Tijuana Diary: Fabricated Poverty

So this was it. We were homeless now, crouched low in the overgrowth behind a university gym. To us, home. Smoking cigarettes, our hands placed over our sleeping bags and blowing twisted smoke rings at the branch canopy above us.

"This is the taste of freedom," Levi was saying. "The best cigarettes are the ones under a night sky."

"Isn't this kind of patronizing, condescending, you know?" I puffed, cringing, paranoid of every sound. "Like, we're homeless, but we're only tourists. We can escape this whole thing tomorrow if we wanted."

"What do you mean?"

"We chose this. We had a bed for the night and we chose this. Urban camping. But is it belittling to those who can't choose it?"

"Even if this experience is fabricated, it still means something," Levi said.

In Rotation: AM Taxi / Paper Tongues

Emo’s death throes and imitation arena rock
By Troy Farah
Published on 05/13/2010 in Flag Live!


AM Taxi
We Don’t Stand A Chance
Rating: 1/5

It’s still early in the decade, so give it a couple more years before those awful, stereotypical emo bands completely die out—bands like AM Taxi. It seems this new act is riding the last wave of this tired teenage fad and that crushing surge can’t come soon enough.

As you know, emo is just punk turned inside-out. When you can’t be angry at your government, teachers or parents, instead you’re just mad at yourself. In other words, emo is punk without anything to say. Bands like this are an easy target, but that doesn’t stop major record companies from pushing this swill onto airwaves.

Dressed like half the garage band garbage on MySpace, complete with jet-black-dyed hair and fake British accents, the Chicago band’s debut, We Don’t Stand A Chance, is a melancholy collection of tunes about razors, pills and suicide. It’s a soap opera that makes “Days of Our Lives” look tame.

The album starts with tales from “Dead Street,” yet another “Boulevard of Broken Dreams” where every kid has hung-up hopes and is hooked on heroin.But really, it’s just a rip-off of the Offspring’s “The Kids Aren’t Alright.”

“The Mistake” is one of those songs for 15-year-old girls who lost their virginity to the wrong guy and are trying to make up for it by sleeping with the entire football team. So they have another cigarette, another drink, instead of actually coping with their issues.

“I am the mistake/worst you ever made” sings vocalist Adam Krier, his voice dripping with self-loathing. What makes it more disgusting is the amount of groupies who will fall for that.

Even when tracks like “Fed Up” encourage angry adolescents to fix their problems, the message is smothered with gimmicks. Krier pushes every stereotype from death to vampires to how much his hometown blows. “We may as well sleep in body bags/Living in the town was a drag.”

“Tanner Boyle Vs the 7th Grade” is just evidence of what age group this band appeals to—AM Taxi is ideal for brats who think angst is equal to individuality and complaining is equal to artistic struggle. But the band is right about one thing: gee whiz, life sure isn’t how we thought it was gonna be! Yet if all you’re doing is drowning in your sorrows, you really don’t stand a chance.

In RotationPaper Tongues
Paper Tongues
Rating: 3/5

Even if they’re not quite there yet, Paper Tongues are a new act trying very hard, almost too hard, to imitate arena acts like Muse, Queen or U2. The package is complete—superficial lyrics with a stress on chanting and an echoing emphasis on “humanity needs to join together.” There’s the hip-hop beats, the occasional rapping, and Aswan North, the vocalist with pipes like Mars Volta’s Cedric Bixler-Zavala. And most of all, their main focus is how loud and famous they can get.

Their eponymous debut is filled with scattered influences, borrowing strongly from Queen, Led Zeppelin (without much guitar) and the people-unite mantras of Rage Against the Machine. Unfortunately, Paper Tongues don’t have much identity themselves and the album doesn’t head in any clear direction.

“Ride to California” details the true story of how the Tongues raised money for a trip out west where they started their careers after a chance encounter with a well-known producer. There, another chance encounter with Randy Jackson made the American Idol judge their manager.

After that, the Tongues’ rise to fame was like taking an elevator and up is the only direction they’ve got left. So far they’ve opened with Muse, Anberlin, 30 Seconds to Mars and AFI, and it won’t be long before they’re selling out at Wembley Stadium.

The seven members definitely have strength as a group, on “Trinity” for example, where the band all seems to be fighting for the cause of the poor orphans and widows. They increasingly spread the cheesiness on thick with “Soul,” an anthem attempting to unite everyone who is “lost and needs to be found.”

They even get sentimental with Styx-style piano on “Strongest Flame” when North reminds us that love is the greatest force on earth. In case, you know, someone forgot.

Paper Tongues have gotten astronomically lucky thus far and it seems like they’re here to stay, so long as they don’t try too hard. Musically they’re talented but have yet to make anything that stands out. However, as their growing popularity shows, that doesn’t really matter.

An (Unfair) Comparison of Fight Club and Up In The Air

Up In The Air was Jason Reitman's latest campy romance, another decent story told the wrong way. And the more I watched, the more I realized Up In The Air was the exact opposite of Fight Club.
It's a bizarre, almost unfair comparison, but stay with me. I think I can use David Fincher's masterpiece to point out the flaws in Air's philosophy. I could do this with a lot of movies by just comparing them to better ones, but I think Fight Club and Up In The Air have a lot in common.
Well, first we have to admit that Fight Club's central themes are accurate. For the sake of argument, we will.

The Mexican Bible

This was written by my father in 2006. It's a true story and it reflects some of the issues Arizona's latest and greatest fascist stupid law, SB 1070.

Someone left a Bible in the back seat of my taxi recently.
I know he was an illegal alien because of the nature of how the book got left there. It was Halloween night, and I received a telephone call from a colleague of mine. There were three Hispanic men standing outside a convenience store. They spoke only Spanish. He spoke only English, and was not going to take the trip. Maybe the trip would be worth something. Would I like to talk to them?
I hate to turn down an opportunity without at least looking at it. And besides, I have learned enough Spanish to get by. I drove up to the convenience store to see what I could do.
Three young Hispanic men stood in the shadows by the pay phone. As I eased my taxi to a stop, one detached himself from the shadows, and approached my car. We greeted each other in Spanish, and he proceeded to tell me that he had to get to Los Angeles to see his fiancé.
I know enough about the law to know when to ask questions and when not to. Plausible deniability is not just the prerogative of presidents. I could surmise why they were not taking a bus or airplane. I named a price; they agreed. The trip was uneventful until we got to the Arizona California border. The three men were nervous about the border check point. I told them to relax, the authorities were only checking for fruit coming across the border. I don’t know if it was true or not, but it sounded good. They relaxed.
We swung into a gas station outside of Twenty-nine Palms to fuel up. There was a police cruiser in the parking lot, and once again, the three men in my cab hunkered down, and tried to stay out of sight. I filled the gas tank, and shook my head. My suspicions of their immigration status had been confirmed by their behavior. I didn’t tell the cop. I’m not that kind of person. Besides, I didn’t want any trouble for myself. It might not be legal to cross state lines in a taxi with a cargo full of undocumented migrants. I was not really in a mood to find out.
A few miles away from the gas station, we witnessed a bad car crash. I dialed emergency services on my cell phone, but did not stick around to see the police show up. Again, the less trouble the better.
The rest of the trip was uneventful. I left them at a house in Los Angeles. It wasn’t a real upscale neighborhood, but it wasn’t a slum either. Sort of a middle class home that everyone in America dreams of owning some day.
I was home before I noticed the Bible.
The bible is a Spanish version, small, with a battered black leather cover. Inside it had a few notes on small pieces of paper. The New Testament was heavily thumbed through, and the pages of Mark and Luke were rather dog-earred. Many verses had been underlined. The Bible has sat on a shelf in my bedroom since the day I found it. I had not even thought about it until I was tidying up today, while a talk radio station played in the back ground from my clock radio. The host was on some rant about W’s new immigration policy.
I wonder if the talk show host realizes that these illegal aliens have lovers? That they have expectant, future father in laws, who are glad to see their new son in laws, yet somehow apprehensive for the future of their daughters? Does the radio talk show host know the fear these men felt waiting in a gas station for a cop to leave? Does he know the joy on the faces of these men as they stepped out of the taxi in Los Angeles? Does this same radio talk show host that almost every day claims to be a good moral conservative Christian know that an illegal alien left his Bible in my cab? A Bible that had been studied, and marked by some one just as devoted to the same faith as he? Or would such thoughts put too human a face on the issue? Would thinking these things mean that we have to deal with real problems involving real people, not just abstractions of law breakers?
And am I the only one who finds it ironic that the very Bible that both the radio show host and the young Mexican man read says to be kind to the strangers in your land?

MGMT and BRMC

Artist: MGMT
Album: Congratulations
Rating: 4/5

What did you love about MGMT? The raving synths? The primal cosplay? The muted vocals? The ironic, clever lyrics?

Whatever it was, it seems the Brooklyn duo took their sarcastic single from Oracular Spectacular, “Time To Pretend,” a little too seriously. Mocking the heroin-addicted, trophy-wife-toting, sports-car-driving rock ‘n’ roll lifestyle just became too real. Now MGMT is taking the exact opposite route on Congratulations by stripping off everything distinct about them. No more weird makeup, no more penitent nostalgia and most noticeably, nothing that sounds like the raver anthem “Kids.”

MGMT doesn’t even plan to release singles off Congratulations, hoping people will download the entire album instead of stealing a few radio-friendly hits. And not surprisingly for a band that proactively analyzes their own popularity, Congratulations is a direct response to MGMT’s overnight success. The band is reluctantly famous and they loathe every ounce of American celebrity culture.

At first Congratulations seems like nothing more than a pop album, but it grows on you.
Starting with “It’s Working,” the album sounds like a party you’re not invited to. But the more you acquaint yourself with the music, the more it grows on you, until you get inside and realize all the guests are moping around wondering where their wonder years went.

Still, the music is crammed with varied influences, particularly ’60s- era psychedelic pop with a dancey heartbeat. Plus, it encourages you to stop being so obsessed about your status (on the internet and elsewhere) or as vocalist Andrew VanWyngarden puts it, “stab your Facebook.” “Flash Delirium” is the nauseated anthem of a self- indulged generation, changing moods like an ADD teen flipping channels. “Siberian Breaks” is a 12-minute, mind-bending trip, like witnessing the end of the world. It’s proof MGMT are not your average musicians.

The lavish dose of hero worship on “Brian Eno” and “Song for Dan Treacy,” along with the line “you’ll never be as good as the Rolling Stones” on “Flash Delirium,” indicate the duo still have someone to look up to. But the bizarre instrumental “Lady Dada’s Nightmare” suggests MGMT wants nothing to do with the amount of stardom the fame monster herself, Lady Gaga, is appointed.

Congratulations asks the question, is fame actually worth anything? The answer from MGMT seems to be “well, it’s something to do.” All the band wants is for that initial praise to mean something in the long run. For now, all that matters is keeping the music fresh and MGMT deserves more than just applause for accomplishing that.

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Artist: Black Rebel Motorcycle Club
Album: Beat The Devil’s Tattoo
Rating: 5/5

With a name taken from the 1953 Marlon Brando flick “The Wild One,” the Black Rebel Motorcycle Club conjures up images of switchblades, rumbles and that “my girl” mentality. But musically, BRMC are rock ‘n’ roll zombies, bringing good ol’ fashioned garage rock back to life. For good measure, the band throws in some neo- psychedelia and stompin’ Americana, sounding like a White Stripes album but with more sex, drugs and leather.

Lead singer Peter Hayes once played guitar in the Brian Jonestown Massacre before getting kicked out and the Black Rebels were born.

Beat The Devil’s Tattoo is the L.A. trio’s sixth studio album, carrying much of the badass attitude present in their career, such as the time at Leeds Town Hall when the band rocked so hard the floor broke. You don’t get that kind of reputation on accident.

Maintaining it is a different story, so how does BRMC make it look so easy? The album’s title track answers with “I thread the needle through / You beat the devil’s tattoo.” BRMC draws on the taboos of yesteryear, knowing that nothing is as prickly sweet as those bygone years when “hell” was a dirty word and piercings and tattoos made you a social outcast. For BRMC, this model works perfectly.

But BRMC isn’t a one-trick pony. Their influences and styles are far and scattered. “River Styx” is a tantalizing cruise with a fierce undercurrent where “every soul is a setting sun.” “War Machine” has all the vocal power of Creedence Clearwater Revival’s “Fortunate Son,” but lacks any direct anti-war message. BRMC’s guitar ranges from pop to classic rock on “Aya,” sounding like a softer version of Zeppelin’s “When The Levee Breaks.”

The 10-minute “Half-State” closes the album with distorted, atmospheric riffs and Hayes’ hazy vocals, proving once and for all, rock ‘n’ roll isn’t dead. At the same time, Devil’s Tattoo makes imitators like Nickelback and Wolfmother look pathetic. For flawless, noisy rock reminiscent of the Jesus and Mary Chain or the Velvet Underground, choose to Beat the Devil’s Tattoo.

Confessions of a Meat-Eater (editorial)

Confessions of a Meat-Eater

There’s long been a war between vegetarians and carnivores, a battle that focuses on everything from animal cruelty to the environment to healthy cuisine. Your typical meat-free character is nice about their choice, realizing it’s a personal decision. On the other hand, you have the agenda-pushing, in-your-face, “Meat is Murder!” type, the ones who strip naked outside of KFC and push pamphlets of decapitated poultry into your hands. Organizations like PETA are on a crusade to end the production of animal flesh, doing so in such a way that aggravates and alienates your average McDonald’s connoisseur and even people who genuinely care about animals.

As an unrepentant meat eater, it wasn’t until recently that I considered the merits of these anti-meat arguments, realizing there actually was some validity. I always assumed those videos of pigs kicked in the groin and cows with their throats slit were part of a propaganda machine and the images came from slaughterhouses in third world countries. None of that happened here, not in America.

Digital Suicide

(a bit whiney this one. But I'll bet you can relate.)

It's impersonal. It's faceless. It's full of stalkers. It's a waste of time. It's Facebook.

And I refuse to socialize like this anymore. I deleted my Facebook, as best as I can*.

A friend said to me, "If you delete your Facebook, you'll basically cease to exist."

Well, fine. I don't want to exist if that's what this means. I'd rather be a ghost, floating through life unaccounted for, off the grid. Gone.

I remember when MySpace first became popular. Some friends were talking about being up all night, talking to each other. I felt left out, so got an account as a joke. I predicted it was a fad, but five years later, I'm an adult and still using a similar childish application.

So now, I refuse to allow my friendships be numbered and ordered and pushed into grids. People shouldn't be shelved away like dusty library books. And I'm tired of being watched silently by people who are supposed to care about me. If someone does care, they "like" it. That's it. No one really talks to me online anymore or reads what I write except five core people.

I already talk to these five on a daily basis and would tell them about my day-to-day regardless. For everyone else, shame on you. Why the fuck am I forced to talk to you through social networking? Yes, forced. If I delete my Facebook, I'll never hear from you again. Why can't you be adults, living people dammit, and just give me a phonecall one day? Why are we communicating through screens? Smoke screens, even! Are you expressing true emotion or putting on a front? How the hell can I tell? Why are we ranking each other, ignoring each other, adding each other, like some kind of insane baseball card collector?

I've felt this way about social networking for a long time, but I didn't stop because I wanted others to care about what I had to say. Yeah, that's right. I stopped caring about the stupid shit you were spewing, but not enough to stop spewing it myself.
And nobody cared, except those five people. Those five people that I would rather talk to in real life anyway. It's degrading to do otherwise.

Now I don't care who cares about me. I don't know why I ever did. But this is like inviting everyone you know to a birthday party. Of those who show up, you know they really care. Well, no one has showed up to my life, so I'm cutting the cords on this dead weight. (haha, that sounds like a suicide note. And maybe it is, in a way. I'll no longer be anyone now. I've committed digital suicide.)

Goodbye, Facebook. Good riddance.
I'm going to treat the people in my life like people. I'll now have hours of spare time freed up that I won't waste on your stupid website. So I'm going back to reading books. Keeping a journal. Going outside.
I'm going to create, love, breathe and die.
It's sad that I let you get in my way.

Computers are a weed, rapidly outgrowing themselves. They are a virus that replicates the human mind.
They will never outgrow the capacities of the human brain because we will never accommodate them.
A human being cannot create something better than himself.
Even the Tower of Babel crumbles beneath us.

I predict a great computer crash. When they cannot advance any further at all, people get stuck, stop feeling amazed with pixels and .mp3 downloads.
Then people will return to their lives and embrace them like never before. It will be a time of great prosperity.

Or not.


*You can't really delete your Facebook, only deactivate it. This is disturbing in and of itself. Facebook will always retain your personal information. One log-in and you'll get it all back, exactly how you left it. I'm not going back, I've promised myself, but it'll always be there.