The Theft of Islam

Link to article here.

Architecture in Helsinki

Unfortunately, this interview which was so graciously given by Cameron of Architecture in Helsinki, allllll the way from Melbourne and a whole day away (thank you, Cameron!) was cut tragically short to get as many Coachella 2007 bands into that issue of The District. Still though, I got this to show for it.



For better viewing of the article, click here.

Afrika Bambaataa

I never in my whole life thought I'd have a chance to see Afrika Bambaataa live. Like Kraftwerk or Coldplay (I'm SO kidding about Coldplay). So when you get all dolled up, dressed to the nines (I was ba-ZAM that night. Too bad I have no photo to prove it), and the mofo doesn't even hit the decks until 1:30am (no joke), and then is not even playing the decks but instead Serato software and never once dropping down a record, well, it's disappointing. To say the least. Thank rock for LA Record who let me write the truth. Truly.




LA Record

Your Name's Lebowski, Lebowski

I've seen Lebowski so many times it's, like, pathological. Or obesssive, or something. But clearly, I'm not alone in this endeavor. Surprisingly, I've rarely watched it stoned. I know. Weird. But every time, it makes me laugh so hard, at the same things, and every time, each line and scenario absolutely sends me. It's really in numbers so high I couldn't even count. I remember going through a particular heartbreak and I would drink Black Velvet (we're talking breakproof bottle, here.) and Pepsi One and eat pizza and watch Lebowski. Something about it was incredibly soothing and ritualistic. My dear and wonderful Sanaz would call and in her sweet childlike voice say "you have a very special relationship with that movie." Although it doesn't seem like what you'd watch when you're going through heartache, I'm not alone. This guy said that too:
So, you know, like, great minds and all.

Naturally I was thrilled when my editor told me "have I got a dream assignment for you." Although it's not my best writing, I suppose, this one, I have to admit, is one I'm particularly fond of.




I think the only other movie I might have seen more than Lebowski is this one:

time to get out of the rain and into a dry martini

Written for Long Beach's very own The District by yours truly.

Damn. Makes me want three. Right meow!

Welcome to Your New Rubric for Artistic Growth

-amrit singh

Well here we are at the first detour sign. Upon re-viewing my writing in the various publications all I did was edit them. Literally, like, red pen and re-wording. Reviewing, revising, re-visiting. A lot of re's. I'm fully conscious that the work won't be re-submitted. I'm fully conscious that it doesn't really 'matter.' But some of the sentences, I just couldn't let them live that way. So instead of picking some good choices, I just went back and rewrote them. This is as lame as going back and reading a college essay, and making adjustments and grading yourself 10 years after you graduated. You're receiving the lame pointlessness, I gather?

Do I do the same with my photos? I criticize them, harshly, but I don't want to re-shoot them. And the performances, they're never good and everyone that's ever done it knows that. Unless you're not thinking. Stop thinking!

The problem ("I'm a writer, but nobody's perfect." - Billy Wilder) with being a writer, or writing, or whatever the fuck you want to call it, is that you are never done. It is never finished. You can never step back and say, there it is. Even Nabokov admitted that all you can do is try to structure the sentence that fits the best, that does what you want it to the best. "That doesn't mean," he added, "that five years down the road you won't look back and hate it, but there it is." This is fucking Nabokov saying this, man. Na. Bok. Ov.

So here we are and instead of me now being able to pound out 5/9 rhythm or sing up to 5 octaves or be able to shortcut my way through explaining how the interest rate doesn't immediately affect you as directly as you think but it does affect you (actually I guess I could if I had the time), I'm just here asking 'why' again. The answer is: because. You can, and you do. Because if you don't, you're dead already. And what else is there to do anyway.

Doubt in any artistic endeavor is death.

Remember that I said that.

The Fling

LA Record

The Fling can be found & heard @

The First One, Here.

Oh hello Blog. See, now this is funny. About three years ago I decided to burn all my journals. It was an attempt, I think, to essentially burn the past and move on. I debated the move for a long time - it's a horrible mistake to attempt to erase history. But I would never go back and read them, really, and all of them said the same thing. Over and over again. So, I decided, burn it. Burn the shit. What I know is in there is already in my heart, my mind, my soul. What I need(ed) to learn, and do, needed/needs to manifest itself in action. Not just thoughts. Not just musings. No more 'when will this happen.' Dig?

But, so wait. Three years later I start a blog? Ehn? Whu? Where am I? Oh fuck. I had too much to dr/eam/ink last night (I had too much to link last night! Oh god, it's on now) and now I'm in the blogosphere.

Well, you do what you know. And as the saying goes: a writer writes. I find it endlessly comforting that nothing and no one can ever stop me from that. These musings, these muses, these phrases I have kissed I know not how oft, will come and flow like whatever simile suits your pleasure. Breeze=cheese. Moving on...

So yeah, not that this one needs any explanation: it's clearly my blog (hello, Lady!) and I'll write if I want to. To follow: previous writings (I'm actually published, it's true. Crazy huh.) from several places, and maybe if I can wrap my head around the legal security of doing so, some short stories, and maaaaaaaaybe (probably not), some really really bad, scratch that, possibly good poems.

Till then, thank you for stopping by. And spell check is already on my ass. Shut up, SPELLCHECK!