The Limits of Control

Jim Jarmusch just released a movie woth Boris, SunnO))) and Earth doing the soundtrack. I know he made Ghost Dog and Dead Man but how cool is this guy?

czech it!

a couple of my friends and i are going on a bike tour around michigan and documenting abandoned industrial architecture. check out our updates sometime!

therustymitten blog

Party @ Anica

WARNING # 1:::
please mark your calenders as full for the date of June 26, 2009, for you will be attending a party at Anica Boutique hosted by RosenMunns and Light Vision Store...

we need your bodies at the space: 2418 polk st, in sf at 8pm, fri-fry night. and you must have buttons/pins in hand.

if you cannot make it, will u please send me some pins/buttons of yours through the mail? rules are there ain't no rules: send buttons reppin' your band, company, collective, website, or they can be your friends band, company, etc etc or something you found at a thrift store, doesn't matter, all that matters is your pins presence, that's what matters!

34" HDTV for a bike:

I'm on the prowl for a road bike brohems. If any of you know anyone who might be interested in trading a Philips 34" HDTV for a decent bike keep me posted. It's a beast of a television in ship shape. It sounds awesome too. No surround sound required. 

http://sfbay.craigslist.org/sfc/ele/1204478553.html

cover the Earth

I've been adding to my string piece at SF State. I've experimented with different knots to keep the thread taught and it's gotten much easier, almost a meditation. This is almost twice as much string as the pictures from before. My advisor Mario asked me to write and artist statement about it for my senior project and he's looking to keep it up permanently.

lazy!

oh dang...

our book went to press. eff yeah!!!

cover the Earth

My advisor let me string up some of my designs in the Artery at State. It's hard to make out in these pics but it's 135 yards of bookbinding thread

The Porkgasm

So I'm try'n this new diet I wanted to holler at you guys about. It's all pork n noth'n but pork. I need the protein. That, and badger milk. Bacon strips, bacon sausage, ham sausage, ham slices, smoked pork sausage and roasted pork belly surrounded by ground sausage shaped into a pig, wrapped in roasted bacon, and lastly garnished with chili ears and tail make up The Porkgasm.

peep thisiswhyyourefat.com

Sixty Feet

An 18-year-old has secretly painted a 60ft drawing of a phallus on the roof of his parents' £1million mansion in Berkshire. It was there for a year before his parents found out. They say he'll have to scrub it off when he gets back from travelling.

Art Walk in the Haight

Holla! Upper Haight is looking to start up an art walk the last Friday of every month. Buffalo Exchange is kicking it off next Friday the 27th and they're featuring some of my work in their show. It's gonna be super low-fi and they're hoping more businesses will catch on. Other artists include newfound bro Brian Haefling and Ariel Goldstein. Come peep it and make it fun 5-9:00.

hey all

i know it's a long shot, but i'm going on another bike tour this summer and i wanted to extend an invite

i'll be riding throughout michigan in july through the beginning of august

we'll be on the road for about a month - a friend of mine and i are doing some research. we'll be photographing/documenting abandoned industrial architecture all throughout the state

so, if anyone's interested in hauling themselves out to michigan and digging around some decrepit buildings in shady areas, let me know!!

art attack

thought yall might be interested in seeing this guy's shit. pretty intense amount of labor, which is heartening for those concerned that art is frequently perpetrated by lazy amateurs who think they deserve fame. i found these pieces fascinating.

http://jet-point.com/2009/02/23/kris-kuksi-makes-demons-in-our-mind-come-alive/

So I decided to just do a review, not an article persay but writing nonetheless. Please criticize!!

Review: Drinking Beer with Friends is the Highest Form of Art, hosted by Henry Urbach, curator of Architecture and Design.
By Matthew Veloz, 2-16-09

“Two cannibals are eating a clown. One asks, does something taste funny?” Tom Marioni punctuates a short talk during the first evening of The Act of Drinking Beer With Friends is the Highest Form of Art at the SFMoMA. He briefly discusses his career and the history of this social artwork and salon, which has been hosted by Marioni for almost forty years at various locations. Here hosted by Henry Urbach, Curator of the Architecture and Design department and first guest bartender. The atmosphere is relaxed, beer is free, and a guest speaker all reinvent the use of space in the museum. This event is a practice in transforming the way a space is used and interpreted, a dialogue on Museums and its various possible philosophies and practices, Urbach politely explains as he opens a bottle of Pacifico beer for visitors. The dialogue is prevalent at the SFMoMA and within Urbach’s career there; this past fall he organized an exhibition titled 246 And Counting: Recent Architecture + Design Acquisitions. Urbach placed on exhibition all of the objects he has acquired since joining the museum in late 2006, a dialogue on the process of acquisitioning and transparency. Urbach and Marioni are both adept at making transparent value and the art world. They both practice within and challenge their fields; Marioni produces art and Urbach produces a collection, even if neither act is always manifest in an object. In 2003 the artist published Beer, Art and Philosophy, a Memoir, Tom Marioni, in which he fashions a curt and entertaining insight into the art world, and discusses his career and adventures. His ideas, while relevant and applicable in most cases, are actually rebutted by the transparency within Urbach’s career and ideology.
Tom Marioni is a Bay Area conceptual artist, a pioneer who legitimized conceptual art on the west coast. He is influenced by Dadaism and Surrealism in Duchamp, Sound Art and the post-war Avant Garde in John Cage, and Performance Art in Yves Klein and Joseph Bueys. He also recognizes Zen Buddhism as a major influence. His associations with the SFMoMA, San Francisco’s Soma neighborhood, and curation run deep.
Marioni’s memoir is a cheery, humorous, and eagerly insightful account of his life and work. His experiences as an artist and curator coupled with his straightforward and simple vernacular amount to clean insight into value, collecting, and an individual’s philosophy of art. He demystifies museums and acquisitions in line with what Urbach is showing the public at 246 And Counting. On legitimizing Conceptual art in San Francisco, Marioni offers a convenient model for what makes art valuable, “...Museum boards are made up of art collectors, who buy their art from galleries. The galleries advertise in art magazines, and the magazines write about the art in galleries. The art that is written about gets collected, and the trustees influence the museums to exhibit the work of the artists they collect. The museums give that art the seal of approval, and then it increases in value.”
In contrast to this statement we have 246 And Counting. Here visitors may examine the art of collecting through an attempt at acquisitions transparency. This is quite contrary to Marioni’s insightful pondering on art confided to the system of collectors on museum boards who dictate value. The unorthodox exhibition features an interestingly organized spread of Urbach’s work. This dialogue on accessioning is an attempt at transparency and education. We have been discussing accessioning and museum practice for some time now, indeed curatorship has been under scrutiny since the first salon protests of the avant- garde artists. Here, however, we are given a glimpse into tales of individual works and given insight to practice contrary to Board- run collecting and influence. Urbach affords himself the opportunity to give the public a digestible exhibition that speaks of his goals as curator, as well of the goals of the museum. 
 Marioni’s structure for understanding the value and significance of art is still useful, though. Urbach used to own a gallery in Chelsea, Henry Urbach Architecture, whose success isn’t particularly questionable considering high profile artists (Le Corbusier, Diller and Scofidio, Lebeus Woods...) and high profile clients, like the SFMOMA itself. In an interview with Dwell Urbach concedes, “The SFMOMA was consistently one of my gallery’s best clients...” Mr. Urbach holds a master’s from Princeton University in the history and theory of architecture, and also has a master’s in architecture from Columbia. Henry Urbach Architecture played host to drawings, models, installations and other works; the first private gallery of its kind. His imagination paved the way for real innovation: Urbach helped solidify the careers of architecture and design firm LOT-EK and installation artist and sculptor E.V. Day. The pursuit of social betterment overrides Urbach’s philosophy and evident in his career is a concern with making architecture, especially experimental, more accessible to a broader audience. Drinking Beer With Friends was a natural move for Urbach- it appeals to a broad crowd while invoking general dialogue and bringing his department into the community. The salon featured several guest bartenders, including Neal Benezra, director of the SFMOMA . Also featured as part of the The Act of Drinking Beer was a crafts corner and a display of the 1,000 Journals Project, a fascinating collective pass- it- along record of experiences and expression. The Art of Participation, a concurrent exhibition, also featured a sculptural installation related to a 1979 salon held by Marioni at the SFMoMA.
More on the history of Marioni’s salon can be found in the memoir mentioned above, and a transcript of a cell phone guide of Urbach’s 246 and Counting can be accessed by request from the SFMoMA.

Image by Steve Rhodes

cover the earth

Valentine's Alley Cat

I'm working but definitely thinking of heading down there for a break just to check it out :)

Ruckus!

And my lazy flickr has photos from the ride, from Ashley's going away festivities at Dolores, and a few random odds and ends :)

Morning grooooowl

Rooooooooooaaaaaaaaaarrrrrrrrrrrrrr! Grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr!Agggggggggggrrrrrrrrrrrr!
Uggggggggggggggggggggggghhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!
Hollah balllah's kan't ride witch ya tamarah, but I'll roll on a hater if ya nyd me boy!
Shoooot and might haf ta plan a reunion tah see my dawgs! Its aight do! Bout to do dat......grrrrrrrrrr!

Jk, we have a plan for this Sunday. Bit of a change of pace.

FEBRUARY 8 • BEER TO BRAKERS 2009 WITH CHUEY BRAND

Chuey Brand933 Treat AvenueSan Francisco, CA 94110 415 845-2032
Chuey Brand's Beer to Brakers 2009Sunday, February 8; 10am - 5pmCost: $10 donation(bracelet gets you drink specials & complimentary food & drink along the ride)Proceeds from B2B will be donated to• Rocket Dog Rescue http://www.rocketdogrescue.org/• World Bicycle Relief, www.worldbicyclerelief.org/
blog: http://beer2brakers.blogspot.com/ rsvp @ http://us.mc374.mail.yahoo.com/mc/compose?to=beer2brakers@gmail.com

BEER 2 BRAKERS "A bicycle tour celebrating San Francisco Brewing"10am – 10:45 Registration at 933 Treat Avenue, SF, CA 94110Participants register and get event bracelets & packets. De La Paz Coffee will be serving their amazing fresh brewed Coffee.Hosted by De La Paz Coffee Company & Chuey Brand• http://www.delapazcoffee.com/• http://www.chueybrand.com/Donuts & fresh fruit will be available. $10 bucks gets you registered to ride.
11am - START ride departs from 933 Treat AveBeer to Brakers will make its way from the Mission through Potrero Hill passing by Anchor Brewing. Riders will have an option to take a longer warm up ride that will take them past Speakeasy before making the ride BRAKES downtown.1st BRAKE 11:30-12:15Hosted by Gordon Biersch$2 Beers & Complimentary Snack Plate• http://www.gordonbiersch.com/
2nd BRAKE 12:20- 1:15pmHosted by 21st Amendment21st Amendment will open its Beer Garden featuring Brew Free or Die IPA & Hell or High Watermelon Wheat Can Special. • www.21st-amendment.com
Ride by Thirsty Bear and riders will have an option of doing a loop past San Francisco Brewing Co.
3rd BRAKE -PICNIC in the PARK 1:45pm -4:00pmFeaturing craft brews from Magnolia & Thirsty Bear & Commemorative Beer 2 Brakers' homebrews with picnic basket of snacks.• http://www.magnoliapub.com/ • http://www.thirstybear.com/
FINISH- 3:00pm – 5:00pmHosted by Beach Chalet Brewery & RestaurantPark Chalet will be offering Happy Hour specials $3 pints & $5 appetizers in their outdoor garden.• http://www.beachchalet.com/
Chuey Brand is an urban lifestyle brand that delivers apparel and products that help you do what you love in style. Chuey Brand was founded by Kachusha Munkanta, an assistant brewer at 21st Amendment Brewery.

Women's Bike?

Hey I have a beloved friend moving to town (san francisco) and, natz, she'll be in need of a bicycle to traverse the landscape.

I remember someone posting something before about some immense cache of bicycles hidden away -- any of them need to get loose?

She's willing to pay cash money within reasonable reason.

Who else misses Chris?

I once had a video of Chris exclaiming his love for my balls. Not a joke. But my camera decided I was too drunk.

I'm Bloody Again

and for the second time in a week i forgot what i did for three quarters of the evening. i bruised my knuckles, cut my lip, chipped a tooth and maybe broke my elbow. i may have invented the newest breakdance of 2009. they tell me the crowd was asking more. but i can't remember the move, i don't remember falling asleep. i do remember eating half a pizza in the morning, then puking the pizza back into the box.

my insides hurt for a long time. is it time to stop drinking? what do you guys think?

Medicine for Melancholy

this is totally silly but worth sharing

The day after America inaugurates it's first black president...

a seventeen year old kid who went to my high school is shot and killed over 200 bucks worth of pot. Another seventeen year old shot him in the throat, on his own porch, a few blocks from my parents house in Danville.

http://www.mercurynews.com/breakingnews/ci_11512557

Don't be scrrrd.

Emily’s Tale


Emily and I sat beneath a white gazebo in the park on a somehow still summery day in early October. White gardenias grew intertwined with the wooden boards that encircled us. We read “The Tell-Tale Heart” by Edgar Allen Poe aloud to each other. She was in seventh grade at the time and would trip over words like “candelabrum” and “sepulchral”. Helping her with one such word, archaic now to our modern sensibility, she interrupted me. The sunlight beamed from her black hair. She told me that she’d had a strange encounter with someone or something that she could not explain. She took me to her father’s house in a story of the night before.
The house was mostly unfurnished. With their parents gone socializing in the city, Emily along with her younger brother and their twin cousins found themselves alone. They all began to get that funny feeling that comes in the night with the darkness and the silence of solitude. This communal feeling quickly manifested itself in an aural sensation that was alien and disturbing to their young ears. Bump bump bump bump. They heard a drumming upstairs. They started to feel nervous as the sound increased its ferocity. The urgent sound took them from room to room in that adultless house. Where is it coming from? Bump bump bump bump. It seemed nonsensical in its volume, coming simultaneously from the floor and the ceiling, fading momentarily and picking back up fervently as they passed though certain wooden thresholds or as they caught their reflections in a mirrored closet door. Bump bump bump bump.
Eventually, the children called off their search as if instinctively—in fear of being scared to death. And just then the front door flung open letting in a flood of parents in their out-to-dinner suits and with their bellies full of food and wine and with their heads heavy with sleeplessness. The adults put their children to bed in separate rooms of the house and then retreated to their own beds. But, Emily did not sleep because an incessant bass drum kept her brain a buzz with fantastic images and possibilities. And that is when she saw it.
There was a shadowy figure in a far and darkened corner of her room. It began to walk towards her. She saw long black hair which blew wildly in the wind that poured in through a cracked window to her left. It had the body of a child, she thought, probably of her own height. Her heart began to pound in her chest. She pinched herself. This was not a dream. The figure stood beside her bed in silence. Had it breath, she could have felt it’s warmth on her face. The semblance of a hand called for her. She reached out from under her quilt to touch it but her fleshy hand fell right through the dark hand, catching a chill in its descent, and Emily fell instantly into a dream that she would remember nothing of the next morning.




The Ditch



Just outside of Yuba City, California there was a dense forest of sugar pine and cypress trees. In the center of the woods there was an old house and in the house lived a young man. Percy Ratcliff sat in the confines of a bedroom in a remote turret of the house. Erratic color flashed on his face from a tv screen that sent him uncouth messages from a far away place. The sound and semblance of other people kept his mind from slipping into the darkness of solitude. In idle time, and without the warm (or if not warm at least busy) company of any human being besides his self and his memories, his mind had the tendency to drag his spirit to some outer space marked by sadness and worry. This other place, mostly unknown by the living, cannot be described by the language of mouths, nor seen with such fragile ocular organs, but only felt by those who allow for the diffusion of intuition. Percy scratched his head.
He was a young man, although he did not look it, of slight build and he was lanky. His face was a bloodless white shade with sunken in features and a protruding jaw full of wild and sharp teeth. His dark eyes rested far back in his skull and had the black quality of the obsidian rock from which ancient Americans had been known to fashion their arrowhead spears. The combination of these features proved exceedingly awful. Percy held his personal appearance responsible for his lack of friendly company and his utter isolation in the world.
Percy hadn’t always portrayed such an unsavory countenance. It was the result of an acute psychological disorder that pushed him frequently into cataleptic fits. He often found himself in a trance staring blankly into space with his body at peace, but with his mind fitfully racing in insensible contemplation. From this he would emerge feeling tired and aged and bearing the semblance of Death himself. When these fits first began they would endure for no more than twenty-five or thirty seconds. But as Percy matured, his brain became habitually ready to engage in such fitful explorations and he could stay under for a whole hour or more.
His condition was not treacherous unless he was overtaken in the midst of performing some precarious task. He once, thinking about something far beyond his sphere of availability saw or dreamt he saw a mass of flames encroaching upon him, and awoke to find his feet burning in an inch of over-run bathwater. He had fallen under a spell just as he began to run the hot water in the tub, but before he had the opportunity to temper it with the cold. This accident left him without use of his feet or ankles for several weeks.
Percy turned off his tv and slipped effortlessly out of consciousness.
The next morning he woke up with ideas and with purpose: he was going to tear up his lawn and plant a large garden. He felt down lately and this was an opportunity to pull himself out of that depression.
He dug in his back yard for hours that day. It was hard work but pitching his shovel into the earth and tilling the old dry soil made him feel at ease. The sun floated across the sky reddening his pale skin. He filled a wheel barrow with fertile topsoil. He loved the rich smell of fresh silt. Soon his mind left his work. He remembered a beautiful woman he had once seen in the town square sitting alone and allowed himself to drift backwards into the memory of her.
He saw her sitting on a park bench and was in awe of her beauty and confidence and ease. He wondered what it would be like to speak to such a woman. He imagined the warmth of her presence and the fragrance of her hair that he might enjoy in close proximity. But the nine mile trek to the city had left him tired and sweaty. Surely, she would be repulsed by his appearance. He wished that he could erase the signs of his exhaustion. He wished his home was closer to civilization. His face became heavy. And what had he to say to Beauty? From the way she dressed he thought she must live in the city. He knew nothing of that bustling city life, and didn’t care to. Perhaps there was some common ground upon which they could tread together in conversation. But this thought harbored an even more frightening possibility, for what would the poor woman think if he were to fall into a trance right before her eyes. He would not be able to stand the humiliation. He dreaded that sickening state that seemed to creep behind him wherever he tread. Percy wiped the perspiration from his furrowed brow and looked back toward the bench. The bench was empty. She was gone. How long had he been arrested by his frustration? He was sure that he had one chance and that he had lost it. Beauty was forever gone.
He found himself again in his isolated plot, digging. Rows of jagged pines surrounded him like a monstrous fence. He got the feeling the trees had eyes that followed him, watching his every move, arching over him in judgment. He wished that he could wave his hand and erase them from his life.
A black cloud appeared in the sky and covered the sun. Within minutes of its encroachment his muscles, which he had ignored until that moment, seemed to exude an ache that filled his whole being. A drop of water fell from the sky. He was done working. A storm was approaching.
He retired to his confinement and contemplated his work, thus far, well-done. Yes, he had something to show for himself. He had worked for hours on end with no break. He had put an honest effort into his environment. If he were to venture into town again he could tell someone what he had done. But what if that person wanted to see his garden? What had he to show of it? The gaping hole in his back lawn was hardly impressive. He had a lot more work to do before it would be presentable. And what if he did not have the strength to continue such work? Or what if the rain were to persist and wash away his progress—could he start all over again? He didn’t even know what to plant that time of year. How foolish he had been to try to build a garden. He couldn’t believe that he spent all day tearing up his neat lawn only to find, in its wake, nothing.
He fell asleep that night to the sound of the pouring rain, and with a dark cloud in his head. A lightning bolt flashed outside illuminating his cell and casting brightness upon his weary face. He was jarred from his dreamless sleep. Percy rubbed his black eyes with bony fingers. He stood with the intention of withdrawing to his bedroom. He rose and began with uneasy steps but a queer feeling over took him.
He imagined the weight of those horrible pines that boxed him in. He hated those green giants—the height of their branches, the depth of their roots. Perhaps because of his contemplation of those massive earthy bodies, or perhaps by fiendish coincidence, his feet moved him away from his bedroom and into the dark night outside. His mind had left his body once more. Even the pounding storm could not wake him from the trance. Vague ideas oppressed him in the darkness. He sensed that he was approaching some great abyss. He saw or dreamt he saw the roots of those lurking pines stretching towards him like terrible claws and felt that he lacked the will to evade their grasp. The claws took hold of him pulling him deeper and deeper into the black recesses of his subconscious imagination. The beautiful woman flashed in his mind’s eye followed by a sensation of a pulsing and sludgy embrace to which he surrendered his entire being.
Percy had fallen into the muddy ditch in which he had intended to grow a magnificent garden. And under a black and stormy sky, he sunk deeper into his spell and deeper into the earth’s clay until he was completely submerged. By the time he escaped his own enchantment, it was too late for young Percy. His chest and lungs were oppressed. His body was paralyzed. He could not breathe. His throat filled with sobs. And then came hideous suffocation and the absolute silence of death.



xoxo

I'm famous.

http://oaklandnorth.net/2009/01/14/manzanita/#comment-1947

Life on Market Street, temporary position.

Courtesy of the Bike Snob NYC blog (link under tcheckit), my attention was brought to Trackosaurusrex, where I was quickly woken from a funky funk by a video of the Bilenky Junk Yard Race in Philadelphia.

VIMBY - Bilenky Junk Yard Race

I love the bit about a junk yard being an urban natural resource, that's the kind of thinking that spurs other genius thinking. Like vaccinations.

On a final note, I would like to propose a bike ride this Sunday. I think a leisurely morning trek across the bridge would accommodate all levels of riders and types of bicycles. I also think the prospect of enjoying an almost seventy degree day in Dolores Park with a few thirst smashing man beers would help us all get up early. Rally the troops; we're causin' a ruckus.

How the Grinch Stole Christmas in Hell

For those of you who didn't attend last night's Christmas in Hell bonfire, I regret to say you didn't miss anything. Brohems from all over the bay area trekked long and hard to get xmas trees to Ocean Beach. While many of us were able to sneak our trees about town via muni, it wasn't until all had reached the beach that our fiery dream was extinguished by law officials - most likely rent-a-cops.

As brohems began regrouping on the beach, maybe 8 trees deep, an officer snapped at us asking "if we all had time to go to jail." It's not his fault he was such a dick. He probably got beat up in high school, or his girl friend left him for a Rosy Odonnell look alike. Maybe his new penis-pump hadn't arrived in the mail yet, who knows. Apparently burning trees on the beach is against "waste regulations" and there are no exceptions with zero tolerance for offenders. The officer demanded that we haul the trees back to the street where we found them and "get outta here."

While our primary objective seemed to be more or less defeated our pride remained intact. Bystanders had given us some serious props watching us carry all of our trees. Many followed our lead scattering to find trees of there own to set ablaze. Unfortunately, the prospect of a cindering xmas declaration had inspired all too many and we were unable to spread word that a self-righteous enslaving dick-weed was loose about the beach.

As brohems began conceiving plans for other mayhem, all turned toward the beach in time to find a bittersweet spectacle. Neighboring bonfire enthusiasts had snagged one of our trees after we left and taken it upon themselves to initiate the blazing Christmas. "I can't turn away," mourned one Rob Love. Brohems knew the repercussions that awaited our partners in crime, and there was no disguising an upright 6 ft branchy figure engulfed in flames. As two dark figures hustled toward the fire, their flashlights ominous beacons in the darkness, it became too much for witnesses to bear. Few stuck around long enough to watch the officers order the group to their knees and begin their interrogation. 

At least we thought of it first.

where my werewolves at

tonight 1/10/09 the moon will be the biggest and brightest of all year. peep it

winter in michigan is NO JOKE

I learned how to skid stop today in the snow - yeah!!

......yes

Bicycle Riding

Photospread, ya'll.