Violent, spontaneous polaroid by Daniel Arnold.

A pal of mine lost something dear to him that is also his main means of creative expression, or at least the key to his favorite outlet.  While theoretically replaceable it is a real blow.  Well I say pal, I say… when the Velvet Undeground got all their amps and fuzzboxes stolen in 1968 after mastering their uniquely maddening sound on their first two revolutionary records they used what they had left at their disposal and created what many consider to be some of their finest work (their spare, folksy 3rd record simply titled The Velvet Underground).

Of course they would eventually replace all their loses and make loud crazy music again, but they made some bad ass jams with that rickety old shit in the meantime.

Sometimes, when I’m awfully lucky, I find myself in the greatest toy store imaginable, filled with everything I could have ever wanted. There’s an entire floor of nothing but old Star Wars with shelves of TIE fighters and entire legions of stormtroopers for the taking.  Walls of Legos, Transformers, G.I. Joe and all kinds of awesome automatic cap guns.  If you’re a red blooded American guy, you too must have dreams like this.  Maybe you’re a girl and the place is crammed with My Little Pony and Jem and the Holograms.  I’m down.

In my dream store, there’s always an epic library of D&D books and dice in some hidden back room that I don’t always make it into. What’s even more difficult is honing in on the small detailed things, like the little extras that come with any worthwhile toy. Accessory packs of helmets and backpacks, armories of blasters, tiny radios, and other cool shit. These were often particularly tough to get your hands on in the real world and if you had clumsy friends who kept bending your Cobra’s AK-47s and losing stuff, they were highly coveted.  I like small detailed things, so I coveted them anyway.

Playmobil had especially neat accessories, specifically for the western series.  So many tiny six shooters and holsters!  Bandolier belts with little bullets, coffee cups and cavalry swords, Jesus it was TOO GOOD.  Well, happily, the other night I wandered into a place that had a whole section of plastic bins loaded with properly sorted accessories. I found some sawed-off shotguns for my outlaws and cowboys as well as some great tomahawks for my Indians so that they could better kill off the grey hair’s seed. I used to have to make my own, it’s true.

“The latest “Hallelujah” shame (and mockery of that once magical evening) is the excruciating moment in which Cohen’s original version of the song scores a sex scene in Zack Snyder’s recent “Watchmen,” which plays out like a bad joke told by a sad clown. Worse, you have to sit there while the sad clown painfully explains the punch line to you when you don’t laugh. I also have to mention the completely unearned “The Sounds of Silence” travesty — Snyder, man, you have to earn Simon & Garfunkel.”

~from IFC.com

… and introducing James Franco as

“Severed Ways” is Black Metal, crafted into an audacious movie between the hammer of an HD camera and the anvil of director Tony Stone’s wild musings.

PS.

The offical word on the tunes: “This soundtrack will blow your dick off – Morbid Angel, Popul Vuh, Burzum, Brian Eno, Dimmu Borgir (early stuff), QOTSA, and Judas fuckin Priest!!!”

As part of a personal, ongoing investigation of the mysteries of this universe, spirituality and all a matters ineffable, I recently consulted with a Medium (one who channels communication from the spirit world). At the end of a long, strange session where I asked broad questions about the energies that surround and influence us, I asked about my friends. It was mostly broad responses about being overly empathetic and how I tend to from strong but sometimes overly dependent bonds with friends.

The Medium honed in to Daniel and how I first met him (spiritually speaking) on a U-boat serving in the Deutschland Kriegsmarine off the coast of Morocco in 1939. It’s harrowing tale of wartime adventure, Casablancan intrigue, and Mediterranean women. It makes sense cause we both like Aryans and tough nautical sweaters.

Most importantly, Daniel showed me that I didn’t need to mercilessly dominate others just to feel good (not in ’39, but a few months ago). He probably has something to show you too.

Daniel is an inspiration and all round good guy. He is a man among legions of hopeless noobs, in these hapless times. He is a beacon of love, white light and music. Of good times and better costume design. A lighthouse by which you may steer your crippled ship home.

Dig Daniel’s born to be nervous if you ain’t already.

The first time I saw Tunde he was opening up for The Fall with a very early, laptop heavy incarnation of TV on the Radio.  He’s been blowing my mind ever since.

Dig this chat about acting, our national preoccupation or lack thereof of “race,” his passion for cartooning, and yes, music.

Most know her as Allie, if they are fortunate enough to know her at all. But her true name, like her true self, is a great deal more complex, beautiful, and frightening. More interesting. Most people really are not interesting. They may be pretty, or famous, or speak French fluently, but they’re just weird bags of mostly water that can walk around and buy things.

Alexandria just wrote a play called “Dream of Me,” and it’s real good. It’s about love and the mess that goes along with it, especially being young and in New York City. Though some of it is just about sex too… where the two overlap, no one knows.

It’s structure and presentation is thoughtful and inventive. You may be made uncomfortable. More so if you’ve ever been in love and lost it. There’s some full female nudity that may be gratuitous, but it makes sense, it punctuates a character that is already exposed and vulnerable. There’s even some laughs.

She’s a bit too young to be successful, but like her charismatic ancient namesake there is much to do while young (drunken Dionysian orgies, founding cities, writing plays, conquering the world). Hey, whatever they may be, follow your dreams. Love requires someone else to go along with it.

“Dream of Me” runs at the Cell theater, in Chelsea, through March 15th: Tickets.

I went into the Sonoran desert with my dog, near the base of Mount Lemon in the afternoon. The ground, littered with sun-baked cactus detritus, much like a Saturday night in Manhattan, was a minefield of unyielding pricks. We tread carefully, mindful of scorpions and coyotes, two adventurers with keen olfactories.

We came upon a rock face by a purple prickly pear, that was covered in ancient pictographs. Wild butterflies inhabited the greenery that grew from it’s shade, their wings painted dreamland blue.

* **

We entered a narrow cave in the old stone canvass, that ran for a short way through it and out the other side. I emerged, half blind by the light and found myself face to face with a white coyote, the desert trickster. I froze instinctively, gripped by a primal caution, though I felt no fear.

I turned only for a moment to collect my companion and the coyote was gone.

Late in the day a double rainbow appeared that grew bolder as the sun slid lower. I kept catching a glimpse of the white trickster from the corner of my eye, but it was always just a chollo bending in the wind, or a humming bird darting by. When we arrived home we met a girl who was taking out the garbage at the neighboring casita, a visitor from the East like us.

Her name was Calabria Khan. Fixated on the rainbows, thoughts of gold, I didn’t even see her at first. She thought I was shooting her taking out her empties. What a doll, she posed.

More Sonoran flowers.

Saguaro’s at dusk, outside the casita.

I heard a tale about a rare gem of nature, the Saguaro pearl, and went out into the Sonoran desert in search of one.  Like the oyster, the Saguaro cactus produces a protective barrier around foreign irritants, but in the case of this archetypal cactus, the objects of desire are beautiful woody globes of varying sizes. Much more intriguing than the tiny, over-marketed mollusk balls, they are also quite rare. Saguaro’s grow very slowly, taking 75 years before even producing their picturesque limbs and live to be hundreds of years old, so short of hacking them down like some Bush republican, all I could do was hike for miles and inspect the remains of the fallen giants.

Woodpeckers drill out tasty holes that other birds later live in.

They grow up to 50 feet, towering impossibly over the rocky landscape and surprisingly, beneath the prickly green flesh is a circular cage of wooden ribs. This, plus their size make the occasional carcass easy to spot, as there’s always a conspicuous skeletal form splayed across the ground. I had hoped to find an old bullet of Geronimo’s that had passed through some filthy white man’s skull and embedded into an old saguaro forming a priceless treasure.  When I came across some very large remains, that could have been the right age I painted my tomahawk red with glee. I tore the ribs apart (careful to avoid splinters) and dug around in the dirt (careful to avoid scorpions) looking for smooth, round wooden spheres. In the end I found nothing but I got a really good saguaro rib walking stick out of it.

However, all was not lost. The Sonora Desert museum (a living, outdoor museum/park) has several specimens, including behemoth that contained the top of a glass beer bottle. It was preseumably punched into a saguaro and used for shooting practice by filthy white devils. Later, the cactus encased the severed bottle top in a wooden pearl. A reminder that this natural world is filled with wonder, but if not respected, is just a beautiful prison.