we are free the marquee. we are musicians. we are writers. we are artists and like-minded thinkers. our goal is to tap into the veins of san diego culture and broadcast our findings for the sake of the masses.
issue 2
winter 2013/14
inside
free the marquee
x Submissions (thanks for your interest, you guys rock): Charles Daly, Jackie Godsey, Joe Massey, Edrees Nassir x Words: Connor Houghtby, Tabatha Rood, Charles Daly, pgs 1-8 x Art: Frank Rittenhouse, Katie Howard, AJ Romero, Yvette Dibos, Caitlin Petersen, pgs 9-18 x Music: Katie Howard, Grant Glibert, Alex Packard, Conner Houghtby, Cameron Petersen, pgs 1924 x Poetry: Joe Massey, Jackie Godsey, Edrees Nassir, pgs 25-30 Also, thanks to Nate Packard, Dan Ellis, Manny Machado and Brian Disney please contact us at freethemarquee@gmail.com we are always accepting submissions. facebook, instagram, tumblr
BY CONNER HOUGHTBY
_________________________ The Biggest Room in the World is the Room for Improvement The physical manifestation of the church of reason, a living monument to the unstemmable flow of awareness from teacher to teacher. Stemmable, but resilient. To be replaced by a replica. Updated! Safe! Efficient! A thousand times faster wifi, and SmartOutlets™! It is a thankless job, to be a book-holder. The old steel shelves, which bore millions of pounds of books for decades, are in the way. Scrap fodder for Marborg Industries, a Caterpillar Company, a subsidiary of Disney Enterprises, &etc. Tossed aside by clumsy steel arms and jaws of shrieking behemoths, like the mismatched concrete tile paths and the dozen coral trees too slow to get out of the way. The Karo calls to me. The dark corn goo is beat through my fluttering heart only grudgingly. I don’t feel guilty about the twinge of awe inspired by the juxtaposition of swiftness and power of the thirty ton hydraulic excavator. For how much longer will we be able to draw the clear distinction between worker and tool, man and machine? Already they appear to me as a single unit from my penthouse perch, as they deface my castle, the temple, bastion of quiet wisdom. They know their task is destruction; they show little concern or even awareness of their gouging treads, brainpower being mostly reserved for balancing prey within incredible hydraulic joints. Three or four acres partitioned off, claimed by the unsatiable obsession for growth and improvement of some kind any kind, the incision cauterized by greenbacked chainlink. I’m sure people will enjoy the library rennovation. The current foundations have been standing for probably seventy years, and they were not afforded the same passionate engineering as, say, the Pyramids. But while not grandiose, the Olde Library was quite operational. Was is ever contemplated how many modest libraries could be constructed for seventyone million dollars? Did the comittees acknowledge the power through knowledge that could be dispersed amoungst humankind for the price of some sacrificed comfort and aesthetic? One can only speculate. The addition seems wasteful in a time of need, and greedy in an age of inequality. But I wouldn’t say no to driving the Cat.
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what the fuck?
BY TABATHA “tabby cat” ROOD
A column of random topics that make me angry enough to tell people. Enjoy. Topic: Feral Cats As someone who constantly talks about cats, enjoys cat memes because I actually know what its like to have a crazy cat, and who’s instagram is overloaded with heavily filtered and often up close cat pics, I even surprise myself in being against feral cats. There are a number of reasons why feral cats are such a problem, largely scientifically proven environmental issues. The idea of killing off fe-
ral cats as I stroke my own adopted stray seems humorous but the truth is that cats are by no means an endangered species and should not be treated as such. Feral cats are currently protected by crazy cat ladies and other volunteers through direct feeding, and (surprisingly) state legislation. Colonies of feral cats are taking over; in their wake they leave thousands of slaughtered birds and other native species, while spreading a number of diseases. Think I’m joking? Read On. TNR is the name of the game. Trap Neuter Release is a highly advocated and adopted method of “handling” feral cats. This sounds a whole lot better than euthanization, but at what cost? Trap and Neuter?
OK. Release? Where? Apparently back to the “wild” or your backyard, where they apparently have an ecological niche killing everything. Lucky for San Diego, there are coyotes, but these street cats are pretty scrappy so don’t rely on that too much. With TNR, humane societies are required to release the cats, forming huge cat colonies, such as the 50+ cats in Mission Bay Park. Their argument is that using TNR techniques, the population of cats will eventually decline. Problem: if you aren’t catching them all (they are currently catching <20% on average), Joe’s horny cat gets out every so often and makes 6 more kitties who aren’t neutered and voila, the population grows. The colonies also allow for people to drop off their unwanted cats with no worries about how they will be fed or what happens to them in the “wild.” Bottom line” it’s not working. More importantly, with no euthanized cats, what will the kids in high school physiology skin and dissect? Back to the birdies, often less valued in the public eye, many of the species cats kill on a daily basis are protected by the Endangered Species Act because, you guessed it,
they are endangered. You have probably heard some kind of fuss about skyscrapers, radio towers, and wind energy turbines killing these birds, but the number one killer of endangered birds is cats, and no one is blaming the crazy cat ladies, or fining them millions of dollars either. Just think about all those dead snowy plovers at the beach. Depressing. You are probably bored so I’ll wrap it up. These cats spread diseases to other cats, which might not matter, except if you have a cat and your cat goes outside ever, then your little Tabby cat will get it too. This allows the vet to charge you ridiculous fees for shots, as your cat may also come in contact with infected feral cats—stupid. Now that you have heard my rant, I hope you see that feral cats are a big problem for the environment, and will look into the management of feral cats. Please do not kill any. If you want to read about this in more detail, or check my facts, here’s a good place to start: Longcore, Travis, et al. “Critical Assessment of Claims Regarding the Management of Feral Cats by Trap-Neuter-Return.” Urban Wildlands Group. 4 N.p., 22 Apr. 2008. Web.
Si Non Oscillas, Noli Tintinnare (‘If you don’t swing, don’t ring’ — inscription on the door of the Playboy mansion)
Charles Daly Emile de Burgh upends a red cup full of his guests’ cigarette butts out the bay window six stories up, shakes out the tar-browned lager, and gives a tap for any that might have stuck. It is either them or him that must be flung out the window tonight. Dr. Eli Rich advised that when Emile finds himself in one of his states he should focus on what’s right in front of him and stay out of his own head — touch is the best way, smell is good too. With his back to his party he draws shapes in the air conditioning fog on the bay window: a stick figure house and a pair of wilting palm trees. The room is lit by paper lanterns, a tip from a satisfied patron in Sapporo. Emile can always rate his success as a bachelor by the electric bill — as he only ever turns on
the air conditioning when he’s entertaining, and the same goes for the space-heaters in the winter. The floor is tacky under his boot heel. He washes the floors on Tuesdays and has a cleaner in once a month. He earns his living—his gym membership, his boots, foosball table, single-malt collection, sound system and vinyl library, his linen, two tickets to Cannes, and occasional cocaine with corresponding glass coffee table — by oil and canvass, a craft that takes him transatlantic frequently enough that when he told you he can’t next Friday — by the hors d’oeuvres spread in the kitchen — it was because of an opening in the familiar ‘Shoreditch’ rather than ‘London’ in general.
With superlative reviews in the Guardian, the
Evening Standard, and Le Monde’s arts and culture supplement, ‘perhaps the brightest new star of his generation,’ tilts on the back two legs of a bar stool at the island in the kitchen — with Cheyne Lord in his ear about what he got up to with Lianna Fowler last weekend at Nina Stump’s beach house — one boot heel hooked on the rung of the barstool, the other keeping balance on the floor, more cynical-
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ly the ‘best buy’ according to the newsletter of one Manhattan auction house, has switched to coffee after two Yamazaki 12 years (neat). An English girl, his third Kaitlin since Christmas, plays the barmaid at the island until all the ice is gone.
The five foot ten, twenty-six year old non-smok-
er, moderate drinker, sipping a Sumatran organic blend in a souvenir mug from Amsterdam’s highly over-rated Sex Museum, returns the barstool to four legs and grounds himself by way of the turpentine on his fingers and the tug of a career-long headache from a chemical sensitivity to his materials.
Over at the glass table Cheyne Lord’s plus-
one picks at a coffee table book on Tibetan butter sculptures — the forms of Buddhas and bodhisattvas meant to dissolve to puddles of colourful lard in the daylight—with one strap falling down over her sunburn. The panic came on this afternoon when he took the skewers out of their marinade. He tried to follow them into the oven but his legs were too long to close the door behind so he hosted a party instead. ‘Just like a goddamn kid’ — the critic Regina
Gormley noted the last time she came up for drinks — he took it out on his work when the attack subsided. He surveys the damage at his feet in the bay window. Three commissions in a splintered tangle on the floor, frames puncturing canvasses, a puddle of colourful nothing like the bodhisattvas and lotuses. ‘An installation for the August show in Cambridge’ proposes his agent who takes his Lagavulin 16 year (with soda) and hogs all the pretzels. ‘Butter Sculptures’, Emile de Burgh dubs the mess, the symptom of his states. ‘Butter Sculptures’ the women and men toast. *** ‘Si non ocillas...’ originally appeared in the debut of Not Your Eyes (http://notyoureyes.com/home.html) June 2013.
Charles Daly lives and works in East Asia. His prose has appeared in Grey Sparrow, Gloom Cupboard, and A Year in Ink III and IV. All his heroes died of syphilis in the 19th century. Find him at dalyprose.com and @charlie_daly.
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Artist Credit: Frank Rittenhouse: Although my art work culminates on paper and canvas, my growing interests are in perceptual phenomena, the deconstruction of symbols and names, and the deconstruction of the idea of past and future. My sketchbook drawings span a couple of years and are completed in layers (often weeks or months apart), in the form of drawings, writing, and digital painting. The writing is sometimes my own, but is often taken from books or what I hear people say. Usually, my sketches remain in a rough state within my sketchbook, but every so often I move them to my computer to prepare them for painting. Katie Howard: Local San Diego artist. http:// katie-howard-00lh.squarespace.com AJ Romero: Hey, I’m from El Cajon and I draw to make my friends laugh. Yvette Dibos: Yvette Dibos is an artist living in San Diego. She graduated with a bachelors in Sculpture and works at Arte de Origen in La Jolla. Her goal with art is to unlatch the box in her brain and unleash the mythical things inside. Sometimes those things take on social statements or have
commentary attached. But overall, the pieces she makes are goaled to pique interest, be interactive: inciting anything from action to memory, colorful and aesthetically pleasing. Indulgent, but not romantic. Detailed, but not lacey or flowery. Whimsical, but not unicorned or dragon-clad.
Caitlin Petersen: caitlinpetersen.com
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nything and everything related to Paris is curiously romantic. That is why I wanted to see Jupiter, a touring band from Paris, at El Dorado. A few of my most favorite things were involved: Disco (& a disco ball), a female singer, boy-girl duo, and dance music. The gal in black nylons with little leather flats laced up and French boys in quilted jackets performed electric sounds. Paired sweet singing voice. Not one of those annoying girl voices you’ve heard a hundred times, the ones that make you finish your drink and hope it’s the last song. The pretty lead lady commented between songs, “It’s nice to
speak English for people who can understand it, we usually perform for people who have no idea what we are saying,” and the audience laughed in confusion, entertained by the idea that this French band chose a second language over performing in French. Everyone danced, the room was dark lit red, and a disco ball spun above the dancing girl. Jupiter finished their American tour and stopped by Mexico as well, creating videos of their experience in the new strange lands on their YouTube account, “Wearejupiter.” I recommend “Juicy Lucy (I need a boogie man)” and “Oh I” as some of my favorite songs.
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Booze & Schmooze: Buddy Banter “It’s Absolutely the Most Exciting Time to be Alive!” written by Conner Houghtby
“She’s fucking French, of course she has loud sex.” So started our interview with the rock trio Blurry Banner (or at least my tape of it), showcasing Steve’s (drums, vocals) incisive and unapologetic insight. The same insight that I find in their lyrics, and their style: clear and real. Real clear. Clear Real. Rilly. Before our night with them, their music video “Insane” played on local NBC accompanied by an interview (from a distance) by Eric Page. We started talking about the site of the interview: Upper Otay Lakes Reservoir Dam. A hang out spot from their angsty youth, the reservoir represents the period in which their gilded view of the world melted away to reveal the common ore of reality. With death on your left hand and a 40oz. in your right, the world becomes a little simpler, if stark, on the precipice. Later on in the interview, they would state that their nonmusical influences are Humanity, death, stepping in dog shit. “We just write about our life.” Damn. In an epic arc many say parallels the Beatles’ sonic odyssey, Bud Bant has moved from love songs to party ballads and, now to the weird product of 3 “broken hearts playing music together.” They’ll have you
believe that they synthesize their jams after long LSD-fueled meditation sessions, but our highly placed (or just high?) sources reveal that their music is less divine inspiration and more of everyone bringing parts to a session and letting themselves drop into the groove. A groove that snakes about with time, fluid dynamic mobile. A lot of their focus lately has been on not “getting in the way of their sound” (Dylan, bass, vocals). After their first release, a “chill wave” “bedroom project,” they recorded their newer EP Thrill Me with Tommy Garcia in studio. Even more recently, they’ve been utilizing their sizeable cache of hand-me-down cassette tapes to capture their random analog sounds. The tapes, which they procured pre-recorded upon with legal jargon and ancient case files along with half a dozen worn-out tape recorders, each come imprinted with a unique magnetic perspective on the album. The music and artwork from the individual tapes form a kaleidoscopic portrait of their recording experience, subsequently fragmented and cast out upon the ears of the brave tapeplayers. I just listened to one of the tapes. My particular puzzle piece slowed me down; it lagged and was quiet, pulling my pace back to my own tape’s tempo—like swimming through honey. More like wine than the ecstatic shows and online stuff. Finally we ventured a query as to their opinion of the state of the San Diego music scene. We actually were treated to an intelligible answer! The verdict: It’s on the upswing. Casbah and Soda Bar have got a lot of good shows, including Chubby Chanter. They do think time is ripe for area musical veterans to play, especially John Reis in all his incarnations and collaborations. Kevin (guitar, vocals) went on to sound off some of his favorite local bands: Snuffaluffagus, Weatherbox, Japandi. . . . Our interviewees themselves are seasoned heirs to local music. From Steven’s stint on the first Taste of Chaos tour to the buddies’ recent gigs in Alta California del Sur and Baja California del Norte, these bred and buttered San Diegans are knitting the cultural community about them. To sum it up, Steven drums standing up. The members of Bluddy Banter are on the same level on several levels; their sound works (for me). I’m excited for Soda Bar, January 10. Bring things (read: money) to exchange for a tape—name your price!—be prepared to haggle. buddybanter.bandcamp.com 22
BY CAMERON PETERSEN
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kay, I’ll come right out and say it. Neil Young is my best friend. As ludicrous as the proclamation sounds – me, best buds with one of the greatest singer/songwriters of all time? – it’s true. Since my wife and I packed our belongings and isolated ourselves in the posh corner of the American NW (see Seattle, WA), I’ve been nudged by isolation to seek solace in the few places that are still familiar to me: my cat, playing music, and a steady indulgence of legal intoxicants (remember, I am in WA state). But while all these things are admirable in their own right, the steady drop in temperatures and ever-shortening of the days has led me to seek out something with more depth than a pack of Perique-blended American Spirits. In order to satisfy the intellectual cravings that I sometimes succumb to, I’ve begun to sift through my record collection. And time and time again, Neil Young records keep sneaking up on me like a good batch of gold-capped mushies. I’ve always held Neil and his tunes in high regard, but only recently have I become aware of his influence on my well-being. Neil’s songs have popped up in a lot of the conversations I’ve held with fellow musicians over the years, and many of the people I admire (Doug Martch) cite the man as an influence. I can remember one of my good friends in high school, serenading girls with the tunes of
“Harvest Moon” and “Heart of Gold.” Even then, and despite the harmonica-holder that looked to me like a mangled piece of orthodontic headgear, I could sense beauty in the songs. More recently though, I’ve begun to notice tendencies among Neil’s albums that display a level of layering you can’t easily find in art today. Obvious in the 45 years and 35-plus albums is the longevity of the man. And to add to the impressiveness of Neil’s work, he’s dabbled in genres ranging from folk, grunge, country-western, rockabilly and even an electronic inspired album during the 80s. But it’s not just the extensiveness of the godfather of grunge that makes him so important to me – over all the years, he’s managed to churn out a large repertoire of songs that would work as magnum opuses for many less talented artist. For instance, consider the extraordinary amount of masterfully tuned folk songs that fill albums like Harvest and After the Goldrush. If softer tunes don’t float your boat, look to those times when he plugs in and lets loose on jams like “Cortez the Killer” and “Like a Hurricane.” Nevertheless, this article isn’t meant to be a music critique by any standards. What draws me to Neil are the qualities in his work that are emblematic of how he is a fucking awesome human being. Call me a “super-fan,” but I can’t help but admire a man who fills one half of an album with country-western songs, and then rounds out the other half with ear blistering electric jams (American Stars ‘n Bars). I mean, how can you not like a musician who continues to cut recordings with a raggedy band of friends who are anything but sensational in their playing abilities? Don’t get me wrong, I love each and every one of those drunken, proto-grunge Crazy Horse collaborations. But it wasn’t until I stumbled upon Neil’s eulogistic tribute, Tonight’s the Night, that I truly understood the compassion interwoven into his music. Written shortly after the early deaths of his two friends, it’s a beautiful album with songs that are literally dripping with grief. Neil had written liner notes that accompanied the early vinyl releases for the album that stated, “I’m sorry. You don’t know these people. This means nothing to you.” I don’t think Neil had the clearheaded mindfulness to know how wrong he was at the time. That album, and a much more of what Neil Young has recorded, means a hell of a lot to me.
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____________ Sunflower, when exposed to your glow Even rainbows will cower And seek solace In the shadow. ____________ Tangled in a webbed chassis Like flies caught in molasses I metastasize into something new. And this woven silk membrane Permeates molecules maimed; I lust for the unknown Beyond my cocoon. ____________ Like binary stars: Lest one consume the other Or be thrown off course, We must push and pull With equal force.
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-Far, AwayThere was a college playground where we saturated the limited minutes with as much romantic adventure as possible; trusting to rusted swingsets past midnight, sure of the significance hidden there. Â Did we, perhaps, exagerrate the loss when the police came? Â Though they let us go the experience was colored with a bureaucratic sadness. Too many structures cause the meaning to be obscured beyond the point of true contact. Â Shyness or reluctance can force a false indifference in which we hide behind the trivial and the shaky, edgy fear of reality. And all the lonely observers know that reality is the one thing we might have; apprehensive as we may be to acknowledge it, the ceramic and the roses are real nonetheless. Even now my hands pause often to ensure that nothing is lost or analyzed statistically, even while I hate the sterile nature of caution. As I finish the vaguest of messages, hoping the form is not too awkward.
-Feeling Empty, 2:06 Orange AvenueIt comes on slow, dragging for the touch. Water of drip-dried sparkle-eyed kids hanging off leaves, perched on the edge, as if daring the world to dare them to jump. Over she comes with her friend and a permanence dissolved in need she wears fresh, cut off, sealed away from trusting eyes, sordid details. Campground playground, hitting the unexplored areas, darkened rooms of cut-up pictures with the music come on high and lost overhead, on the roof of the building they stumble out of, occasionally, or striding with purpose defined in the anticipation of violence. Â Hitting the clubscene shatter clattering blacklights of a support beam that turns the balcony into movie frameworks, cutting the picture just so, rapid cuts the eye edits instantly. But fast it comes sometimes, too, allowing for the combinations of experiences that unite in the strangest alchemy, ensuring dreamlike detachment waking of moments shared breathing down the interstate. The cars with the sameness of purpose and background, differing in details but saturated picture letting the theme override. In that moment, with her or with him, there or here, able to find some version of joy in the darkness etching patterns in field of uncertain visions. I canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t sleep tonight, walking it further up Orange Avenue, looking for something I thought Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d lost in the downtown lights on the beach at the edge of the ocean in settings absurd and giant 28 on hot nights like these.
The Fire There is a fire down below. Underneath the skin.. Underneath the bone.. This flame feeds upon the thoughts we carry upon on our breath. I call this flame Love. When I feed this flame irreverence and distrust, the fire become cold and produces this clouds of smoke. The water of my being becomes acidic, polluted, and my strength decays. But, when I feed this flame faith and thankfulness, the fire burns bright hot. The water of my being becomes illuminated in its light and my vitality multiplies. Be vigilant and unyielding about the food you feed your fire. Be Vigilant and Unyielding about the Food your feed Your Fire. The material body is likened to a curtain drawn in around this fire. Our thoughts and feelings are shadows that appear to dance on the curtain. When the fire is cold and barely smoldering, darkness engulfs the curtain and the shadows are difficult to discern from one another... Too many become lost in that hopelessness. They lose their sight and become slaves to confusion. In their sorrow they neglect to notice the stockpile of wood eager to burn and brighten their lives. When the fire is hot and burning strong, the curtain becomes
white and the shadows well-defined. Many become prisoners of this stage of the fire, their identities trapped in the ever-changing parade of silhouettes. They forget the fire and become wrapped up with the curtain, feeding the fire only enough to keep up their shadow games.. But their are those Diligent Ones; the seekers of truth who avert their eyes from the curtain and its ephemeral drama to remain alert to the tending of the fire. They continue to feed the fire all their love and obedience until it becomes so hot and so bright, the curtain burns up, the shadows dissolve, and all that is left to witness is Light. The Fire is the ferryman. Remain focused on him lest you fall into the river of chaos he ferry’s your through.
The road leads in Deep in the wood unfolding begins, clear the vines overgrown around your heart, and discover your loveliness. Place your eyes inside your chest. Set them on fire and see the light. As images of rejection burn, so does the pretense of self-importance. Ego is not the road, but appears to be.
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