days. It has really become a post-modern event. Thanks to Johnathan Troxler's terrific and terrifying paintings I will never get the image of the crucified Easter Bunny out of my head. That and the three stooges strumming the guitar in a manger for baby Jesus and Santa Claus. This is Troxler's older work – to me it doesn't point to any particular warp or hiccup in his character – instead it asks of us a simple and direct question: What kind of sick freaks are we? We go through life thinking this craziness is normal – going to church in the morning to celebrate the resurrection of a man who was nailed to a cross, and then spending the afternoon collecting colorful, dyed, hard-boiled eggs and gorging ourselves on chocolate and Pabst. On the 69th Day God looked around and said “What the fuck have I done?” Then he took a long nap and he hasn't awoken yet. Look out because when he does finally get out of bed the Big Guy is going to be pissed!

Fire sale at Cafe Coda!

There's a benefit show this weekend for Concow-based musician Garr1son. Garr1son has been recording his own brand of the creepy Concow blues forever but things turned grim when his recording studio and equipment was all destroyed in the fires last summer. The benefit is going to be held at Cafe Coda on Sunday, April 26th, and will feature a bevy of local musicians including the enigmatic Dan Cohen, the energetic Aubrey Debauchery and her Puke Boots, and the man of the day Garr1son himself. Just to add injury to injury though it turns out Garr1son recently busted both shoulders and as a result will have a stunt double filling in on guitar. Look out – it sounds like the curse of the drummers in Spinal Tap or some such thing.

This, that, up, down, right left. You say whiskey I say coffee – maybe a little of both. It doesn't take a long time to write a decent column. On the other hand – sometimes you can spend hours writing a piece of garbage. It once took me over a year to write one of the stupidest songs on Earth. It wasn't like I really spent a whole year on it – I just thought up this really dumb chorus and then took my own sweet time in building a song around it. Songs can be allowed to percolate that way – to simmer and stew until they are just the way they are going to be. It's a process like distillation but without the precautions regarding temperature, cleanliness and time. With a column there is no such luxury. The thing has to be started and finished in a whirlwind because goddammit we are capitalists and as capitalists we have deadlines that must be met!

madbob@madbob.com

Tuesday, April 7, 2009

The Cold Wind of Destiny

As I write this Easter is less than a week away and spring is in the air; but you wouldn't recognize that by looking out the window. Something ominous is blowing in – dark clouds are filling the evening skies and I can hear the wind starting to howl against the windows and through the bamboo.

Metal at Paradise Lost

The past weekend was a blur of parties and art gallery openings. Something about spring just brings out the creativity. On Friday night I stumbled upon an artist's reception at Paradise Lost on the corner of Park and 20th – next to the Flavor Falls Asian Buffet. The show featured a series of metal sculptures that were hung from the ceiling. There were rocket-ships, prehistoric looking metal fish with saw blades for teeth, and geometric shapes. The pieces were all constructed in such a way that the lights that were planted inside shone through the gaps and holes in the surface of the metal. The illuminated sculpture in the low-light of the opening were luminous. I talked to the artist briefly – his name is Doug and he is based in Paradise – and asked him where he found the time to work on his art. He told me “I quit my job!”

After fortifying myself with a couple of gin and tonics at the reception I continued on down the road towards a party in the avenues. Before I could make it though I ran into a few friends at Duffy's – and in a nook near their I got into a conversation with a fellow who told me that if I was thinking about raising chickens, be sure and get the kind that lay the blue eggs. I socked this piece of worthwhile information away and headed down the street – finally making it to the party. Kegs of Pabst were flowing and there were loads of people in attendance and a ton of bands. The flier said it started at 7:00 and I rolled in around 8; but everything was delayed. The final band didn't play until midnight, and by then people were pretty well lubricated and either having a good time, or a bad time, depending on the whims of alcohol and mood. The night got a little stupid: insults, shoving, some saliva, you know – the usual. But hell – I suppose that's the way those things go. Punk rock the old fashioned way – reminded me of a Guttermouth show.

Mosaics at Mims

Saturday was a much more civilized affair. I moseyed over to Mim's Bakery for another art reception. This evening, an incredibly talented mosaic artist, Sarah Campbell, was showing a pastry related series of mosaics. The pieces were detailed, gleaming, edible-looking recreations of cup-cakes and pastries; along with a marvelous rooster framed in red! Mim's was at full capacity – a lively crowd of art-appreciators, friends, and colleagues had come together to enjoy the fine food, sangria, and delectable assortment of cookies and appetizers that had been assembled for the occasion. The pieces were moving fast – but I was able to secure a commission on a set of three small squares with iconic images distorted under a bubble of glass staring back at me. I could not resist. Campbell's mosaics will continue to be on display for the next month; so art lovers, and lovers of baked goods, should make a point of getting over to Mim's for a taste of both!

By the time you read this I will be recovering from a Spring Solstice/Easter party taking place a few dozen miles from town. I've got a strange tradition of really kicking it up a notch for Easter. To properly celebrate a resurrection, you have to flirt with death... This world is crazy. You go cruising along for months floating on air – you can't do anything wrong. It feels like you are unstoppable, invincible; and you know in the back of your mind that it is going to come crashing down. But what can you do? Nothing. That's what. Not a damned thing. You just keep moving forward, knowing damn well that you are about to get punched in the face, or the gut, or kicked in the nads. And then it happens, and you're doubled over in pain, rolling around on the ground like a dog, and you think to yourself “goddammit! I knew that was going to happen!” There was nothing you could have done. There was nothing I could have done. Lately I feel like destiny has the upper hand. Isn't that the way of it though? When things are going great its all about free will – then when it turns to shit, well dammit – it's destiny.

madbob@madbob.com

Saturday, April 4, 2009

Boils in the Stream

You laugh? Delighted. My jests, gentlemen, are of course in bad taste, jerky, involved, lacking self-confidence. But of course that is because I do not respect myself. Can a man of perception respect himself at all?

Feodor Dostoevsky – Notes from the Underground

I've finally, at the age of 38 years, gotten around to reading some of Russian novelist Feodor Dostoevsky's writing, and I am thoroughly enjoying it. Thus far I have finished “The Double” - a disconcerting tale of a split personality, and am now just getting started on “Notes from the Underground.” The actual plots are almost irrelevant compared to the sheer beauty and imagery of Dostoevsky's language. He is just masterful.

I started to become interested in the writing of Dostoevsky through the work of American writer Henry Miller; whose ribald tales of self-indulgence and debauchery have always connected with my own somewhat sleazy sensibilities. Miller is prone to mad flights of flowing poetic linguistic exploration. It is easy to get lost in those ramblings and he creates more flavor and thought than explanation. Miller brings up Dostoevsky regularly in his stories; describing him and his characters as “mad Russians.”

This is an aspect of literature, art, and music – human expression I suppose – that I just love. Over the course of history one writer flows into the next; the result is an endless shimmering river of language and thought. I became interested in F. Scott Fitzgerald after learning that Hunter S. Thompson had taken the time to type out “The Great Gatsby” word for word just so he could experience the flow of Fitzgerald's writing style. I believe Thompson did the same with some of Hemingway's writing. On a more macabre note, Thompson visited the site where Ernest Hemingway ended his life with a gunshot – Thompson went on to take his own life in a similar fashion.

I learned about the ethereal, spiritual songs of Leonard Cohen through the lyrics of Kurt Cobain in “Penny Royal Tea” - 'give me, Leonard Cohen afterlife, so I, can sigh, eternally” - its a nearly perfect four line description. Kurt Cobain was my John Lennon, or maybe my Elvis. I remember the day of his death like it was yesterday. I was working at a nursery in San Diego and a snarky co-worker came by and made some snide remark about “Kurt Cobain blowing his brains out...” I was absolutely devastated by his suicide. I found an isolated corner of the nursery, dropped to a knew, and cried. That was in 1994. Jesus; has it really been 15 years? I haven't been able to listen to his music since that day.

That may change though. This Friday, Cafe Coda is hosting a Nirvana tribute night featuring a host of local musicians and bands playing their favorite Nirvana songs. I can't say enough good things about Cafe Coda. The venue is perfect for those more intimate, thoughtful acts. The staff is friendly, the kitchen is immaculate, and everyone I talk to tells me the food is excellent.

The Year of Music Continues

One of my resolutions this year has been to bring more music into our lives. I have been playing and listening to more music. That goal got a boost from my wife who bought me a new turn-table for my birthday a few weeks ago! I won't go into the details of the transaction – in this troubled economy I don't want to cast aspersions on a corporation's customer service. I will say I had to scalp pieces off of a non-functioning turn-table I had in the basement in order to get the dust cover on my “new” turn-table properly mounted and working. Also, we have to keep out eyes open for the 45 adapter that was mysteriously absent from this “brand-new” out of the box unit. But whatever – I am absolutely thrilled to have it and it has vastly extended out music collection. I forgot how much fun turn-tables are! The artwork is so big and colorful, the sound is warm, I even enjoy the pops and bobbles that the records make as they spin around. There is just something about laying that needle down on a spinning piece of vinyl – and somehow it makes music! Don't ask me – but I love it!

This winter we have spent more time sitting by our wood stove and listening to music than we have done over the course of the last 5 years combined! I am enjoying it so much more than the usual mind-numbing television that drones away with its urgency and its advertisements.

madbob@madbob.com