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Wednesday, April 4, 2012

Literary Bad Girl Kola Boof [SESSIONS]

Photo by Senza Porter
 "People still find it shocking that I was Bin Laden's pick for degrading rape..."




nthWORD: The Sexy Part of the Bible is one of the boldest, most original novels I've read this past year. It's heroine, Eternity, is an African supermodel cloned from an activist who was brutally murdered opposing unnatural skin pigmentation procedures similar to those used on Michael Jackson. How did you conceive this story?

KOLA BOOF: When my birth parents were murdered, my Egyptian grandmother Najet Kolbookek put me up for adoption because my skin was chocolate, so that was the beginning of an unusually intense and lifelong dance with Colorism and Eurocentrism as the norm.  Many years later, when I learned about the Michael Jackson Skin-Bleaching pill being used by African teenagers, I felt very strongly that I had to write about it.  The whole phenomenon of Black people trying to erase themselves—and the world's denial of it—became a constant reminder of my adoption process with Unicef and my grandmother. Writing the book was my only way of having distance and perspective. Decades from now, people will claim they were against this form of subtle intra-racism.  But today, most of us in the arts community deny it's even going on.  The average filmmaker or writer would prefer that Black beauty be represented by a lighter, usually mixed race image.

nthWORD: How old were you when your parents were killed? How much of a role did issues of identity play in creating Eternity?

KOLA: I was six when my birth parents were murdered. I was adopted and brought to America at around age eight. I was in psychiatric care at John Hopkins's Open Space program. Since I couldn't speak English, my doctors turned me onto silent movies. I would say that my entire outlook as a writer began by watching the silents films made by Abel Gance and Josef Von Sternberg.  The grandeur that pervades my lead female characters such as Eternity always have an organic foot both in silent Hollywood film tropes and mythical African rituals and traditions that I've tried to hold onto.  I am a Womanist (Black Feminist), a man-eater/sexual athlete and I regurgitate Pop Culture. I am an eccentric person, certainly isolated, complicated and larger than life—so my characters usually have a psychological flourish about them.  People compare me to Toni Morrison, Alice Walker, Ayaan Hirsi Ali and Zora. But I think the writer that I am most like is Ayn Rand.

nthWORD: Ayn Rand. That’s an interesting influence I never would have identified unless you said so. What are some of the parallels?

KOLA: I don't share Ayn Rand's philosophies such as Objectivism. But our actual lives are almost identical. She came from Russia, a teenager, a Capitalist, staunchly anti-Communist in the way that I am passionately against Arabic-Islamic Imperialism. She worked in Hollywood and married a guy because she was attracted to his legs. Ditto here. She liked the same foods I like and she was despised by the media just as I generally am.  I am a Capitalist, I am stubborn about the issue of Colorism in place of Rand's Objectivism. I support Israel instead of Palestine. In these ways, I am more like Ayn Rand than any other author I can think of.

nthWORD: The themes of The Sexy Part of the Bible include race and feminism. At one point you say:

“As a black woman in a white supremacist world, I can’t honestly claim that I’ve suffered any more prejudice and mistreatment from white men than I have from my own black men. Both groups seem to live by the white man’s standard, so they both hate, degrade, exploit, and humiliate black women, fail to even acknowledge our presence.”

Eternity is a supermodel cloned from a female activist by a lecherous white doctor. How did that juxtaposition help you develop your ideas? Did you start with characterization?

KOLA: No. I never write about characters. I write about ideas. The idea I wanted to explore using metaphor was that Africa is now a clone—that it's difficult to pinpoint our authenticity anymore.  An example is the Swahili language.  So many Western Blacks think that Swahili is an indigenous African language, but it's not, it's an Arab slave language fostered by Bantu.  Western Mulattoes routinely claim that African people have always come in an array of colors similar to Black Americans—it's not really true. We've always had very minor admixture and those with olive skin have never considered themselves Black or been accepted as such by Africans.  The majority of people in Ethiopia are blue black to chocolate, but Western media portrays Ethiopia as a nation of light skinned people. It's not in reality. So I wanted to write a novel that both highlighted this whole faux Africa that Western media has created—and one that explores what would happen if an African person completely rebelled and rejected this creation.

Stevedore, the white scientist and "father" of the girl clone Eternity, is symbolic of the well meaning self-appointed God figure that replaced our own tyrant Kings. And now that African men want to be White men, Eternity finds that she is not fully valued by her own Black men. Indoctrinated by Euro-centrism, today's Black men view her with the same random interest or indifference that the average foreign white men would. In this way, Eternity feels that she is now an artifact--and that Africa itself has been cloned like she has. She is rebelling against erasure.

nthWORD: Do you read genre fiction to inspire your work? Who are some of your influences?

KOLA: I am a writer because of Toni Morrison, Alice Walker, Gloria Naylor, Mark Twain, Richard Wright, Nawal el Sadaawi, Buchi Emecheta, Mari Evans, Sylvia Plath, Gayl Jones, James Baldwin and Sherwood Anderson. Those are the people who most influenced me growing up.

nthWORD: You're a very engaged author on Twitter. How has social media contributed to your burgeoning career?

KOLA: Haha. I think it actually hurts my career. It's helped me to become a Pop Culture figure in a way. But it's also taken away the mystique...to many people I'm vulgar, aggressive and too open and honest. So I regret having the Twitter addiction honestly. I should be more mysterious.

nthWORD: Recently you expressed your frustration over the potential casting for a movie to be made from your autobiography.

KOLA: Yes! We have three different companies interested in making a film of my experiences as Osama Bin Laden's mistress in 1996.  To my shock, an executive at Lionsgate films wants the Indian actress Freida Pinto to play me. I'm chocolate skinned with African hair mind you. So I find it the epitome of Western Colorism—wanting to have this woman who looks nothing like a Black person portray me. The studio executive said that I'm biracial, which technically is true, so he feels that an Egyptian-Sudanese woman could look like Freida Pinto. But it's so insulting and hurtful.

What they're saying is that Black women aren't beautiful. People still find it shocking that I was Bin Laden's pick for degrading rape—but they don't find it shocking that Prince Charles chose Camilla Parker Bowles over Princess Diana or that Monica Lewinsky isn't exactly a raving beauty. For some reason—and make no mistake, I am certainly a beautiful and unique looking woman; I've dated quite a few famous men—but there is the taciturn belief in the west that Black women cannot possibly be beautiful or desirable unless we're mix raced and very light skinned. And this is a constant message from music videos, movies and magazines in the west.

Dark skinned women are portrayed as fat maids, drug addicts, prostitutes and jolly comics.  Those images are created on purpose to fit white people's fear of dark skinned wombs and their power to create more authentically black people. This intense form of racism that even Black men participate in perpetuating is why so many Black women wear fake hair and bleach their skin.  Our type of African beauty doesn't conform to Whiteness, therefore it's automatically considered unattractive. And it's a lie, a very racist lie. The world is full of beautiful dark skinned black women. We just aren't allowed to be celebrated by the racist media—and most tragically, Black men only care about racism when it's aimed at the black penis--they care nothing for the fate of their dark mothers.  This is a struggle that Black women face completely alone.

On the other end of your question is the fact that supermodel Naomi Campbell wants to play me. I was overjoyed to be contacted from her representatives in Russia, her fiancé’s production company. I don't think she can act, but she certainly has the personality and the look to be convincing as Kola Boof.  I'm a huge fan of Naomi's.

nthWORD: What is it like working with Johnny Temple and your editor at the Akashic Books?

KOLA: Johnny Temple saved my career. I had become a tabloid figure, no one in the industry cared that I was a good writer and a critical thinker. Johnny, along with Ibrahim Ahmad, got wind of my actual writing and approached me from that angle.  I've barely had time to meet them in person—but they're extremely devoted to strong, innovative, next world women's literature.  And luckily, they have a vision for me artistically and have been molding me into what I want to be: a literary writer. 

I feel extremely lucky to be with them, because Johnny has forced everyone in the industry to respect me as a writer—even if they don't like my public image.  And I think that will change with the next few books as people come to understand why I am the way that I am. I'm very different from other literary writers in that I don't come from Academia—I come from mental institutions and orphan life, I come from a show-biz background.  I was a whore—never a prostitute—but a whore, meaning I rarely loved men.  Other than my husband, I used them for advancement—I beguiled them in exchange for them teaching me. I have no formal education; I write straight from my distinct personal hell. So I applaud Johnny and Ibrahim for recognizing the importance of damaged people like myself not being silenced. They've literally rescued my work and my voice from an invisible shoe box.  Years from now, historically—they'll be glad they did.

nthWORD: The Sexy Part of the Bible would make a great film, for a director who had the balls to make it. Can we anticipate seeing Eternity on the big screen?

KOLA: I doubt it very much. There's no way to get around casting a Charcoal colored woman in the lead role, and the idea of that imagery turns off Hollywood. Eternity is not a victim, she's not asexual, she's triumphant, vibrant, beautiful and Charcoal-skinned. It's too radical for Western cinema.

nthWORD: Do you have another novel in the works?

KOLA: Yes. And it's very powerful, rich and original. It's called She Wiped It on the Wall and it's about—on the surface it appears to be about—a Black American woman, Real Roxanne, traveling to Sudan to fight against the execution of a mixed race Dinka girl accused of witchcraft—the beautiful Sholoongo. 

Beneath the surface, the novel is about religion as power and subjugation and how the removal of indigenous African faiths and languages have helped to weaken and oppress African people mentally and emotionally.  It's an epic novel with many layers and a slower pace than "Sexy Part of the Bible."  But just as captivating I think. The book comes to some very unexpected conclusions. 

nthWORD: Last week you headed down to Atlanta for a lecture. In brief, can you tell us some of the main points?

KOLA: I talked at Emory University about why I don't like being called a "strong black woman"—why I created my own term, "the living woman."  I won't go into the details of that, but the reaction was one of unanimous agreement. I got a standing ovation and an invitation to return to Emory.

Having no formal education myself, it seemed so ironic to have an auditorium full of Black women doctors cheering me and calling me a genius. It just proves how anything is possible if a person has confidence and will.  Toni Morrison has a saying: "It's the prostitutes...that set the style." So I realize now that my outlaw image is very inspiring to many women who were socialized to  live in the prison of "lady-like appropriate nuance". I'm grateful to stand in my own eccentric cloak. I think publishing wins when bad girls have their turn at the podium.  The love I received from such distinguished Professors at Emory proved to me that there's an interest in outlaw women and how we see the world.  People have made jokes about my name, Kola Boof, a two-word poem that I wrote and took as my literary name, but they're short-sighted; it is absolutely...the best name ever.nth

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Friday, March 16, 2012

Interview with Joshua Mohr, author of Damascus

           Damascus by Joshua Mohr (Two Dollar Radio, 2011)

nthWORD: In Damascus you have a plot that revolves around a dive bar that hosts an art show protesting the war in Iraq by nailing live fish to portraits of fallen soldiers. Did you approach this novel with a question or artistic statement in mind?

JM: Wow, what a great question to start with. I like the parallel you’re seeing between the dead fish and the characters themselves. My books always start with plot. Are there interesting actions smeared on these pages? Is the romp wild enough? If I’m asking this mysterious reader to give me a few hours of her life, am I compensating her commitment with a reckless story that she’s never heard before? I really hope the answer to these questions is yes.

Before I started writing Damascus I knew I wanted this book to be a protest against Iraq and Afghanistan, but without being preachy. So I kept the anti-war theme sequestered to the dive bar. That was a balance I felt comfortable with: examining the war, but doing so through a very specific lens, in this case a sad, alcoholic lens. These are the dejected, who only share their thoughts if you happen to be sitting on the next stool over, offering to buy the next round.

nthWORD: You have No Eyebrows, the terminal cancer patient; Byron Settles, the ex-marine who never saw combat back stateside with an incurable drinking problem; Shambles, a recent divorcee and “patron saint of the hand job”; and the old man Owen with a birthmark in the shape of Hitler’s moustache, owner of a seedy little joint called Damascus in San Francisco’s Mission District. How did you come up with these characters?

JM: I love those old Robert Altman movies with ensemble casts: Nashville and Short Cuts are a couple of my all-time favorites. My first two novels had a minimal stable of main players, so with Damascus I wanted to challenge myself to follow several point of view characters.  

Of course, with the increased cast comes a slower process of familiarization. It takes a lot longer to get to know who these strangers are that populate your pages, and by a lot longer I mean several drafts. My initial sketches or glimpsed instincts about my cast are almost always wrong. I need to follow them around like a good, little stalker until I’ve collected enough evidence for them to act genuinely in scene, speaking and acting on their own behalves. I know that sounds kind of schizo, but that’s the way my process works.

I never write with any kind of plan, outline, or schematic so trial and error is a huge part of my writing process. If I write 50 pages, I’ll probably only keep 5.  That’s just how my tiny mind works. And each time I watch one of these characters do their thing, I learn something new about them.

I’m not sure if this is coincidental or not, but writing with an ensemble cast was by far the most fun I’ve ever had on the page. I hope that enthusiasm comes across to the reader. This book was a pleasure to write. In the past, getting my novels to play nice was like wrestling alligators, muscling the bastards into working the way I wanted them to. This was the opposite. We were on the same side, like old friends building a deck together, passing a sweaty beer back and forth as we put in the thankless hours. 

nthWORD: What was the most challenging part of writing this book? (On a side note, who would you see starring in Damascus if it were a film by Robert Altman?)

JM: Architecturally, I designed Damascus to be like the first big drop of an old wooden roller coaster. The reader spends the early chapters slowly climbing that creaking, rickety hill, listening to the chain struggling to haul the coaster’s weight, knowing that you’re just about to reach the apex and be dropped down the other side at a terrible speed, with your stomach flying up your throat. Getting the pacing dialed in the way I wanted was a beast and took a long time and many varying chapter structures.

I got shivers reading the phrase Damascus, a film by Robert Altman.  Since that director is no longer with us, let’s think of deceased actors to play the roles.  Who knows: maybe they’re putting an adaptation together in the great beyond.  Peter Finch as Owen. Vivien Leigh would make a mean Shambles. Dennis Hopper as No Eyebrows. James Dean would kill the role of Revv.

nthWORD: Can you talk about the process of framing these characters in the context of the war?

JM: That’s always been one of the main challenges for artists: to contribute to the dialogue. How can we find a way to unearth something from our zeitgeist? How can we stake a side, articulate an angle normally muddled and murky? How can we investigate why our stupid species seems to make things so hard on ourselves?

One of the characters in the novel named Revv keeps saying that art is supposed to “stir shit” by which he means start trouble, anger those whose moral coding is different than his/yours. I’m not saying he’s right, though I’d agree that art should incite a “reaction” whether you agree or disagree with what the artwork says isn’t the point. The point is to get people talking, thinking, engaging. Maybe engagement is the ultimate goal.

As to why all of the book’s characters are so flawed, I guess that’s more symptomatic of me, my friends and family. I spend a lot of time with fuck-ups.  I didn’t go to an Ivy.  I went to a crappy state college.  I’m an urban kid, who drank and drugged hard. This is a world I’m very familiar with.  It’s an environment often parodied or caricatured in literature, yet rarely rendered where the downtrodden are treated with dignity, empathy. That’s very important to me.

nthWORD: The art show in Damascus certainly succeeds in stirring shit up.

JM: Hopefully, the confrontation between Revv and the ex-marines works on a few levels: first, because it’s the climax of the book, it has to be exciting. This is when as the author I hope you’re flipping pages at mach speeds, dying to know what comes next. But it also has to be my kill-shot in terms of subtext: What’s the point of this confrontation? What has the book been building toward? It’s definitely a direct commentary on Iraq, but it’s also a commentary on the role/responsibility of the artist in times of war.

Finally, I’d like to think the climactic action challenges the audience’s worldview, pushes the reader out of her comfort zone. I hope it makes which way North is on the moral compass incredibly hard to decipher. Both sides of the argument have reasons they feel are cogent. How are you interpreting the action? That’s for each reader to determine for herself.

The bar in the book is certainly representative of America. And I really buy into Milan Kundera’s argument that a novel is supposed to be about posing questions more so than supplying answers: the answers should come from the reader, how is her gut and soul and social coding aligning with the characters and why? I wanted to set up a scenario in which everyone’s side can be articulated to be either flawed or reasonable, depending on your personal programming.

This novel is not Whole Foods Realism the plight of the bourgeoisie but it is indicative of a huge part of our population. Many of them probably don’t vote, couldn’t tell you who our current defense secretary even is! But that doesn’t mean that they can’t embody the very struggle we watch in congress, or the ways partisanship seems to inevitably lead to attacks against the other side, regardless of which party is in the White House.nth

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Thursday, February 9, 2012

Dewey Decimal Bends the Mind! [Book Review]

Kola Boof

How kick-ass is it that one of the best futuristic crime novels of the last decade is written by someone outside the literary establishment, a man who scores films for a living—and—how surprising is it that the often used back drop of a war torn post-apocalyptic New York City is made so original and so engrossing that reading the narrative actually feels…well, kick-ass? Nathan Larson’s The Dewey Decimal System is a fast paced terrain eating assassin’s story. But for all its futuristic trappings, the story of a crumbling American empire beset by dreamless sleepwalkers and greedy people panicking is strangely…the story of now.

Driving the narrative is a nameless multi-racial male soldier and NSA mind-surveillance victim who lives at the New York Public Library (he’s been rearranging all their books according to the Dewey Decimal system now that all the people are gone). Answering to the name “Mr. Decimal,” he’s literally a hot mess—a paranoid amnesiac obsessively cleaning his hands, checking and re-checking to make sure he’s got his key and pathologically compulsive about which direction he rides the train or walks to the liquor store. That description makes him sound redundant but he’s not. What makes him one of the most fascinating protagonists I’ve read in a long time is the fact that he’s a paid killer.

Hired by the D.A. to assassinate a world class Ukrainian mafia type—Mr. Decimal unwittingly becomes entranced by the gangster’s sultry blonde wife, Iveta Shapsko. This provides the sexual undercurrent that ignited Mr. Decimal’s appeal for me—he’s a human calculator racked by sheets of feelings yet clearly doesn’t remember what feelings are or how to process them. What he does have intact is his penchant for curiosity and adventure. In setting up the Shapsko murder, the job takes on a life of its own. Dewey falls into a litany of secret passages and unexpected plot twists that cause the story to explode with violence, romantic titillation and of course, sociological pathos. It’s an action-packed read, beautifully written. But on a deeper level, it’s a novel about mind manipulation, being lost and the human will asserting adaptation and reinvention to survive and change form. Larson is clearly a liberal Democratic activist type—and don’t get me wrong, he doesn’t preach or allow notions of right or wrong to inhabit the story—but the underlying familiarity of the ghost world on these pages makes you, the reader, want to pick up some form of activism now before it’s too late.

The future bares a cold landscape as Larson foresees it. But it’s a world we already have in our sights.

When I finished The Dewey Decimal System, I wasn’t sure what I wanted to do about it. But I had the gnawing feeling that I must do something. And that’s all too rare in books nowadays. For me, this was an epic hunter’s fable about the necessity of the individual mind and America’s loss of attention span.

It deserves more attention.nth







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Wednesday, February 8, 2012

of Montreal's Paralytic Stalks [Review]

Seth Katz

Since Cherry Peel, of Montreal’s debut album, the boundless creativity of singer, songwriter, and composer Kevin Barnes has never been in doubt; But their 2007 outing, Hissing Fauna, Are You the Destroyer?, found the band outdoing themselves, both sonically and lyrically, and producing their most accomplished work to date. This elaborate concept album, filled with bright synthesizers, pulsing dance beats, and pop hooks to spare, was a far cry from the miniature character sketches of the early albums such as The Gay Parade and Coquelicot Asleep in the Poppies: A Variety of Whimsical Verse; their days of Beatles-meet-Brian Wilson indie-pop tunes were gone for good.

Hissing Fauna was written during a time of crisis in Barnes’s life, and ever since, of Montreal has been what Barnes has called a therapeutic outlet for his depression, neuroses, and innermost secrets. The first half of the album contrasts troubled, personal lyrics with upbeat pop melodies, until Barnes transforms into his Ziggy-esque, glam-rock alter-ego Georgie Fruit, a self-proclaimed black she-male, the back half of the album propelled by funky guitars and disco beats. Barnes gave himself completely over to the Georgie Fruit persona on Hissing Fauna’s fun-loving dance party companion, 2008’s Skeletal Lamping. He ultimately returned to his own body on 2010’s False Priest, which introduced classic rock and R&B into the mix, along with a more obscure lyrical style.

On February 7th, Barnes is set to unleash of Montreal’s latest offering, Paralytic Stalks, which he wrote, produced, and recorded in his home studio, accompanied by an assortment of session musicians, including wind player Zac Colwell, a welcome addition. Without a doubt, this is one of Barnes’s most experimental and eclectic releases. Opener “Gelid Ascent” has echoes of Pink Floyd, while in the following two tracks, of Montreal’s signature funky pop is augmented by lightly processed piano and electronic washes. The flute melodies on “Dour Percentage” are a nice touch.

The final four of the nine tracks comprise 37 minutes of the album’s 58 minute run time, and showcase Barnes’s through-composing approach to song-craft. “Wintered Debts” transitions seamlessly between Elliot Smith, a pseudo-country shuffle complete with slide guitar lines, a more aggressive form of the traditional of Montreal sound, and a dissonant, quasi-avant-garde section featuring strings. For once, Barnes seems to be focusing just as much on atmosphere as on melody, as “Exorcismic Breeding Knife,” a song that fans will either love or hate, can attest to.

Lyrically, this album is Barnes’s most personal work since Hissing Fauna, and easily his darkest ever; particularly memorable images include “blood in my hair,” “slipping on my own vomit,” and “the carcass of my failures.” These often cynical and bitter lyrics are accompanied by a more aggressive delivery than we have come to expect; Barnes pushes his voice to its limit on “Spiteful Intervention” and “Wintered Debts.” While casual listeners to Hissing Fauna might miss out on the singer’s emotional turmoil because of the upbeat nature of the music, the harshness of the lyrics and a good deal of the singing on Paralytic Stalks calls attention to the grimness that pervades the album.

If Paralytic Stalks proves anything about of Montreal, it is that Kevin Barnes is far from running out of ideas. Just as fans of the band during their early Elephant 6 days never could have predicted the transformation that began with Satanic Panic in the Attic, listeners should relish the notion that within a few years, of Montreal will have radically metamorphosed yet again. For now, listeners who have enjoyed the band’s last few albums should give Paralytic Stalks a spin; I doubt they will be disappointed. nth

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Friday, January 27, 2012

“Lamberto Lamberto Lamberto” [Review]


Lamberto, Lamberto, Lamberto (Melville House Publishing, 2011)

Holly Camisa

While sketchy, silly illustrations and uncomplicated prose render Gianni Rodari’s “Lamberto Lamberto Lamberto” a book easily accessible for children, the content is certainly substantial enough for the adult reader.  Originally published in Italian in 1978, this is the first English translation. The plot revolves around the 93 year old Baron Lamberto, an extremely wealthy, worldly man whose health is ailing.  He and his endearing butler, Anselmo, share a pleasant, amusing relationship that adds tremendously to the charming nature of the book.  The story is full of fun, fantastical elements.  Lamberto, aware of his deterioration, pays a crew top dollar to repeat his name ceaselessly, and his majestic Italian villa is equipped so that this chant can be heard no matter where he is.  This incessant repetition of the Baron’s name provides him with youthful, eternal life…or so he believes.   Despite his spoiled nephew’s selfish desires to finally attend his uncle’s funeral and reap the rewards of his will, Lamberto becomes the casualty of a terrorist uprising.  His private island falls under siege, his bank directors are taken as hostages dealing with tremendous ransom negotiations, and the world watches closely as terroristic hell breaks loose in the normally placid Italian mountains. 

The story and style alike are whimsical, fanciful, and eccentric, all while delivering a sincere message about the effects and horror of terrorism.  While Lamberto’s island life may resemble the stuff of fairytales, the terroristic violence he suffers is inspired by real life events.  Rodari draws on elements of the Brigate Rosse, or Red Brigades, a Communist terrorist organization that tortured Italy with bank robberies, kidnappings, and murders during the 1970s and early 80s.  The group even killed Prime Minister Aldo Moro, who was attempting to reach a compremesso storico – historic compromise – with Communists.  Rodari’s terrorists invade the isle of San Giulio seeking violently to rid Lamberto of his wealth.  It all seems so appropriate during a time when terrorism is an ever-looming American threat, and politics revolve around the problem of class warfare. 

The quirky illustrations (Federico Maggioni), elements of fantasy, hilarious banter, and dark, bleak themes made this story read like a Roald Dahl one for me, and thus it came with a very reminiscent, comfortable feeling.  “Lamberto Lamberto Lamberto” is so witty, the style so precise, and the drama delivered so naturally that I’m particularly impressed by the exceptional work of English translator Antony Shugaar. America is lucky to finally have this Italian available in English.  There’s a wonderful balance between charming, comic interactions between friends and the horrific, appalling atrocities committed by others. While this unusual combination may seem part of the book’s eccentric appeal, it really is reflective of the bizarre, beautiful, and fucked up world in which we live. nth

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Wednesday, January 25, 2012

SOPA – Unnecessary Limitation



by Holly Camisa

Despite the extensive debates surrounding SOPA, little has been offered up in terms of solid, democratic solutions to the problem of internet piracy. As a refresher, SOPA – Stop Online Piracy Act - is a US bill that seeks to enhance the ability to legally prosecute those participating in online piracy of copyrighted intellectual property and counterfeit goods.  SOPA seeks to punish sources and viewers of infringing materials alike.  Networks, websites, and search engines are asked to ban business with and links to websites in violation of trafficking laws, and internet service providers to ban access to such sites. Those who stream pirated materials would be considered violators of criminal law and sentenced to serve time in prison. Foreign websites are allegedly the primary targets.

The debates revolve around censorship and free speech.  Defenders of SOPA seek to protect intellectual property and the jobs and revenue surrounding both the entertainment and the pharmaceutical industries. Copyright is central to their argument.  Opponents want to prevent unwarranted internet censorship and protect the First Amendment.  Punishing a whole web domain for material posted by an outside individual on a single webpage, blog, etc. is like shutting down an entire flea market because one person is selling knock off bags.  Though the intention is not to censor without cause, the broad nature of the bill allows for vast censorship and limitation of information, which is in violation of the First Amendment.  In the absolute crudest sense, this is a matter of profit versus freedom.

While freedom of speech may be the focus of SOPA controversy, this is really a matter of access and information. We’ve become really caught up in the legal and governmental repression surrounding SOPA.  At the heart of the issue, however, is a battle between sources of creative products and information. Hollywood, generally in favor of SOPA, is in conflict with websites like Google and YouTube.  The internet is a resource, and Hollywood is a source.  Despite revenue loss, it seems illogical to me that Hollywood would consider the internet an adversary rather than an advocate.  The internet is an extension of the entertainment industry, and has not, generally, progressed in opposition to it.  Netflix, and Hulu, for example, work with Hollywood to give the public what it wants – easy access to their products – while bringing in money through either paid subscriptions or advertising.  Personally, I know far more people who regularly use legitimate websites like these rather than sites infringing on copyright laws.  People don’t turn to sites like Megavideo because they hate Hollywood and get a spiteful kick out of stealing from its employees; they do it because they love what the entertainment industry has to offer.  And, as evidenced by the success of Netflix and Hulu, they are willing to obtain this product in a just manner. Cracking down on the immediate sources of pirated materials is certainly necessary. Perhaps, in addition, an emphasis on providing films and television programs in an accessible, legitimate form could benefit both the entertainment industry and the internet.  It’s not a particularly complex solution, nor is it one that solves the problem of piracy.  But the MPAA and search engines like Google both exist as extremely popular American entities because of the people, and both rely on revenue to maintain their existence.  In an age when information is abundantly available, providing appropriate access is far more logical than attempting to limit information flow.  It’s not impossible to provide what the people want without bringing in a profit.  And it’s certainly not impossible to fight piracy in a way that doesn’t violate the fundamental values of American society. nth

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Friday, January 20, 2012

F. Scott Fitzgerald "On Booze" [review]

Holly Camisa


With the show “Boardwalk Empire” at peak popularity and Baz Luhrmann working on a new film version of “The Great Gatsby,” the roaring twenties seem just as hip as they were at the time, with the added element of nostalgia. The Lost Generation has maintained its appeal; its stories read like relics of a whimsical past we’d love to visit.  This wistfulness is the premise of Woody Allen’s recent movie “Midnight in Paris,” and a general love of the Jazz Age likely the reason why the film received the acclaim and popularity that it did. We often associate the 1960s with the peak of 20th century rebellion and cultural revolution, overlooking the 1920s.  The soaring hemlines, the dance music, and the sheer fun associated with the roaring twenties were a generation’s reaction to WWI and Prohibition.  Alcohol gave life to the very era during which it was banned. 

Our impression of the times would be fundamentally lacking without the writing of F. Scott Fitzgerald or the tales of his life with wife Zelda.  I assumed that “On Booze,” marketed as “a collection of F. Scott Fitzgerald’s best drinking stories,” would be a compilation of writings filled with the glitzy, hooch-filled parties for which “The Great Gatsby” remains so loved. But I was wrong.  I remembered that though a Gatsby theme-party is sure to be a blast, the story is really a rather maudlin one of a sad veteran, putting on a front, who meets an untimely end.  The excerpts in “On Booze” don’t necessarily flow as well as they could, and they certainly aren’t the raucous, flapper-filled stories about drink that you may be expecting.  These are, instead, much more like the morning after the party.  The book compiles essays, memories, and letters that are honest, inward writings about the effects of the self-proclaimed “well-known alcoholic’s” life, which often reflect the author’s disbelief regarding his early deterioration.  
“The Crack-Up,” Fitzgerald’s 1936 Esquire magazine essay reflecting on the pressures of fame, is particularly haunting, with an emphasis on the impossible joy of his youth, the degradation of the novel,  the pains and perils of adulthood, and the additional torment that comes with contemplating one’s past and the misery of the present.  He writes, “People still read, if only Professor Canby’s book of the month – curious children nosed at the slime of Mr. Tiffany Thayer in the drugstore libraries- but there was a rankling in dignity, that to me had become almost an obsession, in seeing the power of the written word subordinated to another power, a more glittering, a grosser power…” He was clearly devastated by the loss of whimsy and promise that colored the height of his success during the self-created Jazz Age.
Like the other pieces, “Show Mr. and Mrs. F to Number,” a travel log of Scott and Zelda’s adventures abroad from 1921 to 1933, doesn’t extensively discuss alcohol.  The couple beautifully documents their world travels as newlyweds with the tinge of romantic sadness that often accompanies happy memories, presumably due to Zelda’s institutionalization and Scott’s deterioration during the 1930s, when the recollections were compiled.  Reminiscent passages such as,
At the Ruhl in Nice we decided on a room not facing the sea, on all the dark men being princes, on not being able to afford it even out of season.  During dinner on the terrace, stars fell in our plates, and we tried to identify ourselves with the place by recognizing faces from the boat. But nobody passed and we were alone with the deep blue grandeur and the filet de sole Ruhl and the second bottle of champagne (pg.36),

are charming in the same paradoxically depressed, happy way as Fitzgerald’s classic stories.
Only in the few letters that are included at the end of “On Booze” does he talk so openly about alcohol and inebriation, with lines like, “Since I last saw you I’ve tried to…drink myself to death but foiled, as have so many good men, by the sex and the state I have returned to literature,” “Oh Christ! I’m Sobering Up!” “I am quite drunk again,” and “Began tippling at page 2 and am now positively holy (like Dostoyevsky’s non-stinking monk.)”  The works preceding these letters so clearly illustrate the author’s downtrodden final years that the thought of him writing letters and drinking alone makes the ending unbearable, as it truly must have been. The most remarkable skill of Fitzgerald’s is that he can deliver his saddest messages in so lovely a way, often augmenting the melancholy. 
Scott, so full of talent and promise, was hardly earning money in the ‘30s and died in 1940; the parallels between himself and Jay Gatsby are startling.  He is beloved in our nostalgic minds for representing the glamour and the amusement of a generation, without much concern for the tragedy and the downfall that consequentially followed.  This momentary mindset, however, seems to be the essence of the human love affair with booze. nth

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Wednesday, January 18, 2012

Made in America – An Artistic Movement?

Holly Camisa


Every holiday season comes with its hot, must-have toys and gadgets. This past season, however, there seemed to be a new fad; one that, hopefully, will stick. Fueled by ABC World News, gifts labeled “Made in America” were in. If you’re like me, the idea of “Made in America” may conjure up images of a WWII US of A, with Rosie the Riveter hard at work on the industrial factory line, having driven her Detroit-made Ford to work. These jobs and products, after all, play a pretty influential role in giving the American economy a much needed boost. Economists report that if every person spent just $3.33 on products Made in America, 10,000 jobs could be created. As I followed Diane Sawyer and David Muir’s reports, however, I couldn’t help but make an observation that I needed to pursue: many of these “Made in America” products weren’t just mass-produced factory goods.

Perhaps my original skepticism came from being of a generation noted for its obsession with glossy ads, retail, consumerism, and things. But as 21st century Americans, we lead lives that require certain things, and they don’t need to be the products of this want-more, buy-more mindset. There are so many Americans who are talented, creative craftspeople and artists. They put their hearts and talents into producing beautiful products that, quite often, we need. “Made in America” doesn’t have to be about stealing back jobs from China and India, but about caring for our people and our talents. In creating jobs, we can also buy high-quality products and finance the skills and dreams of the many different artists who, despite not laboring on the factory-line, truly are hard at work across our country.

In one nation we have deserts, the Arctic, the gulf, snowy mountains, oceanic paradise, prairie plains, and more. Our creative community is vast and varied. Participating in the “Made in America” movement is a way to explore these arts and learn about our country. There’s really no better way to illustrate this than through examples. As a student in Vermont, I have to brag about the gorgeous wood furniture made by the state’s rural artisans and craftspeople, who promise the same quality and integrity that started with such creations in 1791. Admittedly, Vermonters aren’t the only Americans creating beautiful furniture. The Amish are an often forgotten segment of American society. Pennsylvania Dutch Country produces simple, quality furniture that is the product of traditional craftsmanship.

The American household uses a lot more than furniture. We like to decorate, and can make the task all the more creative in supporting local artists. Danforth Pewter, based in Middlebury, Vermont, sells beautiful, handmade pewter home and jewelry products at reasonable prices. Glass art is a colorful decorating alternative. New Orleans is a hub of cross-cultural music, cuisine, and architecture, but the glass pieces created by artist Mark Rosenbaum at Rosetree Blown Glass Studio are all-American. Heading farther North to Appalachia, West Virginia’s Fenton Art Glass boasts gorgeous glass products Made in America for 100+ years.

Another piece of American history can be used to keep warm. For over 140 years, Pendleton, based in the Pacific Northwest, has made blankets, shirts, and other wool products using wool bought primarily from American sheep farmers, and woven in American mills. Much of the “Made in America” movement focuses on family and the small-scale, family operations that sometimes seem like a relic of the past. Rosebud Perfume Company embodies this kin-oriented, historical spirit. Smith’s Rosebud Salve, a staple of countless girls’ purses, has roots traced back to the Maryland company owner’s great-grandfather, who opened the business as a small drugstore nearly 120 years ago.

It’s no secret that Americans love to eat, and it’s easy to stock our kitchens with “Made in America” artisanal products. Wisconsin’s Sunset Hill Stoneware sells one of a kind, customized mugs and other handmade pottery pieces. You may recognize vibrant Fiestaware kitchen pieces from friends’ kitchens or your own. These dishes are made by The Homer Laughlin China Co., who has been manufacturing products in West Virginia for 140 years. For the cooking itself, many of us rely on All-Clad products, which have been made in a small Pittsburgh suburb using American steel for 40 years. And don’t forget the food itself! There is countless local cuisine, ranging from Texas BBQ to Phillip’s Seafood in Baltimore to California produce. And the booze…it’s easy to support American wineries, such as Post Familie Vineyards, the largest winery in Arkansas. While you’re rooting for your favorite American sports team, root for your favorite American beer. With microbreweries trending, there are plenty of great options. Back to Vermont, I have to recommend Burlington’s Magic Hat Brewing Company, which is currently working to use its methane byproducts as fuel for 1/5 of company operations, or Switchback Brewing Company, whose delicious red ale is made using their own specially cultivated yeast.

These varied products and companies are just a few of the so many “Made in America”; it’s a wonder we need much of a push to support such talent. No matter what you need, or want, it’s probable that you can easily find an American-made product. Even better, you’re getting more than just a product to fulfill a need. These are unique, individual creations made using traditional, crafty techniques. They’re a brilliant blend of American historical processes and artistic interpretations. And your money isn’t well spent for the mere quality of these goods; you support the arts and the American economy. Buying “Made in America” stems from a sense of community and patriotism, and what could be more patriotic than helping to make the American dreams of so many fruitful ones? nth

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Monday, January 2, 2012

Seven Days in Rio by Francis Levy | Review

Reviewed by Jessica Maybury
I’m at a loss, really. I’ve been staring at the cursor for a long time now. Before there was the curser to gaze at, I was carrying Seven Days in Rio around with me on my daily business as if it could somehow make sense in my head through osmosis, maybe.
I remarked to a friend, about a week ago, that this book has blindsided me. I don’t think I can ever think of prostitutes again without immediately calling them Tiffany in my head. I’ve started calling women of my acquaintance Tiffany, much in the same way that mommy dearest started calling me Miranda after we’d undergone a two-week-long marathon of Sex and the City. Thankfully the ladies of my acquaintance don’t know the meaning of my calling them by that name.
Madame Bovary, according to some people, was murdered by books. I had never understood what theorists meant when they rambled on about that sort of thing.
I do now.
I’m not meaning to say that I suddenly feel the need to go on a sexy excursion to some exotic place in search of a psychiatrist who’d give me a blowjob in an elevator. I just mean that I simply cannot stop trying to figure out what the hell actually went on during those seven days in Rio. The novel is surreal and absurd in the style of those frenetic stories by D. Harlan Wilson or Carlton Mellick III, except this is a more controlled madness. The high-pitched ridiculousness of tales by those other gentlemen is replaced here with a keen edge of reality and bitterness.
This is not chaos for the sake of anarchy or of spectacle, but rather for the sake of an inverted analysis. The narrator analyses himself, and is analysed by others (such as China Dentata), while being analysed by the likes of me. The reader, the narrator, the shrinks and the Tiffanys are all sucked into some maniacal whirlpool that, if you can slither out at all, remains glooped up in your head for long afterwards.
What is the novel about then?
A guy goes to Rio in search of prostitutes. He likes paying for sex. There are also a lot of psychotherapists and other people of that general field. He likes psychotherapy too.
And as for the rest, you’d really have to read it, to be honest, because it surpasses description.
I’ve read that some people roared laughing while reading this. I saw a review on Amazon that shrieked bloody murder at Levy for reinforcing derogatory stereotypes of Rio and Brazil.
I didn’t find the novel particularly funny. I mean, yes, it’s funny, of course it is, but not in the way that it would make me laugh. As I struggle to articulate my reaction to this novel, only one phrase seems to come close – batshit fucking crazy. Pardon the profanity, but only such animalism suffices.
I blame everything on Francis Levy – this incoherent sense of confusion, of bewilderment, not to mention the fact that he seems to have turned me into a misogynist. Well - pushed me further into that general direction, at least.
With that in mind, and for my own entertainment, I shall leave you with a section that I feel represents the novel succinctly. 
I was back to where I started. Several Tiffanys in tiny string bikinis passed by, negotiating the sandy beach in their stiletto heels. "Pssst...show me your vagina," I hissed, recalling the most tried and true methods of seduction. One of them turned back and nonchalantly pointed her finger at her cunt, whose labia were visible beneath the thin material of her bikini. [p 114]

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Friday, December 2, 2011

Bistro Coeur d’Artishow

An off the beaten path home for artists and discerning palates

By Robert Frigault

“Welcome home.” This is not only how performers are greeted, but also how you are made to feel as a guest at Bistro Coeur d’Artishow located in the Atlantic Canada's (or more specifically, Francophone Acadian) coastal village of Petit Rocher in New Brunswick. Originally opened as Café l’Artishow by Acadian singer-songwriter Pascal Lejeune in 2004, it quickly became a cultural hub for the region. In 2009 it was acquired as the childhood dream of current owner Karim Yazgi
and Manager Michel Carpentier who have given it their own unique flavour.

The name “ Bistro Coeur d’Artishow” is a clever play on words: Artishow is a French phonetic spelling of  “artichaut” (artichoke), that combines the words Heart, Art and Show, while suggesting a culinary delicacy; all these items the bistro delivers in spades. The space is small and intimate and candle lit tables add to the ambience. While Chef Karim watches over vegetarian dishes cooked to perfection, Michel and his staff, which include artists like Graziella Matteau serve a selection of local and imported micro brews and a fine selection of wines.

On Saturday November 26th, I was invited to join them for a performance by Two Old Cats, a new and promising traditional jazz duo composed of Phillip “Giant Hands” Albert on piano and Jeff “The Bear” Richard on bowed bass. The evening had me wide-grinned and foot-stomping until the last set. Michel not only ensures that Karim’s creations get served hot and that our drinks stay filled, he juggles this by acting as Master of Ceremonies and provides solo musical intermissions in between sets. At one point in the evening he had the whole room signing the refrain of “Mon Pays Blue” by Roger Whittaker, which goes like this “Moi j’ai quiter mon pays blue x 3, et je n’ai pas su lui dire adieu” translation: “I left my country blue x 3, but didn’t know how to bid it farewell”. As someone who left his country, province and city for many years and then returned: Thank you “Bistro Coeur d’Artishow” for welcoming me back home and creating a place for the arts and lovers of good food.

Note to independent musicians: Bistro Coeur d’Artishow and patrons extended a warm welcome to friends Lisa Housman and Dave Falk of Boston based folk duo Sweet Wednesday for a recent performance of their up-coming release “Escaping from the Pale Moonlight”, why not give them a call when you’re planning a tour that takes you off the beaten path...nth

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Wednesday, November 30, 2011

Barista Wars VII: Getting My Java Fixe


Sugar Fixè Patisserie
Oak Park, Il.

Clouds in my coffee
You’re probably wondering where I’ve been – not external me, the blogger bloke, the guy up there sitting in his ripped Clash on Broadway shirt and vintage sweat pants, who cares about him? I’m talking about internal me, down here on the digital ground, the espresso hound, the bane of baristas.
The answer is, I’ve been on the scene, don’t doubt that for a moment. But I’ve hit a little bump in the road that has thrown me off my game and staggered my system. Here’s the problem: The cappuccinos I’ve been getting lately have all been good, and the baristas have all been exceptionally nice. Can it be they’ve all learned how to pitch me, throwing friendly curves and changeups instead of innocent tosses down the middle? Don’t they understand I require more barista wars to report on? Where’s the fun in peace, love and understanding?
Here’s what the past week was like: The guy at Ch’ava up on Clark Street patiently shared his Chemex methodology with me – love the idea of roughing up those fickle grounds during the initial pour! Further up Clark, the guy at the Coffee Studio who looks and acts like my friend Richard laughed (you read right) at a joke I made: double rim shot, please! And on home turf at Asado, on a turntable prominently set up in front, they were playing an instrumental LP by the James Brown Band. How funky is that?
All of this competence and niceness keyed me up for a confrontation out in Oak Park, which has been a coffee desert since Buzz Cafe changed its beans and its young employees grew ever greener at the bar. I’m spoiling for a fight at the Sugar Fixè Patisserie – with a name like that, you’re required by law to trash it – which I’m patronizing because they serve Julius Meinl coffee. Being from Austria, that ain’t exactly prime bean, but it’s a lot closer to Italy than Starbucks – subject, hoo-ah, of a new John Wesley Harding song, “There’s A Starbucks (Where The Starbucks Used To Be)” that the evil empire would be featuring if it had any taste.
So: I order a double macchiato, asking for the “classic” version, but holding myself back from instructing the young, agreeably non-sugary woman behind the counter to lay a “hat” of steamed milk on the espresso. My reticence, I’m fully aware, guarantees my doom. She tells me to take a seat, that she’ll bring me the drink. I sit at my own little table content, for the moment, to browse through the advance copy of the new Peter Robinson mystery I bought for three bucks at the bookstore around the corner.
I’m counting on the book being better than Robinson’s last one. He’s never off his game two books in a row. Well, actually, I haven’t read his earliest novels, so I shouldn’t be making that statement. And the new book isn’t in the Alan Banks series, it’s a standalone. How many of those are as good or better than the main event?
But, wait. I’ve gone through the entire Robinson ouevre and the proprietess is still making my macchiato. Did I just hear her ask her co-worker how to do it? I feel my happy frown starting to come on.
Sure enough, when she finally delivers the goods, following that goofy Meinl practice of laying a spoon across the lip of the water glass,  I see there’s no hat on my macchiato. It has, instead, the dreaded head of foam. I take a sip because I have to. She’s eagerly watching me.
“How is it?” she asks. Which is a little like asking Jay Leno how he likes being called lantern-jawed.
I think I’m going to foam at the mouth a little, but it isn’t as easy to climb out of my recent good vibe as you’d think. “Good,” I hear myself saying.
In my head, I’m cursing Austria and everything it stands for, going back to Archduke Maximilian. I recognize, don’t I ever, the potential for a really good scene here. I can complain to two baristas for the price of one. But just this time, I’m going to leave it to my external me to get worked up. The Barista Wars will be fought another day. Internal me has a Peter Robinson novel to plow through. Call me a softy, but who wants to waste time crying over steamed milk? It is, after all, Thanksgiving.nth
Post by Lloyd Sachs

ABOUT LLOYD
I became obsessed with coffee when my best friend bought me a one-mug Melitta machine – a cheap comment on my lifestyle, I thought, but an undeniably accurate one. I became obsessed with jazz only after I became obsessed with rock, which was only after I became obsessed with Hootenanny, which was only after I became obsessed with the Playmates’ “Beep Beep” – go, little Nash Rambler, go! I’ve written about jazz for the Chicago Sun-Times (where I was a music and film critic and pop cult columnist), Jazz Times, Downbeat, the Village Voice and other folks. My freelance jobroll would include No Depression, where I was a senior editor; the Chicago Reader, where I penned the Hot Type column; Rolling Stone; Kirkus Reviews; Chicago Magazine and Playboy. I was the voice of “Sachs and the Cinema” on WXRT in Chicago and a co-host of the “Writers Bloc” jazz program on WNUR in Evanston, IL.

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