Pan’s Labyrinth

Pan’s Labyrinth

2012 The Return…

Hmmm, where’ve I heard this before?

Excerpt One

In the popular culture of our secular age, the gods, demigods, fairies, and gnomes of the old mythic realm have returned as extraterrestrials. Our mingled longing for and dread of contact with some unknown consciousness or superior alien race has been reflected in a century’s worth of books, films, television, and radio plays. I grew up on Star Trek, The Planet of the Apes, Star Wars, ET, and 2001, on Ursula K. Le Guin and Kurt Vonnegut and Stanislaw Lem—as an adolescent, I loved the Silver Surfer and Orson Welles’s The War of the Worlds. The pleasure of these artifacts was in the possibilities they threw out, like so many sparks. They returned the cosmos to a capacious state of “what-if?” that our mechanistic science seemed to deny. The exploration of fictional worlds is a kind of dreaming while awake; the complex ecosystem of the cultural imagination may also have a protective function. Through such stories, we absorb ideas in sidereal fashion, perhaps readying ourselves, on some subliminal level, for future shock of various stripes, before it arrives.

The Big Payback

James Brown is Dead. No, really.
L.A. style, I woke up on Xmas morning in sunny (Rave Central) L.A. to this on the news as I packed my bags for NYC. What Grinch stole the soul? Dang.
Years earlier, in 1991 we laughed on the dancefloor and wondered where we would be the day this tacky techno prediction came true.
Years before that, in 1976 on the other side of that hill where our old house was, “Get Up Off That Thing” was one of the first promo 45’s I had found dumpster-diving in KDAY.
Wore that motha out. Nothing was quite the same in my earhole after I put the needle on that record. And, how could it be? Indeed, Why should it be?
RIP, JB.

The Gift of Music

This is how we like to return to the office: to a stack of awaiting gifts, including a box from Eric at Forced Exposure with at least a dozen new releases (among them To Rococo Rot, Graham Massey, and Geoff White), another from Justin at Rephlektor, a check from Snax for helping with his PR, emails about interviews with Money Mark, Fujiya and Miyagi, and Yoko Ono, email greetings with MP3’s from Saint Etienne, Gus Gus and Ghostly, K7!, Rapster and Kompakt Records, and gifts from co-workers in NYC and Argentina.
Below, MP3 links to the some of the tracks.
Enjoy! I am!

LoveMachine by Supermax (Remix by Gus Gus)
Saint Etienne: Through the Winter
Ghostly – Snow Ogre by PostPrior

Air Traffic as Art (by Aaron Koblin)

"They’re Heeeeeeere…"

Or, as Pete Burns sang, “There is something in my house.”

I go away for a Xmas week in L.A. and to what do I come home? A broken lock. This put me, as it would any long distance holiday traveler, in a salty mood. Apparently, I wasn’t the only one feeling that way.

Terre tried, the super tried, and I tried fussing with the deadbolt. But the door would not budge. So, I spent the night at Terre’s. This morning, the landlady and her son were supposed to be here to fix it. But, they were also supposed to be here last Wednesday to fix the washer, so I was not holding my breath the day after Xmas. By mid-afternoon, I threatened to call a locksmith. The landlady insisted we use hers.

When he arrived, I explained the situation to him. He tried a few times and said, “There’s nothing wrong with this lock. This lock works fine. Something else is blocking this door.”
“That’s impossible,” I said, “I’m the only one with the key to the bottom lock, and those keys are actually in the apartment; and, that’s the only other lock on that door.”
“Well, it’s not the top lock. You sure no one else has the key?”
“Only the landlady, but she hasn’t been here in a while, and this happened in the middle of the night, so I doubt it was her.”
He took out a few tools, tried wedging the door open, then finally started ramming his shoulder against it. When that didn’t work, he took a few steps back and rushed the door, kicking it open.
We looked at the locks.

“See, it was the bottom lock that wasn’t totally engaged in the latch.”
“But, how could that be? It’s a deadbolt, and it doesn’t turn easily. It jams, so that’s why I don’t use it or give anyone a copy of that key. And, I always make sure when I lend mine out, to tell them not to use it for those reasons.”
He gave me a blank look and shook his head. “I don’t know what to tell ya, buddy. But, somebody tried locking that door.”

Terre stood behind him making suddenly eerie cheerleader “spirit” fingers. The night before I flew to L.A., Terre, Caro and Adam had been hanging out here while I was at the office Xmas party. When I got home, they told me that at one point, the lights were dimmed. And, while I was gone, Caro was spooked enough by footsteps to sleep in the living room and leave a night early. Previously, a frame picture in the bathroom came off the wall, though the nails still pointed straight up; and, a bottle of product had rocked on the ledge in the shower.
I glared at Terre, spooked, then turned back to the stocky swarthy locksmith.

“So, what do I owe you for kicking my door in?”
“Regular fee – $150.”
“Welcome back to NYC,” Terre chuckled.

As soon as I realized it was the bottom lock and my keys were inside, I got goosebumps. When the door finally flew open into the empty apartment, it felt as if a portal to a parallel dimension had swung open. For a second, I didn’t recognize the apartment. It felt strange. The hair on the back of my neck stood up.
Stepping inside, I began apologizing to and chastizing the house, looking for other clues and pranks. “I leave you alone for a few days, and this is how you behave?” It occurred to me that they were also responsible for fucking with my washing machine. And, here I thought we were all getting along so well.

When I told the landlady, she refused to believe my magically realistic version, opting for pseudo-schizophrenic paranoid delusions of persecution. “Somebody in the building is trying to fuck with me, I bet that’s what it is.” Well, she’s half-right. At one point, she got so heated, she threatened not to renew my “lease.” I got defensive yet remained logical and ultimately diffused the situation with humor.

“Look, I don’t care how it happened. It’s a good story, and if it costs me $150 to tell it, I’m gonna tell it every chance I get.”

Now, my thoughts and the work turn to “cleansing this house.” I Googled Poltergeist, and of course got a ton of links to creepy JonBenet, er, Heather O’Rourke fan sites and video tributes on YouTube (Amurikkka sho luvs its li’l gurls! But don’t get me started on a white flight slash exurban sprawl slash incest deconstruction of the flick.)

I also found info on how to make nice with one’s supernatural guests. Really, they’re worse than cats. At least they just pee on your favorite things when they’re salty.
Here, enjoy the clip to the truly brilliant, classic 80’s flick. Below that, the equally otherworldly Dead or Alive video.

As I proposed to the increasingly communicative and sentimental ex in a tangent, Could it be that I am also being haunted by a love that isn’t there? But, more on my L.A.-induced paternal pangs later.

For now, Wish me luck.

"They’re Heeeeeeere…"

Or, as Pete Burns sang, “There is something in my house.”

I go away for a Xmas week in L.A. and to what do I come home? A broken lock. This put me, as it would any long distance holiday traveler, in a salty mood. Apparently, I wasn’t the only one feeling that way.

Terre tried, the super tried, and I tried fussing with the deadbolt. But the door would not budge. So, I spent the night at Terre’s. This morning, the landlady and her son were supposed to be here to fix it. But, they were also supposed to be here last Wednesday to fix the washer, so I was not holding my breath the day after Xmas. By mid-afternoon, I threatened to call a locksmith. The landlady insisted we use hers.

When he arrived, I explained the situation to him. He tried a few times and said, “There’s nothing wrong with this lock. This lock works fine. Something else is blocking this door.”
“That’s impossible,” I said, “I’m the only one with the key to the bottom lock, and those keys are actually in the apartment; and, that’s the only other lock on that door.”
“Well, it’s not the top lock. You sure no one else has the key?”
“Only the landlady, but she hasn’t been here in a while, and this happened in the middle of the night, so I doubt it was her.”
He took out a few tools, tried wedging the door open, then finally started ramming his shoulder against it. When that didn’t work, he took a few steps back and rushed the door, kicking it open.
We looked at the locks.

“See, it was the bottom lock that wasn’t totally engaged in the latch.”
“But, how could that be? It’s a deadbolt, and it doesn’t turn easily. It jams, so that’s why I don’t use it or give anyone a copy of that key. And, I always make sure when I lend mine out, to tell them not to use it for those reasons.”
He gave me a blank look and shook his head. “I don’t know what to tell ya, buddy. But, somebody tried locking that door.”

Terre stood behind him making suddenly eerie cheerleader “spirit” fingers. The night before I flew to L.A., Terre, Caro and Adam had been hanging out here while I was at the office Xmas party. When I got home, they told me that at one point, the lights were dimmed. And, while I was gone, Caro was spooked enough by footsteps to sleep in the living room and leave a night early. Previously, a frame picture in the bathroom came off the wall, though the nails still pointed straight up; and, a bottle of product had rocked on the ledge in the shower.
I glared at Terre, spooked, then turned back to the stocky swarthy locksmith.

“So, what do I owe you for kicking my door in?”
“Regular fee – $150.”
“Welcome back to NYC,” Terre chuckled.

As soon as I realized it was the bottom lock and my keys were inside, I got goosebumps. When the door finally flew open into the empty apartment, it felt as if a portal to a parallel dimension had swung open. For a second, I didn’t recognize the apartment. It felt strange. The hair on the back of my neck stood up.
Stepping inside, I began apologizing to and chastizing the house, looking for other clues and pranks. “I leave you alone for a few days, and this is how you behave?” It occurred to me that they were also responsible for fucking with my washing machine. And, here I thought we were all getting along so well.

When I told the landlady, she refused to believe my magically realistic version, opting for pseudo-schizophrenic paranoid delusions of persecution. “Somebody in the building is trying to fuck with me, I bet that’s what it is.” Well, she’s half-right. At one point, she got so heated, she threatened not to renew my “lease.” I got defensive yet remained logical and ultimately diffused the situation with humor.

“Look, I don’t care how it happened. It’s a good story, and if it costs me $150 to tell it, I’m gonna tell it every chance I get.”

Now, my thoughts and the work turn to “cleansing this house.” I Googled Poltergeist, and of course got a ton of links to creepy JonBenet, er, Heather O’Rourke fan sites and video tributes on YouTube (Amurikkka sho luvs its li’l gurls! But don’t get me started on a white flight slash exurban sprawl slash incest deconstruction of the flick.)

I also found info on how to make nice with one’s supernatural guests. Really, they’re worse than cats. At least they just pee on your favorite things when they’re salty.
Here, enjoy the clip to the truly brilliant, classic 80’s flick. Below that, the equally otherworldly Dead or Alive video.

As I proposed to the increasingly communicative and sentimental ex in a tangent, Could it be that I am also being haunted by a love that isn’t there? But, more on my L.A.-induced paternal pangs later.

For now, Wish me luck.

Fujiya + Miyagi

.hov:hover{background-color:black}

Ankle Injuries (Fujiya and Miyagi)

Categories: Uncategorized