Whoa Daddy-O

Bob "Daddy-O" Wade, known locally for his larger than life boots displayed at the entrance of North Star Mall (which marks its 30th anniversary in 2009) and his junk yard dog creation at Alamo City Inc, located on Somerset road, held an impromptu "Day of the JunkYard Dog" event at Alamo City Inc.



With mariachi's, beers, and tamales an eccentric bunch came out from Harley-Davidson bikers to children adorned in last evenings Halloween costumes, Wade's newest work is just as full of character as his previous creations. Used from parts of a '94 Buick Regal, '03 Kia, and the trunk of a '85 Ford trunk. Wade's newest piece was amazingly done in one day.



To see Wade's masterpiece in person, come out to tonight's Arts & Eats event at the Tobin Estate. For more information on Wade, take a look at his website. His upcoming show will be in the spring at the Museum of the Southwest in Midland, Texas. Be sure to check it out!

Three days in the Valley

As a Brownsville native who has spent much of his life in the Rio Grande Valley, I can testify that the region has much to recommend it, but live music has never ranked near the top of that list (excluding the Valley's undisputed history with conjunto music). The only notable rock bands that ever visited the McAllen-Edinburg area (where I grew up) when I was a teenager were either yet-to-break (AC/DC) or way past their expiration date (Alice Cooper). If you were at your commercial peak, this was not a logical tour destination.
But, very quietly, the Valley has begun to assert itself as a market for live music. SA bands such as Girl in a Coma and Bombasta have established fan bases in McAllen and arena-level acts such as Aerosmith and Santana have recently performed in Hidalgo County.
This weekend, however, marks the Valley's biggest leap into the musical big leagues, with the South Padre International Music Festival, a three-day blowout including Robert Randolph & the Family Band, the Dirty Dozen Brass Band, Jaguares, Plastilina Mosh, Robert Earl Keen, and a host of others.
SPIMF is the brainchild of Tim Hayden, an Austinite with Harlingen roots, who serves as president of GamePlan Marketing and Events. Hayden says the festival-friendly layout of South Padre played a key role in his decision to organize the event. "It's built for people to have multiple experiences in a day," Hayden says. "It's one big amusement park."
Hayden estimates that the festival will draw 10,000-15,000 people, adding that his goal is to reach 30,000-50,000 within three years.
The South Padre International Music Festival runs from Friday, November 2 to Sunday, November 4. Three-day and one-day tickets are still available, and can be purchased by calling GetTix at 1-866-433-8849. For more info, go to www.spimusicfest.com.  
  
   

Melt down at CPS nuke vote

“Hey hey! Ho ho! We want clean energy and we want it today!”
It was made-for-TV outside and in CPS Energy’s downtown offices as dozens of protestors from Austin to Kingsville pumped up and down the street chanting, waving signs. They drew many honks of support from passing motorists and guarded stares from commuters at the opposing bus stop. The television cameras divided the turf and devoured the spectacle. But what worked for cameras in the street didn’t do so well indoors after TV crews abandoned the color shot to stake out positions inside the meeting room.
Upon entering the building, the protestors were stopped at the front desk. Though many had already signed up to address the board about their concern over CPS plans to invest in two new nuclear-power plants, the group found themselves instead being directed to a corner of the front hall where they were expected to observe piped-in proceedings on television. The meeting room, they were told, was full. They erupted.
About 30 minutes of bullhorn-enhanced chanting created a buzz in the boardroom, but only after the group rushed the double doors beyond the security stile did it get serious.
The suits had just finished praising years of faithful service and were preparing to talk pollution control devices when a security guard rushed into the chambers and slipped the deadbolt behind. Then came the muffled sound of pounding.
On the other side, CPS security officer Dan Akeroyd braced his leg against the first set of double doors. He joked about his new job description (official doorstop) before signaling to a colleague to phone the San Antonio PD.
“Are those the crazies from Austin?” asks a CPS employee. Another, clutching a minutes-old board award, asks after alternative exits, visibly shaken. “I’m not sure I’d get through there alive,” he says, as he’s escorted down a side hallway.
While a few “Austin crazies” peppered the bunch, the majority of these excluded are from San Anto. Others had driven up from Goliad and Kingsville, where uranium mining has already claimed the drinkability of several water wells.
“Let the CPS employees out, so the people can come in!” comes the repeated request from the other side.
As SAPD and Parks Police arrive, the utility’s deputy general manager appears with an offer: space in the media room adjoining the chambers with a complete view of the meeting, “But y’all have got to promise to behave,” says Steve Bartley.
Then as the nukes are taken up there is a long chain of objections to the utility’s plans (and a couple proud endorsements thrown in by the likes of the local manufacturer’s association) before the board disappears upstairs to, presumably, grant the masses the appearance of deliberations. Two hours and counting…
“Hey hey. Ho ho.”


Update, 7 pm: Board reports unanimous vote in favor of first of what will be many b/millions for the doubling of San Anto's nuke plant.

Photography as an art form?

The other day I took part in a one-sided conversation, where I was the one doing the listening while he did the talking … as usual. But I digress; anyhow the topic was whether or not photography is considered a true art form. He concluded that it was not entirely an art form but provided reasons as to why, he believed, it wasn't. With soccer moms picking up cameras, point-and-shooting, and later printing out the images or sending them off to Walgreen's or H-E-B to develop — he believes that such a easy to use object such as the camera may have lost its artistic quality when everyone and their mothers can frame a picture and call it art.

This is where I step in … I've taken a handful of art classes throughout my high school and college career thus; I have little knowledge of the subject. However, with my limited knowledge of photography (a few months back I took a photography course that I daydreamed during much of it rather than learn a suitable amount of information) I believe that photography is an art form — when the artist takes it seriously. The same reasoning applies to painting, sculpture, digital imaging and so forth. Most people can obtain the tools to create art but not all people possess the skill needed to label it as art.

Photography is definitely questionable when it comes to the national art community as can be found in this interesting essay by portrait photographer Robert Balcomb. With B&W photography being the norm, color photography being the shunned stepchild, and digital imaging coming out into the spotlight the photography community is forever battling its place in the art world. Any comments on this issue? If so— post!

Fire falling on CPS

So, outrage over CPS’s bass-ackward plan (read: CPS Must Die) for new nuke plants in Texas may have been slow to catch on, but it’s starting scorch a bit — in town and out.
Tomorrow morning Austin City Council member Jennifer Kim is holding a press conference at Austin City Hall urging San Antonio’s leaders to hit the “pause button” on a nuclear decision.
Joining her will be lifetime agitators (I use that term in its finest possible, tho mouth-mumbledy, meaning, as in: devices whose friction makes things clean again) from the Sustainable Energy and Economic Development (SEED) Coalition and the Lone Star Sierra Club.
San Anto’s Southwest Workers’ Union busted the daily's endorsement of nukes in an editorial in today’s Expressionless News.
Problem is, the troops are rallying after Mayor Hardberger came out publicly in favor of nukes last weekend. Irate residents have exactly one work day and a weekend to get heard and change his mind.
Email him at phardberger@sanantonio.gov
Or call/fax at...
Phone: 207-7060/7107
Fax: 210-207-4168
Of course, there are other Board members, too, though CPS only lists one contact for them all. (That’s emailing EAPerez@cpsenergy.com or calling (210) 353-2602.)
Find out who represents you, and if you’re feeling feisty, join the ruckus that is sure to ignite CPS’s Board of Trustees meeting Monday, October 29.

On the Street

Beer!



Alefest at Hemisfair Park brought out several, several hundred people.  This might be the only angle I've seen yet where the new hotel in the background adds order to the San Antonio skyline.  Build it and they will come.  How many times have we heard that line in regards to some San Antonio mega-building going up?  Not trying to get all Roddy Stinson, but you know...



The atmosphere was one of shared purpose.  I only saw one goofball go crazy, and even that was minor.  Something about a zombie getting injured.  But aren't zombies already dead?  More on them in a moment.



Oompah loompahers set a regal tone for the occasion.  Between song chatter was picked up on the microphones or humorous effect on occasion.



And as people were leaving the event, there was this truck parked outside on Alamo Street.  Rumors of a living dead convention began to spread.  I walked over to where I thought they would be.  It was then that I ran into these dudes celebrating life at Lila Cockrell Park.



Extreme walking or freestyle running?  Or something else completely.  The film District B-13 has a lot of this sort of loc'd out action.



They took turns doing amazing flips, propelling themselves off that piece of wood thing.






I feel like all this has a lot to do with what this guy is doing in this eastern Europe wasteland.




And finally, the zombies walking.  I came up just in time to find the lead procession on its way out to terrorize the city.



My eyes went first to this lady.  But who is that in the background?



Michael Jackson in his Thriller daze.



The zombie walk stretched on and on.  I escaped over to the Alamo in search of protection from the law.



On the way over I stumbled across the Menger bar.  And I was walking out of the bathroom I walked into this oddly appropriate quote from the old moose T.R.  Somehow it put the zombie metaphor into greater context.



The Alamo at rest.  Tourist mingling.  On occasion a ranger is asked to take a group photo for some conventioneers in town from Nebraska.



Overhead in a crow's nest, work continues on the new hotel.  And then as I looked down...



...madness.




The dark side pulls me closer.



Tricked again.



It felt like my own personal Blair Witch moment - shaky camera, out of focus, loss of control.  Or has that become normal?



I thought of this movie for some reason as the zombies moved along -

Survival, post-CPS

Okay, we sound our guns this week on CPS’s absurd plan for nuclear expansion to the detriment of sustainable development. I, for one, would be more encouraged about finding our way forward without CPS if there had of been more than three of us to greet Greg Pahl when he came to the San Antonio library earlier this month.
Thankfully, the revolution this former U.S. American Military Intelligence officer came to support had nothing to do with do with Hugo Chavez or South American coca. Instead, Pahl brought invigorating examples of communities across the country creating their own energy solutions, what Pahl has termed “community-supported energy.”
Examples included: Hyper-efficient, “co-housing” community outside Ashville, North Carolina; a middle school solar project that inspired solar across Crested Butte; one co-op’s divestment from nuclear and expansion into the renewables market; and an Alaska resort that has made geothermal even more affordable now one step closer to total self-sufficiency.
While the number of listeners at one point approached a strong dozen (thanks to the library serf who circulated floor by floor to let the page-turners know he was in the house!), some of us have seen exponential growth happen in similar movements before. Get his Citizen-Powered Energy Handbook and join the struggle to protect and strengthen our communities — with or without CPS.
Then again, if we all lean enough (this is supposed to be representative government, after all) perhaps CPS can be righted. Get inspired about what a city-owned utility could be: read Silver in the Mine.

One-woman show visually appealing

Last Friday was the opening night of On the Island written and performed by S.T. Shimi at Jump-Start Theater. While sitting in the audience I could not stop staring at the long vertical tissu (a piece of woven material used for cloths) suspended from the ceiling in the middle of the stage.

The lights dimmed. I felt anxious for the next move. The impression of a woman's body could be seen behind the tissu; the cloth was a cage smothering a pair of legs, arms, and a fragile head with long, ebony hair. Billy Munoz' lighting design seduced my eyes — a faint touch of purple, lurid shades of green, and a small but crucial hint of red hypnotized me into watching this elegant human body move and shift on stage. The cloth cut into the blackness of the background like a cloud streak in the midnight sky. The muscles and bones gliding on stage seemed much more than just a dance. It was a tango of allurement. Munoz trained audience members to watch every flick of an ankle, fling of an arm, and corkscrew of the torso in colors evocative of the deep black sea. Paul Harford's musical score of muted harps and ocean cacophonies slowly rubbed the audiences eardrums. The ambient soundtrack — quick primal drums and slow echoing distant compositions that would melt a bed of coal into a pool of oil — also embedded itself into the performance.

The story details the imprisonment and torture of a female artist imprisoned on an island. This dramatic play relates to the U.S. mistreatment of detainees at the Abu Ghraib prison in Iraq and other locations. In this brutal play, international conventions and human rights, are clearly thrown out the window. Island serves as a reminder that all acts of cruelty towards prisoners should not be forgotten.

Unattached from society leads the woman to believe that she has become susceptible to insomnia and hallucinations. In her squirm-inducing soliloquy of suffering, she finds a way to remember her vivid past life, before the hours and minutes on the island. She actually embraces the narrow space of her confinement once she realizes there is no escape. The character's mighty spirit, although bruised and bloodied, holds on to hope till the end.

I feel this dramatic one-woman show should be seen by all. The talents at Jump-Start allow us to assemble, discuss, and reflect topics happening in our world today.

For a conversation with Shimi about On the Island read "Exploring Political Oppression 'On the Island.'"in the October 3rd issue of the Current.

SHOWTIMES:
Oct. 19-21
Friday - Sunday, 8 pm
$9 - $12 Jump-Start Theater
108 Blue Star
(210) 227-5867

A visual futurist uncovered

I wasn't quite too sure what to expect when I received the press release for the presentation "Inspired Imagination: Visual Futurist Syd Mead." Upon further investigation I realized that a visual futurist wasn't as tripped out as I originally thought it to be, in fact, Mead's work is nothing short of amazing.

Last night I attended the presentation and was completely taken aback by Meads' works. Perhaps you've seen Blade Runner, Aliens, Tron, Mission Impossible 3? Meads' worked on the conceptual design of these projects and coined the title "visual futurist" to appropriately term his profession.

Mead, 74, has as much vigor for his craft as a person half his age. Since the late '50s he has used his craft as an illustrator to design futuristic paintings and vehicles in sci-fi flicks, among other things. One job he has done, but failed to mention during the lecture, was that of designing the robot in Short Circuit. He calls what he does concept art, and it is fitting for him to term it this. His illustration of the Time Bubble, which is a time-traveling device, was accompanied with an explanation as to how it would work.

Towards the end of the lecture, he included a quote concerning a method of creativity he lives by, "Being creative involves the ability to stand 'off side' and watch yourself invent ideas ..."

For more information on Syd Mead visit his website, this budding critic hasn't even scratched the surface of his work.

On the Street

Friday Night Lights (Redux)



While San Anto High Schools were breaking bones on the gridiron, the other futbol was being played, hidden in full light in the middle of crackertown in an odd enclave of SA municipality known as Olmos Basin.  No taco trucks were found though I have seen their cousin there, the raspa/candy truck, but that doesn't do it for me, at least not then.



What follows is something between pornography and a Frederick Wiseman documentary, in other words, very few words and cold, hard documentation...



Oktoberfest

At the ever popular Beethoven, the bar/organization/singing choir rediscovered its roots for their own Oktoberfest.














And then a call went out.



A challenge was raised.  A hero was needed.  Like the birth of the Arthurian legend, only one person could possibly fulfull the legacy of drinking the half-gallon stein.



Hope, but then failure.  



She broke through the ranks and stole the stein at the last second.  The crowd went crazy.  But she too failed...



Cries of "tap it off" were heard.  The stein was revunated for the next challenger.



Hope...



...promise....



...but vomit.



The search continued.  

But even he couldn't seize history.  The energy dropped.  Oompah loompahers returned to their instruments.



But out of nowhere...



...an unlikely hero.



And the accordion played on?

Chalked Up

Raw chalk porn/observational documentation to follow.



































I turned around to notice this monster truck had broken through the barrier, possibly fueled on their own jet fuel.  Kids, chalk, high energy performance drinks - the holy trinity.


























School kids everywhere totally getting in to the zone.  Good times.

















After several attempts and forced handshakes, I still wouldn't buy his television.

Smartfair





Robby Muller's cinematography in Paris Texas was based on exactly this dialectical lighting scheme - magic hour sentimentality confronted with harsh phony fluorescence.  The film - a primer on early 80s postmodernism.









Moth!fight!  At first the band from Revenge of the Nerds, then the Partridge Family on speed-cut acid, then hints of Camper Van Beetoven reunion, then just an amazing band.  A revelation.  Their controlled chaos was epic.  










Random Outro




And so goes another week on the streets of San Antonio.  As always, to be continued...

If we ruled Southtown, we would...

Before I even begin to delve into my artistic adventures from this past week I must share with you all an idea that came across my friend and I while at First Friday. We compiled a short list of items Southtown officials should ban:

• Children, not all children but newborns, we found it very odd to see dazed babies in strollers amid the smoke-filled intersection of Cedar St. and S. Alamo as funnel cakes and turkey legs were being sold. 
• Crutches - If you're on crutches the lopsided sidewalks of Southtown are not your friend. 
• Flip flops - I learned the hard way, as I have for many years, that flip-flops should never be worn in any crowded event, especially First Friday.
• Suggested item to bring … a flashlight. While I nearly stepped in front of a car and my friend could have twisted her ankle from falling into a grass covered hole in the ground (I do have to admit we are quite the clumsy duo so with all these added death traps we're well on our way to hurting ourselves.) we were lost in the dim lighted streets of Southtown neighborhoods.

Aside from the slight mishaps, we managed to hit up the usual Blue Star hot spots — sneaking a peak in the REM Gallery, drifting into the UTSA satellite space, and ending it with a moment to cool down on the second floor of El Sol Studios to check out Clifford Earl's pet altars. To end the night, we paid a visit to Beethoven Garten where the kick-off of Oktoberfest was taking place. Although the $5 donation at the gate caused my friend and I to do a double take, we put aside our thriftiness and decided to up the money at the gate. What we entered was a full-on German cultural explosion. We weren't early enough to witness the first keg being tapped but we did witness the affects of it in the form of a tipsy gal wailing out Hall & Oates "Rich Girl." Although lacking in a real artsy endeavor this week I can assure you next week's blog will be jam-packed with tidbits from one, if not, all of the events occurring this weekend. If you're still out of the loop, check out Artifacts and you'll be schooled.

Do you have any suggestions of what items should be banned during Southtown? If so comment!

On the Street

Oh Marfa, Marfa, Marfa...

(Aka The Free Carrot and Wine Chronicles, West Texas Style)




We pulled into town at sunset and followed the mysterious lights to these two intriguing buildings.  Luckily for me, I had been indirectly invited to stay for the night.  These two homes are built by San Antonio architects Candid Rogers (on the left) and Beto Isunza (on the right.)  At some point these two buildings will be featured in Dwell magazine I'm convinced.  



Like a captain's cabin of a Danish sea ship.  Outside, the vast expanse of nothing.  Inside, warmth and tranquility.

(This is the loft space of the building on the left, a cantilevered structure clad in a material I believe called "Cor-10", which rusts to a wonderful red orange.)



Another view of Candid's house.  The rusted metal isn't apparent in this foto due to the angle of the sun.



In the distance - the Marfa courthouse, German-tongued art nomads, Upper East Side gallery owners, and quite possibly free carrots and wine.



More mystery lights.  A football game between Marfa and Ozona.  Amid the invasion, old life went on and kids still hung out by the DQ while trying to bird-dog chicks.  It may have been homecoming because I saw a sign in front of a house advertising mums for sale.



"Some time ago a publisher told me that there are four kinds of books that seldom, if ever, lose money in the United States—first, murder stories; secondly, novels in which the heroine is forcibly overcome by the hero; thirdly, volumes on spiritualism, occultism and other such claptrap, and fourthly, books on Lincoln,"
H.L. Mencken (1922)




The train rails in the middle of the gallery arrested my attention.  Outside the Judd buildings, this seemed to be one of the larger independent spaces.



Installation?  Reference to the film Giant?  A remnant from the obliterated past?



At Tillery Gallery down the street towards the Thunderbird and the tracks.  I thought of the rumored missile silos in nearby Alpine.  Tall tales abounded over the weekend.



More military surrealism.



On a table in front of the previous two paintings was this journal full of dinosaurs getting it on.  I can't remember the connection.



Still Friday night.  This was still at a place called Tillery.  DJs and video projections but no carrots nor wine...



We then biked over to Teatro something or other.  It was an annex to Marfa Ballroom.  There were posters of various rock shows all over the walls.  



The notorious rabbit rouser laid claim to a hutch at a gallery at the river's edge.



Hours later the sun came up.  Perhaps my most dramatic awakening yet.



In the chronology of events this is where the foto of Candid's house actually was taken.



Mobile food vending follows me everywhere.  I heard they sell hummus and falafel. But by the time I came back the line was already around the block and I had already committed to a fixed price breakfast at the Brown Recluse.  A total gouge.  $15 for eggs, coffee, and beans.  Yes, it was good but they could have had many more customers with a less ridiculous pricing scheme.  Rumors of a change in ownership also abounded.


Patrolling the cosmos.  

Art and immigration living in wonderful disharmony.  Sounds like the tale of two Marfas as we know it.




At first I thought this might refer to anti-Mexican immigration or even anti-artist immigration. Instead, it's against the building of a highway to push Mexican trucks and commerce through here.



Soon I would be burnt and dehydrated.



Infrastructure begins.  Probably a great place for 5 year olds to network.



From the name of a character out of a Dostoevsky novel, supposedly.  Proto-existentialist from the beginning.



The road towards Fort Davis.  I rode by bike out this far but then turned back.  



A wall where I sat exactly 3 years and one day before.  I was passing through from LA not knowing about Open House.  With a friend we boiled water and ate dehydrated split pea soup and then got out of town.  I believe jazz bassist William Parker was performing that night at the Ballroom.



Deer blinds become minimalist cubes, or is it the other way around?



The front window to a Upper East Side style corner store called Get Go.  Lots of quality items inside.  Too much to fathom.



Here, a view inside Beto's house.  Minutes earlier the poster on the wall went up.



A signature bike I found outside the Judd Compound.



A reference to the German prisoners of war from WWII?  Another tall tale was that due to the Geneva Conventions German prisoners captured in North Africa in the Rommel campaign had to be held in a similar climate so Marfa was chosen.







There were thousands of John Ford-esque moments.



The lines were blurred in this building.  Though it could have been a faux finisher's masterpiece, the walls seemed original but the artwork not.  These whimsical paintings were a welcomed counterpoint.



A ship on the horizon.  At first I thought it was Lajitas or Big Bend but that was naive.




The barracks and buildings on the Judd Compoud stretched on and on.  Europeans were everywhere. There's a wiff of a fairy tale in this image.



The Compound.



Next door some dudes from Lubbuck pulled up with a truckoad of art.



The infamous Camp Marfa compound, a former officer's quarters and home to German prisoners.  Also a few U.S. Presidents slept with various prostitutes here, supposedly.  What happens in Marfa, stays in Marfa...



A military leader that lent his name to the former compound.



Perhaps the best part of the Camp Marfa show.



Back downtown at Gallery Urbane, I believe.



San Antonio's Peter Zubiate set up shop in Marfa in a wonderful old adobe building on the west side of town.





The Judd home.  Supposedly, a real open house to his home but not quite.  I'll be honest, I felt a bit cheated.  I wanted to get a sense of life beyond boxes but that wasn't to be.



Was this a bedroom?  I wanted to go in the kitchen and library but it was closed off.



The courtyard of the Judd residence.  Thoughts of Paul Bowles began to surface.



Saturday night was a free bbq dinner on the main street.  Excitement was in the air.



As was rain.  Panic, chaos...



Various ways to stay dry were employed.








These two women must have been locals.  The rain emboldened them.



As it waned, brave pioneers ventured out for 15 minutes of fame.  Sadly, no streakers.



Food was served.



Mariachis and cherry pickers worked in harmony.



Looking west along the tracks.  The Amtrak Sunset Limited travels these same tracks.



A gallery by the post office I hit on the way back from the free dinner.





A tall bike outside the Sonic Youth show.  NYC style.  Various people would get nicknames, at least I assumed.  There was the dude on the tall bike.  The bald guy on the bike that looked like Moby, or at least his cousin Toby.  The dude wearing a kilt.  The dude will tall socks and a mesh shirt.  It goes on and on...



It wasn't as crowded as I thought it would be but enough for me not to get close.



The side offered a view glimpses.



And then it ended, with more mysterious lights.  A fitting way to be sent back to the magnetic pull of the big city.

And so goes another week on the streets of San Antonio Marfa.  As always, to be continued...

Nothing Left to Lose

Last night I attended the private screening at the San Antonio Museum of Art for "No More to Say & Nothing to Weep for: An Elegy for Allen Ginsberg," put on by the Friends of Contemporary Art of SAMA. Prior to the film, Rudy Choperena was introduced as the new president of its Friends of Contemporary Art group. He has been an active figure in the local arts scene serving on the board of Blue Star Contemporary Art Center and the Southwest School of Art & Craft. He addressed the crowd of 50-plus attendees with his plans for the Friends of Contemporary Art, which included taking a trip to the New Orleans Biennial in October 2008 and visiting museum groups such as the Phoenix Art Museum.

After that business was taken care of the film began. I had very little knowledge of Ginsberg's work; of course I was familiar with "Howl" and his importance as a member of the Beat Generation but aside from that I was clueless. The film definitely shined light on the complex character that Ginsberg was, as John Philip Santos said prior to the film, Ginsberg was the "conscience of the Beat poets." He connected literary fiction to a contemporary setting. The film was a fine representation of how Gingsberg was passionate about other things aside from poetry such as music and social activism. I left gaining a newfound appreciation for Ginsberg and his fellow Beat Generation members. (The title of this blog is an ode to Ginsberg and his tireless efforts.)

On a somewhat related side note, I've found myself a little more at ease when it comes to analyzing creative pieces of work. I credit that with a lecture I caught last week "How to Look at Art Without Feeling Inferior," given by Milton Esterow publisher of the oldest, most widely read fine arts magazine ARTnews. I attended so I could gain a better understanding of the art community. Like most people I know, I'm bewildered with the art world. In my defense though, I am willing to learn how to better appreciate art and all that it encompasses. Esterow's lecture opened my eyes. I love art and I embrace the kind of art that I like, because as Esterow stated, "people must judge art for themselves." While I beamed with pride knowing that my thinking was actually acceptable in the art community; I was further justified with his comments to trust our own judgment of art and to be as brutally honest as can be. He also went onto say that in art there are three elements to consider: look, look, look. He compared it to the obvious realtors ideology of location, location, location. I was happy that such a simple concept could apply to the analysis of art. When you think about it, it really does make sense.

So I must leave you now, to ponder what my next blog will be. Will a First Friday show intrigue me enough to write about it? Or will I have such an amazing time during Beethoven Maennerchor's Oktoberfest that I'll do an account of it. The world will never know. Until next time.

On the Street

Friday Night Lights

The weekend was filled with fantasmal cycle activities.  Another tree fallen in the San Antonio woods?  Or a new beginning? Luckily, a camera was present to capture... something.  




Downtown Highlife rode again.   The first commandment being 'every ride is a new route' was somehow faithfully held, even if by default, neglect, and parliamentary procedure.  

Having run out of ideas of where to go, I've resorted to google maps to try and plot last second twists and turns.  The benevolent dictatorship period perhaps has come to an end.   Collaboration, of the good kind, is needed.



After my route ended, group dynamics took over and we moved forward to the surprise of no one. At 10:30 we ended at Ghetto Good Cafe.  Slab Cinema had set up a screen and we watched a documentary about a drug-addled weirdie who jousted atop double (tall) bikes.  

This seemed to be a winning combination between Ghetto Good lending their outdoor space, Slab Cinema lending their cinematic passion, and Downtown Highlife lending their drunken, energetic bodies. Hopefully this cross-pollination will happen again.

Representatives



Saturday night many of the Downtown Highlifers took off to Austin on a chartered bus to join in the 25th Austin Harvest Moon/Moonlight Cruise.  We met at Bluestar at 10:30 pm and left an hour later.  The ride in Austin began at 2:00am.  To clarify, that isn't an early time, especially when driving from out of town.




The bus and the horse trailer and the foolish fotographer, circa 10:47pm.



Somehow everything almost fit, circa 11:05pm.

At 12:45 pm we pulled into Buda or Kyle and found an HEB.  The bus pulled right up to the front door and all 23 of us jumped out to find a bathroom and make a last second beer/wine run.



Flash forward to Austin and a different grocery store and the first stop of the 25 mile cruise race.  There were probably 400 people, though this foto doesn't quite relay that information.  I was doing good at this point.  Though someone had slipped me another mickey, I was able to race to the front of the pack to arrive in this parking lot in 3rd place.  That was the last sniff I would get of the front of the pack, circa 2:51am.



Nerdcore?  This dood rode a Gilligan's Island-esque bike generator he used to power his amp and stereo so he could spit Sugarhill Gang styled raps.  Goofy.  Real goofy.  But a crucial aspect to the total experience, circa 4:01am.



Somewhere in the top left corner is the apparition of the state capital.  We ended atop a parking garage and looked across the overcast skies.  East, west, north, south all blurred.  I noticed the Dobie Mall in the distance and knew to go the other way, circa 5:05am.

We made it back to the parking lot where the bus was stashed.  On the way I stopped by a Taco Cabana on Riverside and S. Lamar and tried a pupusa, which I didn't know was on the menu.  The manager bragged of its Buffalo chicken sauce. Was this fusion cuisine or a loss in translation?  Or something worse?

We boarded the bus at 6am and made the long journey home.  While a small minority blasted the boombox and danced in the aisles, the rest of us leaned our heads against the window, watched the sun begin to rise and slowly slipped into unconsciousness.  Something extraordinary had happened.  

As I approached sleep, I felt how great it was to be alive.  The night had taken me to this one fleeting moment. But before I could fully appreciate its importance, I was gone...

And so goes another week on the streets of San Antonio (and beyond.)  As always, to be continued...