Here’s lookin’ at you, kid.
Early evening in Chicago. I’m reading a textbook. A woman walks in. I recognize her from … ? After 10 seconds of looking for the Waldo in my head and I spot him. He’s flying a blue bird, Twitter. Yes, Twitter. V added me a couple weeks earlier, we once chatted about a mutual musical interests (Mount Kimbie & Gold Panda). Unlike me, she’s a 140-master and updates often so I’ve seen her goings-on for the past couple weeks. Sure enough, she writes she’s in that same cafe.
So, what now? Surely it’s odder to sit quietly and/or communicate with somebody who doesn’t know you’re 10 feet from them. Social media is, at least nominally, social. If she tweets about her thoughts and locations multiple times a day, she must be open to spontaneity. If anything, it’s creepier and voyeuristic not to say hello, right? Also, she runs a web site that’s cool and I wanted to hear about. So in the end, I follow my better-to-regret-doing-than-not-doing mantra and go to introduce myself.
She’s embarrassed despite my unthreatening advance (I wasn’t hitting on her). After the fact, she did what I knew her for, and typed:
Recognized via twitter while tweeting emo shit in the coffeeshop. #thatjusthappened
Unsurprisingly, she didn’t remember our web chats but that wasn’t the point. I explained that this was the less creepy of my options and thought I’d simply say hi. Apparently though, she shares that she’s stayed incognito in such situations before (read: I violated protocol).
So if you post your name, photo, thoughts and locations all while easily beginning dialogue with strangers online, an “IRL” sponto hello doesn’t fly. It seems awkward won, so I returned to my book after an odd goodbye and left the cafe soon after.
Doubly embarrassed, as the boy was very nice.
Ha. So my being friendly is more embarrassing? Somebody get me a copy of Book for Kids Who Can’t Tweet Good. Still, I’m trying to take positives from my odd pseudo-rejection.
On platforms like Twitter at least, social media is much more media than social, no matter how open and “friendly” users (who I thought were once people too) are. This comes as no surprise to most but I had some naïve idea that the divide between web and world is not so wide. If anything, I can rest comfortably in my wider world of webonymity. With that, I guess, see you later — in silence…
img: thx.
The Graveyard gets Groovy.
People hear “graveyard” and think bad thoughts. I hear graveyard and yap away. Such are the perks of midnight radio.
Though it’s my second crack at the radio thing (big ups to my old buddy at my old station), I’m a newbie in Chicago so I gotta fight for my radio real estate to rise in the ranks.
So without further ado, introducing… “Bare Breeze“ on Chicago’s WHPK 88.5 and iTunes. My buddy and I play a mix of musics we like with the hope that you will too. Download mp3 recordings here and book our faces here.
foto: thx.
Meat Packing gets Musical
I knew it was here somewhere. I had heard about it, and just needed time to dig and wander down the rabbit hole to find what I was looking for.
Two months into my Chi-time I found a damn good night of music and mischief to shake my tail feather to. Thanks to funk-infused tracks of Boston’s DJ duo, Soul Clap, I was able to boogie till the wee hours of the morning in Chicago’s old meat packing district and boy did it feel good. Friendly folk, no curfew, and a vibe that reminded me of Berlin badness - my hunch was true.
Another great experience at a Wolf + Lamb show (in addition to the fun had at Horst Krzbrg in Berlin a few months ago) just reemphasized the label’s signature marriage of soul and funk to beats and bytes in a way that gets me grinning and grooving like few other things can.
Sure it might be the middle of the week, but give your ears an early gift with these tasty tracks.
It’s a story that’s made the rounds in Kreuzberg and many an area inside (Prenzlauer Berg) and outside Berlin (in Chicago’s Wicker Park). But now it’s personal.. and I guess I’m partly to blame.
I lived the dream in Neukölln, a traditional Turkish neighborhood with a history of crime and unemployment, from August ‘09-Sept ‘10. In recent years it’s become a hotbed for student and artist immigration, with the bars, cafés, galleries and buzz that brings with it.
This is me as the bad guy. The guy who you’re hoping doesn’t get the girl at the end: college kid from out of town, club mate in hand, working to live the life in Berlin (and there’s a word for us: I was just another Zugezogener or newcomer). The problem is, the reason why I came to Berlin is also part of the reason it’s changing. Without wanting to, I am both a victim and perpetrator of gentrification.
This film is a simple yet strong protest against the Neukölln Zugezogeners by the founder of one of the areas first and foremost bars, Freies Neukölln. He complains that the bar was meant to simply be a local social spot, not the first of a new generation of bars and galleries to have popped all over the area. He cries out against the students and creative classes that are pouring in and changing the area’s charm equation, against ”the nice girls in pantyhose” who are now spotted walking along Weserstraße, and conforming to imported standards of bars and service. It seems like I, pantyhose excluded, fit this mold.
“You are and will forever be tourists when you don’t stop to believe you are not to blame.”
Though I don’t agree with many of his allegations, I understand his frustration. It’s true, too many techno-tourists arrive in Berlin with the idea that it’s just a playground and party-pit. To be fair, it is arguably the best at both those things. But Neukölln, and other large chunks of Berlin, are lucky enough to have their own character (sadly, an endangered species), which are more than a worthy motive for migration.
That said though, I’m torn between feeling guilty and accepting the reality of gentrification as a change that is both bad and for the better. It’s hard to blame newcomers who are attracted to cities and their blossoming neighborhoods. Not all the change is bad and it’s tough to pull through some of the protectionism and prejudiced stereotypes (mothers with strollers, artists, Barcelonans) the film sets forth.
One thing is for sure, I strived not to be another habitat consumer — not another colonizer, coming to bite into Neukölln’s natural resources (character, personality, atmosphere) and impose my foreign standards and expectations on them. I like to think I succeeded in respecting the area, but I’m not so sure to what extent this is actually possible.
For what it’s worth, I’m hoping present and future migrants will do what they can to integrate and embrace Neukölln for what it is and we won’t lose the charm so many lived there and the attitude we see here.
Novelty keeps things interesting. It pushes you out of your comfort zone makes you (re)act in ways you didn’t expect. Long live discovery of the novel and unexpected. The yang to this ying shouldn’t be written off too easily though.
Repetition, though dull on its face, can be one of the best things around. Hell, it’s been the main ingredient for fun films and terrific tunes before. One dish I didn’t expect it to feature in? Thanksgiving.
Though based on questionable principles, Thanksgiving’s the one day I’ve missed more than most during my time away. And leave it to some fun Chi-folk to indulge in this festive feast not once, but a hearty twelve times a year. Yup, that’s a big pot luck, a lot of pumpkin pie, buckets of grain (baked and brewed) to go with good music and good people.
As simple as it is delicious, “Thanksgiving of the Month” is a damn good excuse to bring November’s laziest day on tour to the rest of your calendar. So don’t forget to rejoice at repetition and be thankful twelve times a year. That’s a diet I could get used to.
foto: thx.
So I’ve never been Boy Wonder in the weight room. My old flatmates put me to shame with their gym sessions and protein-powered purées. Now, I’m living with three ladies again and they’re entrenching my Sir Sloth role. Little do they know that I recently shook my my money-maker without heading gym-side. My secret? Workout videos.
On an unsuspecting Sunday evening, after catching some DIY shows at Cafe Moustache, the seats were cleared and the screen propped up. Jake Myers, the video’s creator, told us we were in for a good time, and he was right on. Fun footage backed by a banging soundtrack (compiled by Chicago’s own The Hood Internet) and boom, you’ve got yourself a cool calorie-killing thirty minutes. So if you’re still wondering what to be for Halloween, do your best Richard Simmons impression to the tune of “You Better Work” and everyone will be wondering what’s in your protein shake. Enjoy.
You Better Work - Live:
foto: thx.
Fantasy, I’ve learned, is often born out of desire and, with some luck and effort, can become reality. There are few forms which capture fantasy and the dream it embodies, more than the comic book. For those who can’t get enough of couture runway rundowns, this article takes apart the clothes of the caped crusaders who fashioned our dreams and captured our fantasy in comic culture.
In a week where my apartment’s lease expired, I unexpectedly discovered I’d be frequenting libraries on a daily basis again this Fall, and I was sent to Eastern Africa for three weeks, I learned that fantasy (again, with some luck) can alter your reality in a way you didn’t think was possible. Here I am - with a couple weeks’ perspective and a very weak excuse for my digital hibernation - lying under a mosquito net somewhere in southern Uganda.
In a country that’s most famous for its former dictator and used to be one of the world’s lungs (it is now boasts feeble forestry that is more facial fluff than oxygen source), I’m enjoying the Ugandan sense of humor that persists despite the personal tragedies that walk past you every few meters. I’m discovering what it feels like to be on the other side of the color norm (you know people see few whites when a passerby, despite your feeble frame, calls you Rambo), I’m wondering why the roads here are so nice while public health centers are plagued by fraud and a lack of basic drugs (if available, they distribute headache medicine for malaria), and I’m getting severely schooled on the village’s public pool table by kids who spend their days commanding a cue ball because they can’t afford to pay school fees.
The country’s average age is 15 - the lowest in the world. On my first day, I was told it wasn’t unusual to see families headed by children - especially in the rural southern district I was to visit. This primary culprit is HIV/AIDS, who’s first East African sighting was in this very village (Kyotera) and has (and continues) to severely ravage its people. Despite this, the children’s smiles are beautiful, even if their parents have passed and they live amongst chickens and goats in half-built houses. The local music is incredible - with indigenous instruments powering body-rattling pre-colonial dances which make Shakira’s hips seem pedestrian. A far cry from Technotown, I hope the people of Uganda, with a little luck, find their own cape and costume to lift them out of their rough reality soon.
So I’ve learned a few things about Mormons since being in Utah. First thing is that the Mormon Church have a living prophet. Yes, he’s alive and well and has a red telephone to Christ. He even lives in Salt Lake City. Thomas S. Monson — age: 82 years old, occupation: prophet. Awesome.
I also learned the Mormon Church stopped condoning polygamy over a hundred years ago (a sect, the Fundamentalist Mormon Church, still does though). Still, even if most the state doesn’t practice it, they drink it.
A beer brewed in Park City, Utah with the slogan “Why Have Just One?”, Polygamy Porter is probably the best named brew this side of the Rockies. The label’s a classic and the beer ain’t half bad either.
Regardless of whether Prophet Monson would also allow women to enjoy a six-pack of Polygamy, you should all definitely grab one — or many — the next time you’re in town. Cheers to that.
foto: thx.
a.fé’s currently taking a short break from Technotown and has ventured out to a place that couldn’t resemble Berlin any less.
Yes, I’m writing on location from the land of Robert Redford, Butch Cassidy and, as I’ve just learned, Jell-O. Utah: land of mountains and Mormons. Sure, its international reputation might be one related to powder and the 2002 Olympic Games but when you speak to locals here, they’re quick to show their pudding pride in their “official state snack food”, Green Jell-O (yes, this was actually voted in by the Utahn legislature). Out of interest in strange and pointless things, the two other states with official state snacks are Illinois (popcorn) and South Carolina (boiled peanuts, seriously).
The Deseret News reports:
In 1997, Jell-O officials confirmed that Utah had the highest per-capita consumption of fruit-flavored gelatin in the country. When Utah’s Jell-O sales slipped and Iowa took over that distinction in 1999, it sparked a local campaign (with a lot of support from the Jell-O folks) to “Take Back the Title”.
In 2001, they did, to the point that Utah and the surrounding Mormon areas have been dubbed the Jell-O Belt.
If Bill Cosby, the godfather of all Jell-O-related-jiggliness, tells the Utah state assembly that “he believes the reason people in Utah love Jell-O is that the snack is perfect for families — and the people of Utah are all about family”, then it must be true.
Perfect for families and, it also seems, bathing (oh internet, how you can creep me out), I think we’d all be better off with a bit more green goop in our lives. Technotown, blogosphere, you have been warned: it’s time to go green, the Utah way.
foto: thx.
Technotown’s buzz, bottled.
Hello, my name is a.fé and I have a drinking problem. The culprit? This cursed creepy earringed and sobrero-clad hombre’s precious potion: Club Mate.
Obnoxiously caffeinated (20mg/100ml) and based on yerba maté — which has everyone with a hemi-semi link to Argentina yelping that it’s a techno-themed knock off of a traditional Argentine drink — Club Mate’s the fuel that keeps the 24 hour fire that is Berlin’s clubbing culture alight.
Originally made popular by the hacker scene, this night-extender/heart-racer that’s now crashed into the clubbing scene isn’t for everyone. Even the manufacturers admit it with the drink’s slogan: Man gewöhnt sich daran (you’ll get used to it). Talk about an understatement. Now I can’t stop gulping to the point that I love and hate our Zorro-meets-wicked witch pictured above.
In my defense, I’m no big drinker and drugs aren’t parked too far up my hypothetical alleyway, so it’s understandable that I’ve grown fond of this latin-themed carbonated cocktail. Its almost salty taste is one of the few ways I can pull through the nights and days in Technotown. Even if the fact it’s taurine-free is some consolation, such a kick can’t be kosher. I best get a new clubbing companion or I too will soon be growing wings. Until I make that change though, it’s more fun with my favorite refreshener. Party on.
