KanYe West- "Street Lights" Video

OK...so when I heard the 808's & Heartbreaks album for the 1st time, when "Street Lights" came on, I immediately envisioned Grand Theft Auto (with a car driving through one of the cities during the night time). Fast foward 7 months later and my vision has turned into a music video!!! Kanye uses animation for this video just like he did for "Heartless", and honestly I really like how it was made. The graphics are very intricate and it matches the music perfectly (unlike some music videos that have been released lately *coughs Best I Ever Had*) What I also noticed is that in all the 808's & Heartbreaks videos, (except for "Love Lockdown") Kanye has limited to no appearances in it...I wonder if that was done purposely.

Where do we go from here?

Hello Art Star fam,

Today, I came across the story of Eric Frimpong, star UC Santa Barbara soccer player, and (wrongly) convicted sex offender.

I've linked the original ESPN article, but aside from this YouTube video, and a handful of blogs, I can't find the story mentioned on any major news network. Therefore, here's the short version: Frimpong was indicted, tried, and convicted in 2008 of raping a UCSB freshman, despite the complete absence of any physical evidence linking him to the crime. To make matters more difficult, his accuser admits she cannot remember many details of the attack, as she had been drinking much of the evening (her blood alcohol level registered at 0.2), except that her attacker had "big lips" and an "island accent." It would be easy for me to preach on the dangers of sex and alcohol and the re-victimization of assaulted women by blaming the liquor, but I won't do that. I'm not qualified to talk about that, and I don't want to. Yet.

That brings me to the question, what happens with this now? A dialogue on the case seems inevitable, but what should we talk about? Race, sex, or the sometimes haphazard collision of both? Where do we start? How do we advocate for justice for both Eric and the assaulted woman?

Help me out here, guys.

Realest Sharpton Ever Said

In Honor of the Photo Gods

Not leaving the local landscape and routine for about 3 months got to me last week, so I arranged a visit with friends who live in Maryland. The first 2 on the road was exhilarating.. feeling the freedom in freeway. Just north of Richmond, VA, everything changed...2 small accidents within a mile of each other slowed traffic to about two miles an hour for too long....then the chaos theory as it pertains to traffic patterns kicked in, and my fantasy plan of breezing along like the dudes on route 66 of yore, were dashed. Deciding to take a momentary break to gas up and pee, and perhaps grab a sandwich I chose an exit that boasted a Subway shop. Well, the sandwich place wasn't exactly where the sign near the gas station indicated it was, so, faced with a huge expance of asphalt and what looked like a truckstop down at the end, I took off in that direction. What I found was the gem of the day. There, in a little grove of trees was a tiny white chapel, replete with pointy tall steeple. Off to the side front a bunch of motorcycles were parked. Looked good to me. Not wanting to disrespect the two scruffy bikers standing around made me decide to not immediately start shooting photos that included their bikes. Wonderfully, as soon as I planted myself squarely in front of the chapel, the one guy suggested that perhaps I might like to include the bikes in my photo!! "Wow, good idea." I offered in an innocent lady voice. Score. But the best part was yet to show itself...it happened that when I went over to the side where the bikes were, the guy who was over there had on a vest with his club's name on the back-----Twisted Souls. It couldn't get much better than that. Except that it did...the first shot didn't show the steeple very well, so I asked him to come over to where I took this shot.

It is with great respect and love I bow to those laughing photo gods that occasionally offer up to us mere photo image hunting mortals the magical combination of the time and space co-incidence for to produce a perfect situation to aim a camera.

Made from the Best Stuff on Earth

How do they do it?

How does Snapple keep coming with these exclusive flavors?

They tell you on the bottle about how rare these fruits are (for example: I had Peach Mangosteen today. Never even heard of Mangosteen before! Allegedly, at least according to the bottle, Queen Victoria would offer knighthood to anyone who could get her one.) and yet still they sell thousands of bottles!

I got one in Penn Station today for $1.75, that's practically free in Manhattan prices!

Some of y'all are gonna think I'm trippin' but the question still remains: With Snapple claiming to have all natural ingredients, and boasting such variety with these exclusive fruits, how do they do it? Is there some deforestation afoot? And who is picking these fruits?

We need some answers!

Weekly Concerts Are Nice

Heading to some local venues but can't decide who to see. I trust the Art Star audience to guide me in the right direction! Help me out!

Date: Jul 1, 2009
Headliner: The Fuzztones
Venue: The EARL

Headliner: Tiny Vipers (sub pop) w/ Balmorhea
Venue: 529

Headliner: The Forty-Fives w/ Ty Segall
Venue: The EARL

Date: Jul 2, 2009
Headliner: Mama's Love
Venue: Smiths Olde Bar

Headliner: T-Model Ford
Venue: Smiths Olde Bar

Headliner: The Black Lips & special guests
Venue: The EARL

Please help a brother out!

Perched on a Street Corner

I was struck by the first rendition of Tom Petty’s “Free Falling” by a gentleman in his early 40’s on a side street between two houses. He was genuinely talented but nothing special stuck out with his oversized amp and a backup guitarist that came in sporadically when the moment inspired. It was a nice warm up for the ears. Backyard jams seemingly bringing out the festival feel and openness of the community.

Moving through the crowd, we’re trying to get to the main stage to see the ever-lost-in-the-90’s-band Cowboy Mouth. Known mainly for their song “Jenny Says,” that was all I was hoping to hear. Yes, going to hear one song may be odd but at a free-for-all open air festival, you can get away with it. With raspy vocals after years of touring (1993 was a while ago, ladies and gentlemen), the boys looked tired but did seem to be enjoying themselves and the Red Stripe boosted atmosphere. Unfortunately there was no Jenny to be found and we were left empty eared.

Call it courage. Call it peer pressure. Call it naivety. However you explain it, it takes an unreal amount of confidence to get up during one of the biggest street festivals in the Virginia Highlands of Atlanta and perform a solo… as a 13 year old. Perched on a residential corner of Virginia Avenue, the boy’s 1.5ft amplifier produced just enough volume to grab the attention of those admiring various booth art and bring those passively walking by to a shocking halt.

His family sat on the steps behind him, singing along, cheering, and admiring the gusto of the young rock star. Whispers were passing through the crowd. “He’s got serious balls.” “Would you have done that at his age?” “If he keeps this up, he’s gonna get major play.” The intoxicated cheers increased his confidence and little grins unfolded as he played for the crowd.

Even though I know I’m not going to push myself out of my comfort zone this second, his impromptu performance provided inspiration to many to look for a moment to jump out and forget your inhibitions in front of total strangers.

Cheers, VaHi Summerfest Rock Star.

Death of Autotune Official Video

JAY IS TAKING A LOT OF SHOTS AT TRENDS IN HIP-HOP & LEBRON MAKES A CAMEO IN THE VID. THE D.O.A THEME DOESN'T SEEM TO BE STICKING BECAUSE AT THE END OF THE DAY PEOPLE WANT TO DANCE TO THEIR AUTOTUNED OUT [POP CHAMPAGNE & ARAB MONEY] RECORDS. BUT I'M WITH HOV ON THIS ONE.

My Mind on Shuffle: No rocks at the throne

The surreal state of shock is still in the atmosphere.

I was on my way to the Garden on Thursday, to pick up the vibes outside as everyone anticipated the NBA Draft. Walking down 34th, I felt the buzz start to pick up as news of Michael Jackson's health started to spread. Street vendors stopping people on the street to let them know he suffered cardiac arrest. By the time I got in front of the Garden, I heard scalpers proclaim, "How am I supposed to sell this stuff? The King is dead." Yet still, I didn't want to believe it. I noticed a lag in my cell phone's network as I sent out texts asking about this news, assuming many others were doing the same. As my frat brother made his way down the street to me we both blurted out "Did you hear?!"

And by that time it was confirmed. My Mom returned my phone call, with tears in her voice, "Christopher, he's gone." In the same voice, no doubt, she'd use if a family member had passed. I didn't want to accept it, and in many ways spent this whole weekend denying it, but an icon who very much framed the expectations my generation has for icons, is gone.

For us 80s babies, who are too young to remember Thriller but too old to forget images of people fainting at his concerts, Michael Jackson has been a constant. In many ways, understanding his death is like hearing that the Sun just died. Of course he's mortal but don't front like you too didn't wonder, "Michael Jackson is dead?"

I can't remember any celebrity whose death has stopped the world like this. We've felt shock, and even horror, but I have never seen so many people take it this personally. There are reports of Times Square groaning as the crowd read the breaking news. Over the weekend I've realized how so many moments in my life had the King of Pop's influence.

Watching concerts on video. Countless attempts at Moonwalking. Friends dressed up as Michael Jackson for Halloween (one Halloween where three girls dressed up as Moonwalker, Mike from Thriller, and "Off the Wall" era Mike)

My senior year, my frat's winning show had a Thriller homage. The runners-up used that Smooth Criminal lean.

As I turn on video channels, read the news, you see so much love poured out for a man who tragically did not always feel this love in life. Even in this mourning, there are still those expressing their foolishness through tasteless headlines, ignorant facebook statuses; a barrage of tweets from twits. All revealing the hypocrisy so common in the human condition: a perverse readiness to dish out that which you'd never receive.

Michael Jackson was not a perfect man; like all of us he fought his demons but had the misfortune of wrestling in public. To those who still bash him and are quick to bring up his controversies, understand this: Nothing that you say can take away from his legacy.

Most of your heroes are complex and ALL of them have something they were ashamed of. If you have no reasons to mourn him, then you have even less reasons to tarnish his legacy. It is a shame that we often give flowers when the recipient can no longer smell them, (as a friend of mine remarks, we give flowers to the dead but no soup to the sick) and is cowardice to speak ill of one who is unable to retort.

Let's do more than play his music, let's listen to the words and express a love for one another that he undoubtedly possessed.

Great American Bullshit

So here's the skinny: for the past 40 days, I've been holed up in my fathers house in Houston, TX, counting down until I leave for Los Angeles, trying to pen outlines and draft chapters to what I hope would be my best "early works," four "great American stories" about love, loss, lust, and lots of murder.

I'd like to think the ideas themselves are pretty unique. As an unabashed nerd, in love with blue-collar science fiction and theoretical physics (but lacking the math skills to be a physicist), I nurtured story concepts rooted in a second Civil War, stem-cell re-grown limbs for sports stars, a teenage runaway who sweats LSD, and a boy who loves a girl he's never met, but whose mind he can read like watching shadow puppets on a wall (the magic of quantum entanglement -- yes these ideas have been copyrighted). I aim to infuse each project with enough originality and artistry and even personality (mine) so that at the end of the day, I'll create a product I'm not only proud of, but one which will be enjoyed by the likes of you too. As I told a girlfriend once, "I really want to be a great writer." (I may have used some phrasing like "literary mind" or "literary genius," but the point is the same)

The truth, and the problem, lies in her succinct answer to my fantasy, "but you aren't." If this is the case, and I have no idea how valid either her criticism or my confidence is, then I only have two questions to ask myself: 1) why do I care? and 2) how do I achieve this goal?

What makes me want to be a great writer is best summed up as a combination of childhood aspiration (some form of which all of us still feel), admiration for a number of authors I admire, and good, old-fashioned human envy: we all want to be what we desire; a drive which increases in concord to the amount of opposition we face impeding our transformation into that goal. The more we perceive people telling us we cannot be, we look to the people who are doing and casually mumble "fuck you guys" in their direction while trying to unseat them even harder.

Here we'll pause for a tangential, but connected anecdote. A weekend ago, Darryl Ratcliff took me on a 36 hour grand tour of Dallas, TX and its surrounding counties. It was a booze-soaked art-orgy full of interesting people, brotherly charity, amazing conversation, and beautiful women. Many of these women happened to be artists, and at one point I found myself in a house full of creative minds, all there to celebrate a daughters admission into a rather good graduate program somewhere up North. There was something hilarious and even fatalist about being in a room full of artists. Its effectively the same feeling you'd get on the first day of 7th grade gym class, within 24 hours of class time at Davidson College, or when finally realizing that, yes, that other guy can make her cum too: suddenly, you feel somewhat hopeful that others like you exist, but mostly just shitty, because now you know you aren't nearly as special as you imagined. This is a problem with Gen-Y babies: we caught the waning end of the "you can do anything" brand of parenting, and the beginning of the paranoid-about-the-probables 90's. Case in point? Cookie "Sometimes" Cookie Monster. We were no longer told "yes you can," but instead "yeah, you could, but Joe Institution might sue/expel/harm/rape you." This is part of why I can walk into a social situation which would infuse Darryl with drive and confidence, and instead feel out of place, and as though I should search out a convenient cubicle instead of expressive celluloid: we're the diverse products of an evolving American mentality, and throughout my development, I've always psyched myself into assimilating a lot of mixed messages. Sometimes I don't perceive moments as being as special and unique as they truly are.

So, if the above paragraph examines why, then what about how? Well clearly, there's a reason why, with anyone who produces (not in the Hollywood sense), the first chapters of their life are called "early works." They're precisely that: early, imperfect, and maybe even just plain bad. Even William Faulkner wrote some pure bullshit before strapping in to write Absalom, Absalom! The daughter benefiting from the above party displayed a few of her best pieces in a mini-gallery attached to the event, but as a whole, my general reaction to her work was simply "meh." This does not mean she isn't, or won't be a talented artist, just as my Gen-Y, Yorrick Brown-esque (if you get that one, I'll marry you) anxiety doesn't mean I can't become the writer I want to be. Early works stay early if you stop practicing, stop growing.

To either side of me lay copies of Thomas Pynchon's Gravity's Rainbow and Charles Bukowski's Septuagenarian Stew. Chuck Klosterman's IV is in my Amazon wishlist, and I just finished Paul Pope's complete bibliography. "Fuck you guys," I'll say. "I need to go write."