By The Dream Power of The Truth Beast

...wash our hands, wash our face...and we glide right in....

Ceiling fans, stained glass, grey short-shorts, fourball fanzine t-shirt, hair in a bun, fine china, blue-backed fold-out chairs and three six-foot tables plopped end-to-end (thanks Caitlin), linen napkins, silverware and candelabras... check.

Hi Tammy.

Throughout the two and a half years we've lived in this lil' carriage house we've often spoken of wanting to have an improptu 'sit down' dinner with our pals. Nothing fancy. No special occasion necessary. Just a whole lotta people sitting around the living room/makeshift banquet hall stuffing their faces and shooting the breeze while crappy little dogs skip around begging for scraps. Some real ye olde tyme quality time.

These past few months have been an uncertain time for us. If the Immigration Dept. chooses not to renew Tammy's visa... her life here in the US will be thrown into chaos. Suddenly an illegal alien, she'll be allowed back into the US for a short duration to gather her things before being heave-ho'd back to England.

No more bad puppies, no more weird art & video projects, no more damp fall walks through Elysian Park and Angelino Heights. No more SFV junk shops. No more exploding garage. No more armory of Kit Kat bars in the fridge. No more driving in flippy-floppies or getting lost on the freeways. No more random road trips to nowhere wherever...

So about five weeks ago we abruptly decided to rustle a Sunday dinner just as Tammy was gearing up to return to the UK for her visa interview at the US Embassy in London. Why? To take the edge off.

Gathering our pals around was nice. Like, real nice. Seventeen heavy bros all just ploppin' by to pick up forks and blab their faces off into the wee hours of the night.

Butchy, back from back-to-back tours of Japan and Eastern Europe. Sweet hat.

Monick checkin' his future-phone. Glow of the LCD bouncing off his glasses. Classic.

Strawberries. Pineapple. Jello. Mint. Weird gold fabric. Ice cream.

Luis, Coco is the coolest.

Real.

Kundo... Just tellin' it like it is.

Hi Ashley. It was great to see you outside of NYC for once in ten years.

The following night we had Round #2. A veritable heap of leftovers and new additions. Sarah, Tammy and Shellzbot, thanks for helping to prepare and eat it all. (You each look very nice/psychotic in this photo, fyi).

Hi Luis, nice sweater.

Two days later Tammy returned to London to wait for word from the embassy. She's been gone five weeks. Arrives home this afternoon. Happy to report her visa has been renewed for three years. In the scheme of things this is what's known as "very good news". :)

Essentially the point of this brrrog post is this: There are sure to be hard times and happiness ahead. Given the human condition this will always be so. Life is a ceaseless series of ups and down, ins and outs, good times and bad... that is, until it finally ceases. So make new memories worth having. Tell your people you love them. Make it actionable. Gathering our friends together for dinner that night was an effort to let them know we appreciate them and love the life and community we share together.

Perhaps saying this is too obvious or redundant. But oh well. I type these words now as much to remind myself.

Tammy, you are in the air right now flying over the ocean. I pick you up in three hours. Pizza Party and Mia are very bored, smell bad, and want to be fed and walked. My love/hate for these bubbas is at an all-time high.

Tomorrow is Thanksgiving. Monick just called and says he's having dinner at his house with lots of pies, a turkey, and "Ben Hur" and "Sparticus" playing in rotation on the TV all day and night. You've arrived home just in time!

Happy Holiday Everybody!

AJC

*PS. Apologies if I sound like a robot jerk-beast in this post. I just realized I haven't had any coffee or food yet today. All this talk of life and photos of food is making me feel so hungry and weird.

party talk...

On July 17th, my friend Cory Murchy married his longtime sweetheart Annie Salditt in a fantastic garden ceremony at their home in Seattle, Washington.

The desire to blast a few photos from that special day has considerably plagued my mind for the past six weeks. Unfortunately, I've been working like a maniac bastard all summer and haven't had much opportunity for proper routine reporting on ye olde truth beast brrrog. Which is all rather ballz becuase it's been a doozy of a weird one these past few months.

Suffice it to say, despite a 4-hour delay at Chicago's O'Hare Airport that morning which caused me to miss the wedding vows...

Despite Tammy departing Los Angeles at 6AM to tough it out all alone at a Seattle ceremony where she knew hardly a soul (Asakawa, Eric & Erin, thanks for your help with that, btw)...

Despite the residual dust and grime of dorky Pitchfork Festival still crevassing my eyes, fingernails, and scalp...

Despite hundreds of foul air-travelers sporting flippy-floppys on the flight, (caressing bunyons while careening through the air at 500-mph, jockeying between reruns of Seinfeld and CNN's Anderson Cooper 360, insipidly sipping semi-chilled mini-bottles of the whitest white wine...thighs uncomfortably chaffing against stonewashed denim shants...cankles wagging, flippy-floppys flopping, dreadful bubbly toes writhing in absentminded ecstacy)...

Despite my showing up without a proper suit and tie... despite sneakers still covered in a fine powder of dust from Chicago's Union Park...

Despite receiving a gigantic Dodge Durango rental behemoth (when I'd requested "an econonmy sized car...")... Despite not undestanding how to turn it on (really, keyless ignition—why?)... despite not being able to get the wiper blades working in a downpour...

*[Side note: As I'm typing this it is 5:12AM post-FYF Fest; I'm wicked tired and gushing blood from a weirdly deep wound to my left index finger. This is what you get when you cut down zip-ties in the dark with the world's sharpest pair of fabric scissors].

Here's what I'm trying to say:

Despite arriving to the wedding in such disheveled and awkward condition, I wouldn't have missed it for all the world. Cliche as that phrase may be, (and it is indeed perhaps the cliche-est cliche), I sincerely mean it.

Cory and I have known each other twelve years now. 1999? Maybe longer? I don't really know. Sometimes life gets big and we've got too much going on in too many directions. Three months may go by in the bat of an eyelash. Sometimes it gets very, very small, confusing, and sad as all hell. The joy found in our frienship comes from simply being there for one another as the thought springs to mind, "I ought to call him". And when we do, our talks are always fun, insightful, and grounding. Light-hearted and hilarious but equally dead honest and deeply serious. Full-spectrum shooting the breeze.

Cory, I sincerely wish you and Annie all the laughter, love, and discovery this life has to offer.

Love & Strength,

AJC

 

"Ultimately the bond of all companionship, whether in marriage or in friendship, is conversation".

—Oscar Wilde

 

Agreed.

 

 

 

 

 

 

in a heartbeat...

A couple of months ago my dad came down to visit an old friend from his teen years way back in the 1950s. WOW! On the way home from Olivenhain we sprung Medieval Times on him. He was confused. Fair enough, Buena Park is totally not King Arthur's court. Not even close, which is exactly what makes it so awesome.

At turns, our time at the tournament was hilarious and entirely worthwhile, if only because it was so bizarrely corny and creepy. But I just gotta say I felt terrible for the horses. Particularly the sweet boo boo horse that had to do all that bullshit prancing around.

*REAL TALK: Honestly, what horse wants to bounce around on its hind legs while some long-haired fake olden times hessian whips its ass with a twig? Zero. None. Not even one horse wants to do that. Walking backwards and sideways... c'mon. So embarrassing. Really, people wanna see that? Dumb. And man, it made that poor horse so tired. Like, just exhausted. Rivers of hot white snot streaming from its nostrils. Foam flying from the mouth. Hind quarters shuddering from the strain of hopping around on those rear hooves. So dumb. Soooooooo excruciatingly dumb.

And the whole time an annoying announcer asshole wearing a headset blabbing about "the tradition of horse and master... blah blah blah...."

Fuck all that noise.

Bubbas should be freeeeeeeeeeeee!!!!!!!!!

 

a great place to live if you're an orange...

Divine math. The golden ratio. Inspired geometry.

Gnar-bros and bowl trolls schralped the Vans/Pro-Tec Pool Party in Orange, California this past Saturday. Sixteen-year old Pedro Barros won the Pro division with speed lines and huge airs on the hips and corner pockets. *[note the above frame]. The kid deserved it.

Per usual, Chris Miller destroyed everyone and took home his sixth Masters win. It is a joy to watch such a nice person blow so many minds year after year. Even in his mid-40s, Chris is still the perfect bowl skater. Unfortunately I didn't get any shots of him, I was too busy screaming and clapping like a child.

However, I did get a blurry shot of this huevos rancheros beauty pile at Anepalco's Mexican-Parisian Cafe:

I honestly believe it might be the best, most delicious plate of food in all of Orange County. Truly.

Hi Salman, good to see you. We pizza soon.

Rune Glifberg. So incredibly good.

Hi Phewwwwwl, congratulations on the office. Have fun in Spain.

 

 

 

Wow!

Saturday morning at 10AM, Mahtab dropped this beautiful 'vanilla bean rum cake with vanilla tinted glaze' from Immaculate Confections on our doorstep to say "thanks" for all the weird crap we did together in 2010.

Mahtab, you and Matt Goldman are two of the nicest people I know here in Los Angeles. And very, very classy. Thank you. 

Happy 2011,

Arlz

 

Parallax Views....

Goth gangster.

KING COBRA babes.

Baby bubba dog.

Viva Farley. *[nice tapestry, btw].

Blue goo, glasses, skullet and scarf.

Kbubba, (a/k/a Witch Wombs, a/k/a Tan & Well Rested, a/k/a Instant Classic).... Shredding. *[nice trenchcoat, btw].

Tammy, I'm sorry you're having to suffer Heathrow, British snow...

 

...and (perhaps worst of all) Handel's "Messiah." Stay warm! Home soon!

Makeshift mono-brows.

This.

Mood puzzles.

Wheels.

Monick.

Decimation.

Butchy, eyes closed and dreaming.

Actual reality.

 
 

aspects and modalities...

...in the morning it will all be different....

...and sure enough it was.

24 hrs in new york...

I spotted this hectic monstrosity on our way out of Stonington on Monday morning. A sunburst, I dunno, Firebird? Classy. It looks like a sunset morphing into arctic winter. A barbecued potato chip dipped in ranch dressing. A cotton swab covered in ear wax.

Goodbye Connecticut. Land of tennis, yachts, and contented wealthy people. Your vast array of cheeses, confusing shoppes, and charming oldy worldy Yankee architectural bullshit was much appreciated.

 Hello New York City. Land of mob-owned garbage trucks, American flags, and ominous warnings.

The Bronx. Whenever I see buildings this massive I just think to myself, "Wow, that's a lot of toilets." Like, that's it. Not one other thought goes through my head. All I see in my mind's eye is just cramped apartments full of flushing toilets.

That beautiful little blue tug boat is hauling a barge full of garbage. Perfect.

Not any more.

A pointless and losing battle. But I suppose they've gotta try.

Jamie McPhee. Mover, doer, shaker.

PJ Ransone. Occasional celebrated actor and urban vigilante, full-time worrier.

Their love.

Sassy boots. Who's boots?

Avena

Venus

Gallagher.

Avena Venus Gallagher, my oldest friend.

We met when we were both just 12 years old. Born two days before me. Argyle tights and ass-length jet black hair. As a kid she was a drill team maniac, a bookworm brainiac, and secretly a very sad goth.

Both raised in uniquely rough family circumstances, both quiet and nerdy, both bizarrely ready to get on with life. In hindsight I suppose it was only obvious we'd eventually gravitate toward one another. Weirdos can generally sniff out other weirdos. That's just the way it is.

Despite my attending seven elementary schools, two junior high schools, four high schools, and one university, we've always remained close. About a week after her high school graduation, Avena moved to New York City. Just—POOF!—gone. She's never looked back. Given what's awaiting her back home in Washington State I can't say I've ever questioned her decision. In the ensuing years she's fashioned herself into one of the most sought after and respected stylists in the New York fashion world. Good job! It could've turned out so much worse. Indeed for either one of us.

Through boyfriends and girlfriends, injuries, illnesses, deaths, births, rebirths, good jobs, bad jobs, no jobs, family drama, fun times, and unforgiveably bad outfits...we've remained close. Closer than close. Even if it's just to sit in the back hatch of the car, guzzle a cup of coffee, and shoot the breeze for 20 minutes on Mott St. before returning home to Los Angeles with Tammy. Entirely worth it. Avena, I love you very much.

Upon saying goodbye to AVG, Tam and I met up with the man, the legend—Nils Bernstein. Though he'd known of me since I was just 3-years old, we'd actually only met face-to-face when I was around 16. His best friend Tammy Watson was the younger sister of my mother's best friend. Which means, if you think really hard about it and don't get too confused, he knew everything about my early childhood before even I did. Mind warp.

When I was a teenager we met because Nils opened a record shop called 'Rebellious Jukebox' on Pine Street in Seattle. Turned out we had a few mutual friends in the NW punk and art scenes (Seattle's Fallout Records, COCA, The Monestary, and Tacoma's Community World Theater, Crescent Ballroom, Natasha's in Bremerton, VFW Halls, etc). When he figured out who I was, (or more significantly who my mom was), he had to breathe into a paper bag to offset an anxiety attack. He was well acquainted with her and knew very well the stories of my young life. After a year of knowing one another simply through punk shows and mutual friends, it came as quite a shock to us both. A deeper understanding, I suppose.

Eventually Rebellious Jukebox closed when Sub Pop asked him to run publicity for the label, (as he was already in his spare time overseeing coordination of Nirvana's fan mail). At one point I recall his entire living room floor covered in unopened fan letters. So much so it appeared to have snowed envelopes. People slipping around and throwing their backs out. He answered every single one.

After Rebellious Jukebox, the storefront soon became Righteous Rags, (with Kevin Willis' home and painting studio in back), and then it expanded to Bimbo's Bitchen Burrito Kitchen next door, and then it became the location of the original Cha Cha. Many, many years of my life were spent walking up and down that hell hole nightmare corridor between Capital Hill and downtown. We all lived upstairs, downstairs, across the street and around the corner. We were all idiots. Even those of us who weren't idiots. Idiots all.

Now it is a blacktopped parking lot. The entire building completely gone. It is now just a flat black slab. Idly waiting out the recession to one day become a massive condo project. A slab that tells nothing, shares nothing, gives away nothing.

After a few years at Sub Pop, Nils left Seattle to become head of publicity at Matador Records in New York. It was a prescient decision, for Nils has had a hand in delivering unto the world some of the most beloved albums of the past 20 years.

More than all that, Nils is a truly phenomenal cook. Naturally gifted. Capable of making, cooking, and serving upwards of a dozen dishes at a time. I've never seen anything like it. Had "grunge" and then "indie rock" not swooped him up he likely would've gone on to be a very successful caterer or restauranteur. (man, that's a corny word: "restauranteur").

*[Side note #1: If you happen to be reading this and are perhaps a producer on, say, The Food Network or Home & Garden Channel, you might be wise to create a traveling cooking show around Nils featuring artists and musicians from around the world. He'd host the show, select the recipes, and book the guests, and you'd rake in the advertisers. Everyone would have a nice time. Lee Renaldo and Kurt Vile could make cheeseburgers. Robert Pollard & Chan Marshall could show us how to enjoy beer battered catfish. Crap like that. Et cetera. Just sayin'.].

As well, he's insightful and funny as all hell. Just full of good ideas. Bursting with a lifetime of bizarre and wonderful stories.

*[Side Note #2: If you're reading this and you happen to be, say, a literary agent or book publisher, you'd be wise to snap up Nils to write his memoir now. It would be hysterically funny, poignant, and certainly much more accurate than the baloney that Charles Cross and Everett True continuously shovel off as documentation of the era]. Zzzzzz... what am I talking about? So boring. Sorry.

Anyway....

Starting tomorrow, we'll see Nils for the next four days in Las Vegas at Matador 21. Guaranteed to be a good time/a total pain in the ass for all involved. 

Los Angeles is very warm. It is good to finally be home, if only for 24 hours.

Life is full of twists, turns, and winking surprises.

 

 

 

release the magic...

The countdown began Friday night.



Saturday morning. Rituals and...

...preparations....



...were....



...made.



Suits donned, hair quaffed, names checked.

Tennis racquets for window jambs. Definitely. The New England tennis set in full effect.



Wool trousers. Very adorable. Generally I find male children exceedingly tedious and rather gross. This one was not so bad. He was nice. The world hasn't come to him yet. May it never. May it never. May it never.



Sparkle motion.



Here comes the bride.



This kid was awesome. She wasn't havin' any of it. All the pomp and circumstance just did not impress this one. Dorothy Parker reincarnate.



The weighty wait...

...is....



...over.









Yes, that IS Steve Gutenberg of "Three Men & A Baby" fame. What he's doing all the way out in Connecticut, I don't know.

The girls were in need of a guzzle, as you can probably imagine. It was hot as hell in that church.

Swedish. Raised in Switzerland. Semi-professional tennis player. Enjoys swimming and beer brewed by Trappist monks. Currently living in London buying and flipping high end real estate. Hopes to soon launch a business selling extremely expensive towels to the elites of the world. I'm absolutely certain it is all going to work out for him. In fact, I'm more certain of this than perhaps anything I've ever been certain of in my entire life.



Agreed.









Lovers in love. Alone at last.