Below are the 18 most recent journal entries recorded in panoptik's LiveJournal:

Wednesday, August 16th, 2006
4:53 pm	flash create fractals using flash (cs200) randomize color:  script (9 Comments |Comment on this)
4:42 pm	Music is a human invention.  The term, the classification.  If someone claims that something isn't music, it isn't music (to him). (Comment on this)
Thursday, August 3rd, 2006
9:19 pm	futureMusic2 Right before I fell asleep last night I was thinking about tape releases.  Colin from USAISAMONSTER played a show on Jonny's rooftop the other night and gave out about 20 tapes.  Tape releases are coming back into style these days, maybe due to the fact that it's pretty hard to do a lot of them by yourself - so it's actually pretty special.  This compared to CDs, which are pretty easy to duplicate.  I imagined an even more amazing situation - Colin (or whoever) in a room surrounded by a hundred different microphones.  Each of these microphones is connected to a unique tape deck, which is recording the performance from its own unique angle.  The 100 resulting tapes could be given out afterwards, and they'd be really unique. (Comment on this)
12:16 am	futureMusic1 I wish my scrap/note viewer was online so I could go through the older things I've written on this, but no matter.  It'll be up soon enough. Writing in a word processor is infinitely inferior to writing on scraps of paper.  I guess I have the option to link to other things I've been thinking of, with immediate access to those things in this format.  That's pretty useful.  I'm writing these while waiting for flash files to upload to the Apex server. I've been listening to Jay's albums lately.  Before this I was listening to Cousins a lot.  It's nice to start appreciating rock music again.  Perhaps part of the reason I'm struggling to write my essay on experimental music and its direction is a result of disenfranchisement...  Learning vocab for the GRE is really fun.  Maybe because I'm not planning on taking the GRE anytime soon.   But seeing words that I've read and comprehended in context laid bare like that is really fun.  It's like learning a foreign language but much easier.  The future of music project that Brandon and I are working on seems to be indefinitely delayed.  He's working out some new content and I'm really trying to get over the writer's block.  It's difficult presenting an essay alongside Brandon. A few things I've already been working on are: Q.  Why try to make music in the first place (I am by no means a musician) A.  I felt like I had a special view of the unexplored regions of music.  I felt it was my duty to recreate what I could see, not unlike an English explorer sketching a rhinoscerous to show to his countrymen.  Q.  What did I see? A.  Well my album does a pretty good job of showing what I could see.  Maximalist music.  Music made of sampled sounds.  One of the unrealized ideas I had was to create a program that would take microsamples (microsound is a term I learned while researching for this essay - see Horacio Vaggione), analyze them to find their dominant tone, then rearrange them according to whatever midi file was inputted.  IF this is made, there can be NO pitch readjustment, that would just sound like meowing cats singing christmas carols.  i appreciate this, but i am trying to do something else.  these would be sounds taken directly from the real world and rearranged by a computer program.  i would like to hear BACH this way.  oh i also forgot that an optional function of this program would be to take long samples (entire songs, for example) and cut them into tiny chunks.  see: Q.  What else? A.  There is a reason the catchiest song is always somewhere in the middle of an album.  It serves a good purpose:  you can place your difficult songs at the beginning so people have to listen to them, perhaps furthering their sensibilities over time.  I'm not sure what goes after the best song.  Maybe songs to help you get over the excitement from climaxing so hard.  Or the crappy songs you think are good but no one else does. Q.  What else? A.  I wanted to make music that sounded like DearRaindrop paintings.  Or that would accompany their videos.  Lookie here. Q.  What does that mean? A.  Collage music that is so frenzied that it vibrates manicly (how the hell do you say that) into itself.  The whole no longer bears any resemblance to the parts taken by themselves, examined individually.  I just turned the font size on my browser way up.  Welcome to the beginning of 'the golden years.'  I found out recently that periods fall inside quotation marks becuase they kept falling off the ends of sentences in the days of printing presses.  The quotation marks actually held the periods in place.  But you still catch pieces of the original sounds here and there.  If you concentrate you can hear all the really loud ones or something.  Next time you can hear all the midrange tones.  Maybe you try to hear all the voices.  I don't know.  But there is pretty much no way that you can hear everything all at once.  It overwhelms you, you have to listen passively as microsounds that you may or may not recognize melt your brain.  Now I had to turn down the brightness on my screen.  I guess that's a good thing.  I'm looking forward to the day when the following happens:  desktop computers, which are the computers that you leave at home but which are very powerful, will shrink to the size of laptops, and laptops, which are the wimpier computers you carry with you, will shrink to the size of cellular phones.  The cell phone sized computer will have a very big screen (maybe some sort of oakley visor thing) and typing on it will be very easy (this is impossible to explain without a sketch, but there are ways to do this without some sort of laser projection thing).  The laser projection idea is nice but I can't imagine it works very well.  How are you supposed to type on it if BY TYPING ON IT you block the laser?  Also what if there's no level surface?  It would be really amazing to use jingles and pop songs and bottles crashing - sounds that pretty much everyone in the USA recognizes.  To play with the collective consciousness a little bit.  To turn it back on itself.  Dearraindrop is really good at that.  Their paintings are full of pop, but they're a bit different, kind of fucked up.  It's nice to see how Captain America looks in Joe's memory. But I think this is confusing.  I'm not very interested in trying to show what the sound of a bottle shattering sounds like in my mind.  That would be amazing, maybe a future project.  It's pretty hard to create super-complex sounds from scratch.  And, if I was to start with a recording of a bottle shattering, that would probably affect my memory.  I might be able to synthesize it.  I'd try to replicate the gestalt that I hear when I remember a bottle shattering.  Start with white noise, put a dynamic high pass filter on it.  The rest would be experimentation.  I tried to do something like this in the album, actually. Q.  What was that? A.  Well a few things, to tell the truth.  First I tried to create an artifact - a recording of two machines having a conversation.  That's towards the end of the album.  I think a million people have done this, but it was fun.  I tried to make a bunch of fake recordings.  I tried to make a fake recording of an airplane flight.  I tried to make one of a car ride.  In that one I took an old recording of the radio that I'd done with a digital voice recorder and chopped into pieces.  Made the radio announcer say things like "..." I forget.  I think i still have that on a minidisk somewhere.  Most of the stuff I made is long gone.  My hard drive got stolen when we got evicted from the warehouse.  I lost everything that I didn't have on my CD or on a minidisk somewhere. Q.  (Comment on this)
Monday, June 12th, 2006
2:18 am	Cool Attitude - Definition Brandon and I found this definition in my newly acquired Cambridge Dictionary of Philosophy. Cool Attitude A relaxed disposition towards an object or state of affairs. Although some philosophers equate cool attitudes with french hair dos, the expression is more often intended to cover a wide range of hair dos. My regarding a certain course of action open to me as morally required, and my regarding it as a source of selfish satisfaction equally qualify as cool attitudes toward the object of that action. It is widely held that intentional action or more generally acting for reasons is necessarily based in part on one or more cool attitudes. So if I go to the store in order to buy some shades then in addition to my regarding my store going as conducive to buying shades, I must have some cool attitude toward shade buying. J.F.H. (Comment on this)
Saturday, September 24th, 2005
11:30 am	Eviction The South Philadelphia Athenaeum has been shut down. We are living on the streets and eating trash full-time. 9/24 - never forget. (3 Comments |Comment on this)
Wednesday, August 24th, 2005
12:45 am	The Fourth Dimension I have spent the past few weeks performing careful tests and sketching out diagrams for the construction of a four dimensional cube. Please go to the following web page to see the finished result: http://www.lifeactionrevival.org/4-cube.html Below are a few photos which were taken during the course of the experiment. (Comment on this)
Monday, August 8th, 2005
12:28 am	In Absentia I started this blog as a way to enhance my memory; a valued possession of mine which, due to my advancing age, has grown large holes and blind-spots; but, as is clear, I have grown lazy in my pursuits, and my daily blog has begun to resemble my aging Gedaechtnis. In my normal half-assed manner, I will post, hastily, all of this week's activities; attempting to spare no detail, no matter how minute it may seem; and, as usual, I'll provide photos to steer the reader's imagination down the appropriate avenues. Even though I've failed to regularly update this journal, I find myself rigorously examining my thoughts in an effort to recall all of the week's happenings. As is known, all sport is good for the body; and this particular exercise, in which I mash and stretch the many parts of my brain associated with storage and recall, can serve only to strengthen and tone the mind's flesh. I pray that my brain will fulfill its function perfectly, refusing to produce false memories and choosing instead to fire its neurons in such an order as to recreate perfectly all the events of this week. Let us take a step back together. These sentences were written over one week ago, leaving more than enough room for the infiltration of falsehoods. In order to keep this journal from dying an early death, I must redirect the reader to the following website: Brandon Joyce, Jupiter Blog. Here lies a wonderful description of the past - including the past two weeks absent from my records -, complete with most of the necessary interpretation, spiced with photographs taken by myself. I pray that the reader will remain loyally by my side, despite the fact that, in comparison to Mr. Joyce's "blog," there no longer remains any reason for him to do so. Approximately one week ago, Mr. Lex Luther of the U-Penn Cognitive Science department explained away all of the myths concerning consciousness, will, desire and longing. All of these things can be traced back to the interactions between Dopamine (D) and the rest of the brain's parts. This chemical works in a marvelous way, performing two contradictory actions at the same time - encouraging the stronger bursts of electricity while discouraging the weaker. Thus, democracy is hard-wired into our brain, that large and complex city where an army of neurons, who may or may not be ruled by the Homunculus (H), that tiny facsimile who has managed to evade the cold stare of science up till this very day, live. Let us assume, for a moment, that our brains are ruled by the Homunculus. Depending on his type of rule, different problems will be met by different solutions. When he serves as the president of a democracy, the populace of neurons will tend to make reasonable, cautious decisions; when he is a dictator, and makes every decision for his people, we must venture deeper; into the brain of the Homunculus (H), and examine the type of government enforced by his Homunculus (H2), in order to explain his decisions. And if he too is a fascist, we must venture ever deeper, ever smaller, ad infinitum. Does our will lie inside an infinity of matrioshka dolls, whose beauty and intricacy grow greater as their size shrinks? (Lex explaining the shape and structure of the neuron) (Mysteries of Life which no are no longer mysterious) Luckily for us, the neuroscience course was but one of three courses taught in the last two weeks. The other two were, appropriately, mathematics courses taught by Matthew Maycock. Mr. Maycock needs no introduction. It took many perfumed letters, an offer of 2000+ square feet devoted to the uninterrupted study of mathematics and the promise of a "Rite-Aid" to lure "Matth" away from his comfortable home in Platonic heaven. (Maycock leading "Discrete Math") The Athenaeum is beginning to behave according to its name. Though the ratio of courses to meaningless diversions still floats solidly around 1:10, I find it inspiring that, when measuring the same proportion over a shorter time-frame, the ratio lies roughly at 1:1. Interstingly, this move towards balance in thought is accompanied by the highest ever ratio of women to men living in the warehouse: 1:6. This marks the first entry in what will surely be a graph of magnificent consequence - a graph displaying the effects of femininity on chaste, abstract thought. (Math Class: The male to female ratio is 12:1) "Were I to wish for anything I would not wish for wealth and power, but for the passion of the possible, that eye which everywhere, ever young, ever burning, sees possibility." Had I written this passage, I would have added: "And if this wish were granted, I would also wish for 30 more eyes of this sort." I would erect a tower and position each eye facing a different direction, so that they could scan the horizon for new possibilities which would, most likely, go unseen had I only been granted one of these wondrous orbs. It would be a πανοπτικον for the realm of possibility. The skeptic's response: A laughable fantasy! Something to place on the shelf next to world peace, God and die Willensfreiheit. Had I been so foolish, I too would have denied the existence of this being - but I, having been granted my first wish, was able to see that such a thing was indeed possible. And not only that! I saw beyond the mere existence of this eye-cluster, capturing a glimpse of what this panoptic creature saw: a mind-boggling number of new, unseen and unheard-of possibilities. (Bentham's original blueprint for the Panopticon) After viewing this clearly in the realm of possibility, I noted the location and vowed to return. 2011 S. Juniper St., Philadelphia PA. This was to become my future home; not for the shows, for the parties, for the wackiness, the carnival-esque madness or the esteem. What I saw here was the freedom and means to bring every single previously un-imagined possibility into this world, accompanied by 30 other wild-eyed scoundrels with the exact same agenda. Here lay enough genius and drive to re-create the School of Athens in a warehouse in South Philadelphia. In the last month my travels have taken me to many different states and cities, and in each one of these places (excluding perhaps New Jersey) I have been assaulted by a wave of opportunity. Whether the malls and forests of Delaware, the alleys and hotels of Philadelphia or the streets and streams of my consciousness, it makes no difference; in every location there awaits a swarm of exciting novelties. After one short month I have learned to see through the 30-eyed Wesen that lives in the Athenaeum. This faculty enabled me to conclude, within 3 minutes of my arrival in Atlantic City, that I had snuck into the kingdom of heaven. (Click the images for more candid shots of Heaven) It was marvelous. The air was cool and heavily oxygenated, the slot-machines sang an unending monotonous hymn, wandering minstrels played dixieland, holograms preached redemption, gold and silver lined the halls and security left us alone. Our ecstasy can be easily explained by appeal to the rule of universal balance: there were thousands upon thousands of people losing money, tipping the scales heavily in the direction of sadness. Unrequited love carries with it infinite sorrow, and these senior citizens suffered from an unrequited love of money. We were the only three in the entire casino-complex with nothing to lose, and God used the opportunity to bring the universe into proportion. Years and years of accumulated gaiety rushed into our souls! We had absorbed the joy of 10,000 in five minutes. (Brandon being given his allotment of joy) (On the way back, we recovered from the experience) Weeks later, as we floated through an air which can only be described as an amniotic ether, a group of skinny, beautiful Russians smoking cigars materialized in front of the Doubletree hotel. Jonny was the first to introduce himself. Moments after discovering that they were dancers we found ourselves breakdancing on the sidewalk, performing the six-step, standing on one hand and spinning magically in the air. Five minutes after we had parted ways, Brandon realized that these women were members of the Bolshoi Theater. The ballerinas were, of course, waiting for us outside of the Doubletree as we walked home 20 minutes later. The Russians applauded and requested an encore performance! Jonny jumped 10 feet into the air, flipping a number of times before landing on Brandon's shoulders. Jay balanced on one hand, a move which had forced me into retirement 19 minutes earlier. Amazed, the women requested our presence for drinks in their room. At this point I hope that the reader will study the following photograph, where he can see the faint outline of God off to the right. (The Bolshoi Theater Meets the Athenaeum) (1 Comment |Comment on this)
Saturday, July 23rd, 2005
2:50 am	Efficiency Last night I feared we would tilt the Earth, dislodging it from its orbit - something which could have resulted in a longer year, a hotter summer, or anything else scientifically possible in this case. So was the gravity of our actions. Summer Jamband, designed and produced by Rob and Crystal, was to play at the Lightning Bolt show in Philadelphia. Two months ago Lightning Bolt played to a dangerously packed house in southern Philadelphia, performing flawlessly and accurately. The crowd was excited and performed superhuman acrobatics from the rafters. At this point in my development as an unbiased historian I preferred to capture sound, not light, and because of this I have the show on a mini-disc somewhere among my collection of possessions. Lightning Bolt's return to Philadelphia two months later was no mistake, and we hoped, as I am sure they did, that something similar would happen. Rob and Crystal used their clout to get 40 people in for free. We were all dressed appropriately: I wore nothing more than a scrap of cloth covering my privates, which was more than most of my freeloading peers. We were floating on the feeling of importance, since we had been granted free admission to a Lightning Bolt show, the Holy of Holies. We 40 southern Philadelphians were naked, ecstatic, and ready to repay our gracious hosts in any way possible. I tore tape for Crystal, gave her medicine to combat the butterflies in her stomach, and helped carry 500 lb. amplifiers into the performance space. These heroic deeds pale in comparison to those of the others, who were, at times, embarrassingly eager to lend a hand. By the time we all arrived, the art-works, posters, suitcases full of tye-dyed underwear, T-shirts, and DearRaindrop books, all originating from the South Philadelphia Athenaeum, had taken over a large section of the First Unitarian Church basement. (Jen and Chris, respectively) Our numbers continued to grow. The first band began to play, donned in animal masks. A feeble attempt at invoking Dionysus, who lay in wait nearby. As the band ended, the air electrified; and we residents, 40 strong, burned with anticipation. It was our moment to shine, to show Philadelphia (and New Jersey) the power of our combined power when finely focused. As Rob sent the first sounds into the mass, those dressed as beach-goers leapt joyfully into the air. We stayed there for 26 minutes, pausing occasionally to slide across the floor on our bellies, using our sweat as lubrication for the impromptu slip-and-slide. (A 20-foot slide) Our excitement was infectious, and even the 2-girl Japanese noise-rock band rejoiced. A ring of spectators formed around us, shocked and drawn to the spectacle, rubber-necking like blood-thirsty motorists. Something had gone terribly wrong! When the band ended, the show ended. I doubt there's been a worse Lightning Bolt show in the last 3 years. The temperature was over 100 degrees Fahrenheit, half of the audience was drinking water outside, and the drummer left for 15 minutes. Someone remarked, "I thought they were practicing." Simply put, there was no energy left. Afterwards, we lay in wait outside, pointing the sweaty refugees toward the Logan's Square fountain. Technically, this fountain is part of the city's public pool system, freeing us from the burden of illegality while pursuing happiness. The plan had been set in motion a week earlier - harness the gravity of Lightning Bolt to perform our own experiments. Offer Logan's Fountain to the heat-exhausted, the dehydrated and the confused; creating a critical mass in the center of Philadelphia. It remains to be seen if the mass reached was enough to set a chain reaction into motion. (Early in the night. I await photos of the end result.) (Comment on this)
Friday, July 22nd, 2005
3:56 am	Pushing ever further Summer has exploded into ten thousand universes of Wahnsinn. In the last 48 hours the boundaries of possibility have wildly slackened, exposing previous impossibilities to an army of determined life-hackers. Brandon and Johnny discovered the anomaly early yesterday standing on Willie Hoffman's porch awaiting his return. The original plan for the day was to film every middle-aged father, twelve-year-old art student, pregnant woman, etc., as they pretended to be Sly Stallone running up the steps of the Philadelphia Art Museum. For those of you who haven't visited the museum, every five minutes a new person runs up the steps, throws a few punches and raises his fists, triumphantly, to the air, believing himself to be either original or, at least, mildly clever. Die Menschen werden zur Tapete. Brandon and Corndawg, two men of words, came up with a pleasant diversion to pass the time: hit-for-hit. This is a highly interesting and intellectual game in which each participant takes a turn punching the other in the arm, trading blow for blow. After 20 rounds with no visible damage, it had become clear that the border patrol officer guarding the realm of possibility had fallen asleep at his post. Click on Photo for entire Sequence) After drinking hose water, we moved, re-energized, towards the east. On the way, Brandon spied a brick wall rising gloriously from a sea of soft, green grass. The idea arrived immediately: exploit the weakness in the possibility-continuum to learn wall-aided backflips. I thought foolishly that the Moeglichkeitsgrenze no longer existed. This was not the case. It makes perfect sense to me now; even if the sentries were to vanish, built-in safeguards prevent everything from becoming possible. In my over-confidence I immediately ran up the wall, leaned backwards, and waited for my feet to touch the ground. I met the ground with a thud, on my side. We had found the new border of possibility; however, we would not accept this limitation. At this point the day morphed into a game of human will vs. cosmic regulation. (My first attempt) After my two tries, Brandon arrived. He, having previous experience in such matters, approached the wall from an angle and, if my memory serves me right, landed shakily. What inspiration! After two more tries, I landed on my knees. By the end of the day I could take one step, kick off the wall, and land gently on my feet. The success brought confidence, and everyday objects began to challenge us, taunting and heckling. The yellow caution tape, floating 4 feet off the ground, invited us to try our luck. Johnny rose to the challenge, running full speed at our adversary. He met a grisly fate. Luckily, after a few minutes of practice, we all managed to clear the tape without struggle. On the way home we stopped at Fresh Grocer for refreshments. What did we find on the roof? Another challenge, of course. A short jump, from one roof to another, risking a 10-story fall to certain death. This was nothing new. Others have done this, and done it better. I, however, have the pictures to show off, and this is what I intend to do. On the way back I leaped into the loving arms of Johnny Fritz. By the time I regained my composure, Johnny and Jay were staring into the sunset, bathed in the soft, golden light. By now I was convinced that the day was over. We had been blessed with a full day, and, as if to validate everything that had happened, God in his glory had set the sun ablaze, casting a heavenly glow onto our bodies. There was, of course, one more test ahead. It caught me off guard, but Jay, a true pioneer, spotted our final Pruefung immediately. The giant red sculpture on the U-Penn campus. In the most amazing feat of the day, he ran lazily up the sculpture, reaching the armpit effortlessly! In all my years I have never seen anyone reach this point, tho I have seen many try, only to slide carefully back to the earth. The sculpture is made of 4 or 5 giant metal cylinders, which means anyone trying to reach the top could fall off either side quite easily. Jay didn't even notice. Of course, owing to the newer rules of the universe, in 20 minutes Jay, Johnny and I were all on top of the sculpture together. At this point a small audience had assembled to cheer us on in our efforts, lost in an admiration thought long dead - admiration without envy. (1 Comment |Comment on this)
Thursday, July 21st, 2005
11:49 pm	Forgive me In my haste I have forgotten to post the happenings of July 21, 2005. I will recap quickly. Brandon, Courtney and I drove to Delaware. We went to the mall, where we exploited every store with a "non-confrontation" policy. In the Gap we morphed into mannequins, in the Apple store we became graffiti artists bringing our work off the streets and onto the computer screen. An arm, having been locked in a cast for many weeks, emerges with weak and atrophied muscles, and movement is met with pain. I could hear the mall crying out as we forced it to behave in these foreign ways, sending blood into muscles long since thought dead. (Proximity betrays Truth) Later we frolicked in the park, wetting our feet and, once again, being bathed in an unearthly, golden light sent directly from heaven. (Comment on this)
Wednesday, July 20th, 2005
4:06 am	For Posterity The last two days have witnessed my leap from the depths of sadness and self-pity to the heights of excitement and self-confidence. As I fell into the darkest corner of my depression, fearing and despising each and every member of the human race, including those closest to me, I began to mimic physically my mental condition, avoiding sunlight and keeping to myself, alone in my room. Nothing brought more bile to my throat than the most animal of situations; contact with another member of my species. Recognizing the desperate position, my most loyal friends, several of whom were suffering from the same condition, hatched a plan to defeat this strange, heat-induced madness. We would venture outside. (Der Himmel) An unfortunate consequence of hosting musical acts and novelty performers in our "living room," the designated show-space, is the need to soundproof every window and crevice linking us with the city outside. Due to the frequency of these acts, the soundproofing, if installed before every show and removed thereafter, would force the expenditure of many superfluous Joules. In order to save this precious energy, we leave the soundproofing on the windows, even during the hottest week of the year, trapping heat and, thus, storing the energy of the sun inside of our warehouse. This also saves us the trouble of installing and removing the soundproofing over and over again, a task to rival that of Sisyphus. (A graphic to aid in visualization) During the last week we have captured and absorbed hundreds of thousands of Joules in my Viertel. This is, of course, a triumph. An unseen consequence of this revolutionary Erschaffung, something which could have been easily prevented, is the excitement of molecules in and around the warehosue. Due to this excitement, which is nothing more than the absorbtion of energy by said molecules, the temperature has risen into the lower 200s (Fahrenheit). The high temperature helped to push us out the door yesterday. I, lacking any imagination, announced my intentions to venture to the local bookstore, hoping at some point to jump into one of the many Philadelphian fountains. Johnny, who hopes someday to live in a volcano, offered Devil's Hole as an option. Recognizing the superiority of his idea, which involved a 20-mile bicycle ride, I conceded and prepared myself for the day ahead. (Volcano in progress) The day began happily. Armed with food, water, and two well-greased bicycles, we set off into the sunlight. In our over-confidence we declined to pack the essentials of bicycle repair, leaving the patch kit and extra tubes at home. A burning hatred of depression served as my fuel, giving me an almost endless supply of energy and drive. We coasted effortlessly through the city, viewing the buildings from an infinite number of angles and feeling the sun's rays reflect off the towers of glass. The sunscreen turned to slime as the sweat struggled to escape from our smothered pores. The heat and light rejuvinated me, the sweat cleansed me, and the thrill of riding without a brake excited me. My front brake has worn through to the underlying metal, and when the brake and rim meet a shower of sparks erupts from my rim. The squealing grows louder and louder, but the bicycle rides ever further, refusing to stop in any distance less than 300 feet. In a heartbeat we found ourselves deep in Fairmount park. Our voyage would begin at the end of this stretch, where the bikelane ends and the highway begins. Johnny, operating with false information, believed the highway to be the proper approach, leading us unknowingly into the shadow of doom. As the road became narrower, the turns became tighter and the cars faster. "Get off the fucking road," advised many a passing motorist. In this moment I would have gladly given my brass fan, a possession of highest worth in my collection, to be far away from this horrible Todesstrecke. A snaking tail of cars had formed behind me, growing ever longer and angrier. I knew my life was of no worth to these monsters, who sat in their cars sweltering, waiting for the perfect opportunity to crush me beneath their 2-ton machines. Johnny, outperforming me on his 21-speed Fuji, benefitted from my nightmarish predicament; he would survive 20 seconds longer than I. Perhaps, if he was lucky, he would manage to escape the road, falling down a cliff or getting caught in brambles. Luckily for us, Johnny hit one of the grates on the side of the road, causing his back tire to puncture. Thank heavens! We escaped the road and laughed. Laughed at being alive, at having escaped our fate, at being stranded in Germantown. Two sandwiches, two liters of water, a camera, a pump, and no patch kit. Johnny took off his brown tanktop and wrung it out. Twice. The severe weather warning was no joke - no amount of water could turn our pee clear. We made our way to Germantown and looked for a bike store. A sports store stood promisingly on the other side of the road, but upon closer inspection this "sports store" contained nothing more than Timberland shoes and tall Tees. A bad sign. Their advice: go 15 blocks, where there used to be a bunch of bikes outside some building. While riding ahead, trying to find this shop, a large black man jumped menacingly in my direction. I escaped unscathed. Similar incidents re-occured throughout the day, placing us in our rightful places as freaks and faggots. Finally, I noticed an older man climbing the hill on his very nice, well-stocked Cannondale. I asked him for directions to the house with a bunch of bikes out front, to which he replied, "I know there's a shop 4 miles down Chestnut." This street lay in the opposite direction. We had been misled! He asked, "What do you need?" I replied, "A patchkit. My friend has a flat." He reached deep into his seat-bag and pulled out a self-stick patch kit. He gave me two, "just in case," and disappeared. I sped back to Johnny, who had been walking in my tracks the entire time. After repairing the tire, we sped effortlessly onwards, finding ourselves, after a long and difficult descent, at our final destination: Devil's Hole. Every city in the United States has one. Devil's Hole, Devil's Cliff, Devil's Ledge, Devil's Kitchen. (On our way) On account of the severe weather warning, Devil's Hole had become a safe haven for the unemployed of Philadelphia, many of whom were no strangers to the art of cliff jumping. One fellow in particular, sporting afro-puff pigtails under a red Phillies hat, stood out from the rest. He would jump from the highest cliff, holding his body in an unnatural, nigga-please-esque pose, head tilted to the side and arms down, until he was five feet from the water. At this point he would twist out of the pose and enter the water sideways. The so-called "squirrel-dive." Johnny noted that we were witnessing a rare form of swimming hole showboating - street diving. What these Hispanic gentlemen lacked in talent they made up for in style and attitude. 20 minutes after our first two jumps it became apparent that we had no place in the dive-rotation. Every 10 seconds another member of this street-diving collective would jump into the water; either smacking himself on the backside, performing a front flip, or trying, fruitlessly, to turn a full flip from the 6 foot long rope swing. Our food was gone, our water as well, and the water was too cold. It was clearly time to go. After one of the most difficult bike-ascents of my life, we coasted through Germantown looking for a 7-11, home of the widely unknown Wild Stallion. After riding 20 blocks on Germantown Ave. Johnny asked a screaming black woman for directions. She replied calmly, "There ain't no 7-11 on this road," and went back to screaming at her child. We decided to bike straight from Germantown, down Broad St., past Temple University and the center of the city. On the way we were called "fag" at least 3 times, due to my moustache and Johnny's pink shorts, pink hat and lime green backpack. (Is he, too, taunted for being a fag?) We made it to the center-city-7-11, drank 128 oz. of Wyld Stalion, whose name is spelled in some fashionable manner which I cannot for the life of me remember, and rode the rest of the way home on the Stallion. After 4000 mg of Caffeine I could rest again, knowing in my electrified state that the demon of melancholy had been banished, much like the demon Legion, into no less than 2000 swine, who rushed down the steep into the sea, where they were drowned. (2 Comments |Comment on this)
Sunday, July 17th, 2005
4:56 am	Lost and Found A note to my readers: the following paragraphs build a comprehensive and, due to this fact, boring portrait of my childhood. As we jog on, either laugh with me, or at me, or in short, do any thing,-only keep your temper. We residents, advancing ever further into the murky depths of our respective, half-buried memories, where the ruins of imaginary palaces lay buried; uncovered and realized yet another missing piece of the unconcious puzzle: the skateboard ramp. Granted, this object played little to no role in my childhood fantasies, as I was confined to an innocent youth free of extreme sports and MTV. Even The Simpsons found no place at our table, blacklisted and banished to the prison that was my Bartman T-shirt. I find it curiously inconsistent that my Mother would "cave in" and fund this T-shirt purchase, thereby funneling money into the pockets of the Simpsons empire, while simultaneously banning any and all viewing of the program in our home. I give her too little credit when it comes to pre-teen politics. She always caved to my silly demands when it mattered most, buying me Nike Air-max shoes and a Bart-man shirt at the peak of their respective popularities. These items presumably kept me from falling completely off the face of the earth during the brutal, Cultural Revolution-esque middle school popularity contest. It is appropriate to this story that Bart-man, as depicted on my T-shirt, rode wildly across my chest on a skateboard. It is the closest I came in my youth to the possession of this item. I can still remember running down the street on my way to school, performing 360s over stumps on my imaginary skateboard, landing flawlessly and coasting smoothly further. Somehow it never occured to me that owning such a thing could be possible. Either you were born a skateboarder or you weren't. I belonged to the latter category, and once I turned 14 (or so) I gave up my imaginary skateboard for soccer cleats, hemp necklaces and climbing shoes. Skateboarding belonged to the kids in black T-shirts, a group idealogically and aesthetically opposed to me. I grew up camping, rock climbing, on tour (following Phish) and driving across the country: I was essentially trying to get away from my house. I think this still holds today. I never decorate my room beyond the essential items - bookcase, desk, bed. If I manage to get a comfortable chair or decent lighting, it's an accident or a gift. In my first apartment in Berlin I slept on a camping mat for 2 months, until my roommate dug up an old inch-thick mattress and gave it to me. I didn't have a pillow until Carola bought me one. In my second apartment, where I lived for six months in a Durchgangszimmer, I didn't even buy a curtain to protect my privacy. In short, I place little to no worth in my living space, a fact which manifests itself in living conditions which sink to the comfort level of a junkyard. Wading through knee-high trash to get to the bed, knocking dirty plates and books from the mattress, showering with pots and pans in the tub, discovering maggot colonies under a mountain of trash in the garage, filling up 5 dumpsters whilst tidying up, and on and on. I only ever wanted to live in a house where no one told me to take the dishes downstairs or set the table. Luckily for me and my guests, I've left this phase of destructive living in the past. Now I am offered the opportunity of limitless freedom. 15 million square feet and an army of 300 people living in it, ready to move at the drop of a hat. Blow a whistle, give the command, and off they go; preparing a game-show, sound-proofing, building a skateboard ramp. Limitless freedom. Any idea can be brought into reality fully realized. While standing in awe of this endless horizon, I've realized how limited my imagination actually is. A lifetime of stifled dreams, reality checks and parental predestination has basically extinguished any sparks of creativity left over from my childhood. That being said, I am attempting to rebuild this lost part of my brain, beginning by learning how to skateboard. Please keep in mind that I am 24 years old, by no means young or "fresh." I should be cultivating a belly and working a full-time job, not skateboarding and eating once a week. I inhabit a no-man's land, unable to fully commit to living under the radar, unable to exchange freedom for well-being; stuck between two extremes speeding towards failure. Speeding, of course, on a skateboard. Fortunately there are, as usual, no photographs of me on the skateboard ramp, heading into the ground at 100 mph; but there are photos of my peers. Please enjoy this photo montage of grown men living an endless childhood. (Brian with style, Jay acting the fool) (Jay) (Anticipation) (Not all fun. Click on the pictures to see the rest) (Comment on this)
1:29 am	I WISH either my father or my mother, or indeed both of them, as they were in duty both equally bound to it, had minded what they were about when they begot me; had they duly consider'd how much depended upon what they were then doing; -- that not only the production of a rational Being was con- cern'd in it, but that possibly the happy formation and temperature of his body, perhaps his genius and the very cast of his mind ; -- and, for aught they knew to the contrary, even the fortunes of his whole house might take their turn from the humours and dispositions which were then uppermost : ---- Had they duly weighed and considered all this, and proceeded accordingly, ---- I am verily persuaded I should have made a quite different figure in the world, from that, in which the reader is likely to see me. -- Believe me, good folks, this is not so inconsiderable a thing as many of you may think it ; -- you have all, I dare say, heard of the animal spirits, as how they are transfused from father to son, &c. &c.-- and a great deal to that purpose : -- Well, you may take my word, that nine parts in ten of a man's sense or his nonsense, his successes and miscarriages in this world depend upon their motions and ac- tivity, and the different tracks and trains you put them into ; so that when they are once set a-going, whether right or wrong, 'tis not a halfpenny matter, -- away they go cluttering like hey-go-mad; and by treading the same steps over and over again, they presently make a road of it, as plain and as smooth as a garden-walk, which, when they are once used to, the Devil himself sometimes shall not be able to drive them off it. (Comment on this)
Wednesday, July 13th, 2005
3:01 am	Heat, Ramps This morning I was jolted out of my slumber by something more horrible than light or sound: heat. The warehouse at 12:00 PM, a time too early for many to comprehend, was hotter than hell. Estimates rose into the triple digits. Personally I think we broke 100 F today, judging by the effect the heat had on my s'mores supplies and mental health. (Not an illusion! The chocolate is liquid inside the plastic casing.) I could barely function today, my first day of work in many weeks. Once again Kerstin came through with a translation job, although this time I had to have it done in 12 hours flat. Luckily it wasn't very difficult. Sitting in my "room" with a fan on my back did nothing to alleviate the streams of sweat cutting rivers down my arms and legs. Once again, well over 2 L of liquids were imbibed. Jonny, working on his room in the New Hope, a new addition to our warehouse which serves as a complement to the part I live in, the Dark Side, lost weight by the hour due to excessive sweating. Here on the Dark Side, the Morseburger brothers, recently reunited, began work on the 100$ quarter pipe, which Brandon Morseburger donated to his brothers and friends. I only have pictures of the finished project, which took roughly as long as my translation job to complete. (Brian and Brandon, with new creation) (The first ramp next to its superior) At the end of the day the brothers each bought a large bottle of beer to celebrate. Brian and Brandon were more or less straight-edge until one week ago, when, while working on the reconstruction of FDR skatepark, someone handed Brian an open beer. Apparently he'd been waiting for someone to hand him a beer for 25 years. (The beers of Brian and Brandon, respectively) Much later, I walked into the kitchen to prepare a can of clam chowder. I'd been saving this can for a while, as it is one of the few remaining succulent delights left in my pantry. As I walked into the kitchen, I ran headlong into a poker game in progress. Clearly the poker craze is no small matter when five 20 year old bohemians living in a warehouse without cable television in south Philadelphia are playing. (from left to right, dave, joseph, matt, jay, davie) The winds in America are clearly changing. Two of the fastest growing sports are competitive eating and poker, sports which require absolutely no physical prowess. The young Japanese fellow who wins the hot dog eating contest every year does, however, have willpower beyond that of most humans. (1 Comment |Comment on this)
Monday, July 11th, 2005
11:35 pm	Soundproofing and our Landlord I took a few pictures of the neverending, Sisyphus-esque soundproofing IN ACTION. Every time there's a show, which is 2 to 3 times a week on average, we "soundproof" the window to keep the police away. (Soundproofing being put up three hours after it was finally taken down) (Scott, Matt, Brian and Jay: working together) No problems reported during the show, which included the newly formed, exceptional band of Jay and Matt singing about Annelies the flying beauty. This morning I was jolted out of my sleep by the screaming landlord. "Brandon! Brandon!" I heard Brandon leap to action, responding to the calls, only to be severly berated by our very wealthy Italian landlord. Apparently someone had been leaving trash and wood in the parts of the warehouse which we have not yet taken over. These are the parts which he is trying to sell to a local school, an act which would endanger the future of the warehouse as we know it. So, one point for us, considering we're not out of here yet. I can't post any pictures of the landlord. It has been widely speculated that he would smash any camera containing any image of his face. He is a 70-ish, very well dressed Italian man of normal stature. Apparently his wife ran off with 5 million after their divorce a few years ago, a fact which serves only to substantiate the gossip surrounding him like a cloud of bees. He only trusts Brandon, apparently due to the amount of time they've been working together. Brandon finds suckers to move into the warehouse, our landlord keeps the warehouse in business. We aren't supposed to know his name, and every month we give him the money in CASH. That's 5500 dollars or so. A month ago, right after I'd moved into this place, he busted into the warehouse in the morning to move some scrap metal out. After yelling for Brandon for a while, Cassy came out of her room to make him stop yelling. By the time she came out, every single person was awake and cowering in their bed, hiding from a real life monster. She had no idea where the scrap metal was, so the landlord, fed up with her incompetence, asked her to find one of the men. (Comment on this)
3:15 am	Constructive Activities Today at the Athenaeum Scott hosted the first in a series of carpentry classes. (Scott teaching) We residents received the announcement via email approximately 12 hours before the scheduled starting time of 12:30 PM, leaving little room for advanced planning techniques regarding early morning attendance. Luckily, the class began a good three hours late, a fact which I would have rather had in advance, having awoken promptly at 12:00 PM in order to learn how exactly one builds a wall. During the introductory segment Scott released the under-tank bleed valve on the air compressor, which he had acquired hours eariler from the underground off-limits storage area, enabling all of the trapped humidity to escape. Judging by the appearance of the tank, which was covered in dust, he correctly assumed that the water would be clouded with rust. This tank had been sitting for so long that the water had the consistency of diarrhea, and the color to match. Luckily the strength had not been sacrificed, and the tank filled easily. (Section of the floor, upon which water was expulsed) The tools quickly stole the spotlight from our teacher, possessing power and Praezision beyond that of any mortal. (Nailgun allowing itself to be used by Jay Purdy) The Nailgun in particular demonstrated its superiority quite well, invoking fear in every meek and feeble resident who dared to steal a bit of its strength. Once the weaker students left to answer calls on their cell-phones, the building of the wall progressed with great rapidity. In the amount of time it had taken to answer their silly questions alone, those of us remaining assembled the wall, including the King and Jack studs, which serve to frame the doorway and support it, as it is a weaker section, much like those residents who remained to build the wall support the weaker members of the warehouse, and raised it into the heavens. (The King and Jack studs. Note that there is no Queen stud.) As we lifted the wall into place, the feeling of community in the Athenaeum reached a record high, and the success was met by thunderous applause. Many comparisons were made to Amish Barn-raising, not only due to the visual similarities, but also to the emotional. Afterwards we went outside on a self-congratulatory quest for beverages, though upon being struck by the rays of the sun, which none of us had seen for many days, half of the people scuttled, cockroach like, hurridely back into the window-less warehouse.</P (Comment on this)
Saturday, July 9th, 2005
2:18 am	A hasty entry Tonight the South Philadelphia Athenaeum hosted 6-7 Skate-rock bands, including: S.T.R.E.E.T.S, Sweatheart, McRad, and Tobyhanna. (Notice the bikes hanging, useless) Reports of forced entry into my Wohnzimmer are validated as a dirty vagrant scuttles drunkenly out. His words: "Your living space is dangerous." (My "living space," head of Kerstin) Let his words serve as a sober warning to future "guests." After a brief reproach I assessed the damage, finding his influence to be weak at best. My oscillating faux-bronze fan, nobly perched high above the earth, a position which represented its worth relative to my other possessions, was knocked from its happy home by the bungling intruder. Under normal circumstances this would have resulted in the destruction of my most-prized possession, had I not attached the fan to a safety tether in my foresight, preventing damage which could have cost over 30$. Ungefaehr 2 L of liquids ingested. 6-7 naked bodies, mingling with sweaty skate-punks and artistics, made a brief appearance following heavy alcohol consumption. Strikingly up to 90% of these naked Bohemians are Athenaeum residents. 5 minutes earlier I had declined an invitation to join the "naked-only party," losing my chance to be included in the category of "beautiful," which is how the last band of the night described this shocking event. On another note, longtime US-Resident Kerstin Ameskamp returned to the wondrous republic of Germany this morning, following a tearful and very-public farewell in the third terminal of JFK International Airport. After spending roughly 720 uninterrupted hours together we grew closer, enabling the sharing of information on varying subjects ranging from the moving of bowels to the various desires a man faces in the day-to-day. I plan to further elaborate on this topic before the summer ends, perhaps providing photographic evidence of the provocative billboards, newspaper pages, and human bodies which, behaving much like a cloud of heated air coming into contact with a frigid pane of glass, fog the mind of every young man with confusing animal passions. Truth be told I miss Kerstin like hell. Those who know me in the world of Wirklichkeit know that I am rarely moved to speak of my emotions. Although it may be an internet confession, which many dis-value due to its "faceless-ness," I must refuse to agree. On the contrary, I find such a confession to be similar to the olden "shouting from the hilltops," an act which was performed only in the most emotional of circumstances. Now I will attempt to up-load pictures of the days activities, placing them in their appropriate places. (Climbing into the rafters, searching) (Richie Morseburger, performing an "Ace Flip.") (Skate-rocking) Current Mood: Objective (1 Comment |Comment on this)