Tina Vasquez

Modern Day Asian Sex Slavery: The Musical (2/18/11)

brittany — Mon, 28 Feb 2011 08:00:00 +0000

Long Beach, California

Each year CSULB has Sex Positive Week, presented by various feminist and queer student groups. Mariko Passion, activist, artist, and out and proud sex worker, kicked off the week of festivities with her one-woman show, Modern Day Asian Sex Slavery: The Musical.

Passion is a champion of what she refers to as the Whore Revolution, a phrase coined by fellow activist Emi Koyama. According to Koyama, the Whore Revolution begins with the acknowledgment that not all sex work is voluntary or safe and it aspires to create a world in which they are. After getting to know Passion a bit and attending an event thrown by the Sex Workers Outreach Program in Los Angeles (SWOP-LA), it has been brought to my attention that there is an entire generation of young women who do not feel victimized by their work. There are literally thousands of women who are not ashamed of how they make their money. These are women who are passionate, empowered, intelligent, and fighting for the most basic of human rights. As Jessie Nicole, director or SWOP-LA told me at an event earlier this month, sex workers see their work as just that—work. The average person doesn’t have to worry about being beaten, raped, or robbed while at the office and sex workers don’t want to have to worry about these things either.

Passion began her one woman show explaining to the audience that she starts each session with a massage. Straddling a pink Hello Kitty body pillow, Passion described how she uses her small hands to rub and coax her client into a safe, submissive state. This quiet before the storm also assists her in preparing to be intimate. According to Passion, eighty-five percent of the time she is not sexually attracted to the men she services and her sensual, slow massage enables her to “establish a genuine connection” while getting in the mood.

Her show was off to a strong start but was interrupted by various technical glitches and a few awkward on-stage costume changes that resulted in the audience getting a glimpse of Passion’s goods. It was obvious that Passion, who is Chinese and Japanese, hoped to tell the story of the plight of the Asian sex worker and the many ridiculous sound bits and pop culture tidbits she’s been reduced to. As a matter of fact, one of the most compelling moments of Passion’s show was when it appeared as if she broke away from the script, cursing, saying how much the infamous scene from Full Metal Jacket fucked with her childhood, how often she heard, “Me so horny, me love you long time.” As a virginal child completely unaware of sex work, it proved a rude introduction to the stereotypes Asian women must deal with.

Using old news clips and radio broadcasts, music, slides, and songs, it was an admiral attempt to cover decade’s worth of racism and sexual politics stemming from the Vietnam War, but it simply seemed like Passion didn’t have enough time to tell the story that was in her heart. Though entertaining and containing flashes of genius (traipsing around stage using a pink dildo as a mic and singing a dirty version of “I Enjoy Being a Girl"), we’ll have to call this a precocious work in progress with a lot of potential.

Photo courtesy of Stefan Agregado, photographer and photo editor at The Daily 49er.

Written by: Tina Vasquez, February 28th 2011

Charles Bukowski: Poet on the Edge

mandy — Tue, 08 Feb 2011 09:00:00 +0000

Huntington Library

San Marino, California

The Huntington Library is a sprawling estate—part research library, museum, and botanical garden, all of which are tucked away in the uber-rich city of San Marino, CA. It's the kind of city that would have rejected ol’ Charles Bukowski—or Hank Chinaski, as he’s known in his many books and poems. So, this blindingly bright, beautiful library seemed an odd location for a retrospective of Bukowski’s work, but the two rooms that housed his life story were magic.

I try not to be ashamed to admit that Bukowski is my favorite writer. I discovered him around the age of thirteen, and while other geeky book-loving girls I knew were reading Louisa May Alcott’s Little Women or Emily Dickinson’s breathy, delicate prose, I was devouring every Bukowski book in the library.

I had no idea that poetry could be so biting, so drunkenly sincere, so sexual, or so human. I had no idea you could write poems that weren't about feelings and flowers, but about the city and skid row, about being down and out or working shit jobs while living paycheck-to-paycheck. As Bukowski put it, his genius stemmed from his interest in “whores, working men, and street-car drivers—lonely, beaten-down people.”

Even as a young girl, I considered myself to be a feminist, and it was difficult to explain how I could feel so strongly for a notorious womanizer, a man who valued women mostly based on how good their legs looked. In his defense, Bukowski was also working class, a voice for the disaffected, though that’s hardly a defense. What I know, however, is that love is complicated, and my love for Bukowski is as complicated as his deep (and brutal) love of women.

For me, the single best part of Charles Bukowski: Poet on the Edge exhibit was what you saw immediately upon entrance: the writer’s desk. I stood and stared at it for a good ten minutes. Technically, there was just an old beat up radio, a typewriter, an incredibly thick pair of glasses, a couple of pens, and a stained wine glass, but it felt like so much more than that. Bukowski is a hometown hero for Angelinos, our patron saint of the downtrodden, and to see his desk exactly as it was when he was hammering away was nothing short of amazing. There was a recording of Bukowski reading aloud playing in the distance that was sort of intermingling with a never-ending loop of the poet’s favorite classical music, and it was sort of like he’d never left us, like we were standing in the middle of his late-night living room.

I’m not sure how Bukowski would feel about a retrospective of his life and work appearing at such a snooty, manicured museum, but I’m happy his wife Linda Lee made it happen. Part one, entitled “What Matters Most is How Well you Walk Through the Fire,” detailed his childhood. Bukowski endured a particularly painful adolescence, mostly because of an extreme case of acne that left his face and chest covered in boils. It’s doubtful he knew that the last chapter of his life would end with the heading “Hollywood,” as many of his books have now been made into mainstream movies.

For fans well-versed in his story, the eight-part walkthrough provided little insight into his inner workings or his writing, but being able to see childhood photographs, edited drafts of poems with Bukowski’s scribbles in the margins, and incredibly rare chapbooks was a real treat. Despite his many shortcomings as a human being, I respect Bukowski as a writer. Even after his struggle had ended and he began receiving the acclaim that escaped him for nearly thirty years, Bukowski was still simple in his needs and desires. “All I need now is what I needed then,” he said. “A desk lamp, a typewriter, the bottle, the radio, classical music, and this room on fire.”

This exhibit will run until February 14, 2011.

Written by: Tina Vasquez, February 8th 2011

William S. Burroughs: A Man Within

brittany — Fri, 17 Dec 2010 12:00:00 +0000

Directed by Yony Leyser

Inc., BulletProof Film

Growing up, I latched on to the writers of the Beat Generation for dear life. I loved them all, from the poets and women writers who lived in their shadows, to the heavy hitters like Jack Kerouac, Allen Ginsberg, and of course, William S. Burroughs. Truth be told, Burroughs was always the least accessible to me growing up. Whereas I identified with Ginsberg’s spirituality and Kerouac’s bruised sensitivity, Burroughs just seemed downright bizarre. From his three piece suits and demented banker looks to the nightmarish scenes that played out in his novels, I’ve always struggled to identify where he fit in with the Beats. That’s just the thing, though; Burroughs didn’t fit in, and in Yony Leyser’s directorial debut, William S. Burroughs: A Man Within, we learn that he was just as alien to himself as he was to society.

Anyone at all interested in Burroughs’ story will find Leyser’s film intriguing and for those unfamiliar, it will certainly provide an excellent overview of one of the most important writers to come out of the movement. As someone in the film says, Burroughs was probably profoundly mentally unstable, but for many disaffected youth, this will only make him seem more interesting.

As a feminist, I make myself uncomfortable with my profound love for writers like William S. Burroughs. Yes, he was subversive and groundbreaking, openly queer at a time when no one even discussed homosexuality, but he also shot his wife in the head, had a penchant for sex with young boys, and really, really loved blowing shit up with guns. As Leyser perfectly illustrates, Burroughs was unclassifiable; he fit into no mold, no box. He was a walking, talking contradiction.

Burroughs was older than Ginsberg and Kerouac, but they managed to get their most groundbreaking works published first. Despite their head start, Burroughs would prove to be the most enduring figure, becoming a counterculture icon during his later years. He was, after all, the Pope of Dope, a title bestowed upon him after decades of heroin abuse. That said, Burroughs may have been one of the most productive, functioning addicts of all time. As we learn in A Man Within, Burroughs was also considered the Godfather of Punk because of his close proximity to New York’s iconic rock club CBGB’s, his Crawdaddy! magazine column, and the way young musicians flocked to him. Towards the end of his life it wasn’t unusual for bands like Sonic Youth to make the trek to his Lawrence, Kansas home for a visit. Even at the age of seventy-eight, Burroughs was punk as fuck, collaborating with equally troubled soul Kurt Cobain on “The Priest They Called Him.”

All of his life, William S. Burroughs was an outcast, even in the burgeoning literary scene he helped create. Leyser’s documentary suggests that there was a lot bubbling under the surface of Burroughs’ stiff façade. He was a man capable of intense, perverse love, which he illustrated in a number of interesting ways, such as severing the last joint off his left pinky finger as a way of impressing a man he felt deeply for.

This was Burroughs, supremely self-contained and wholly unstable; a scheming, thieving addict and a functioning member of society; a respected writer and a lover of young, male hustlers, many of whom were not quite adults. Burroughs was the type of man you either accepted or were told to fuck off. I have to admit, I really admire him for that, and like all bad influences, you can decide whether or not you let them into your life. After all of these years, I’m still quite under the influence of William S. Burroughs, and I’d even say that Leyser’s documentary only intensified my urges.

Written by: Tina Vasquez, December 17th 2010

Swanlights

brittany — Thu, 16 Dec 2010 12:00:00 +0000

By Antony and the Johnsons

Abrams Image

Before we jump into this it’s important to make something clear: Swanlights is both the title of Antony and the Johnsons’ latest album and a collection of Antony Hegarty’s artwork. Sure, all transgender musical geniuses shouldn’t be lumped together, but I like to think of Hegarty as a more psychically wounded, heartbroken, and unbedazzled Hedwig.

I am a long time fan of Antony and the Johnsons and by extension, I wanted to believe that I’d love anything Hegarty placed his delicate hands on. Sadly, I recently found this to be untrue. After studying each page of Hegarty’s collection of art, I was convinced that all it takes to get a book deal is a recognizable name and built-in following. After flipping through a few pages on his own, my best friend, a reluctant artist, said what I didn’t have the heart to say: “This isn’t art.”

According to the singer, it took him three years to compile the collages, paintings, sketches, and scribbles that would eventually become Swanlights and if we’re being honest here, I can’t understand why it would take so goddamn long to compile something so random and childish in appearance. Cryptic squiggles appear on old help wanted ads; newspaper pages are color blocked with what appear to be markers; faded encyclopedia images are taped or stitched together; illegible handwriting appears next to old images of animals that have been torn or cut.

Nothing in Swanlights really spoke to me; it was all too delicate, too precious, and too nonsensical. Its only appeal was that flipping through its pages was like revisiting an old, childhood diary in which snippets or wisps of things seem slightly coherent, if only for a fleeting moment. Or, for those of us spent their younger years dropping acid and getting crafty, Hegarty’s artwork might serve as an uncomfortable reminder of what psychedelic drugs can do to an otherwise healthy mind.

Swanlights the album is markedly better, which just proves that because a musician dabbles in art, doesn’t necessarily mean an entire book should be devoted to their mournful collages. Like Antony and the Johnsons’ previous albums, Hegarty’s beautiful, almost operatic voice will hit you in the gut with longing. Swanlights is all piano and gorgeous string arrangements, with each song unfurling like a poem and repeatedly touching on the themes of water, ghosts, death, and renewal.

It’s Hegarty’s focus on water that I’m most moved by and the reason I will continue listening to Swanlights late at night when something in my brain shifts from happy to sad, on to off. When I was thirteen, my older brother snuck me out of the house and he and his girlfriend drove me around Redondo Beach in her 1967 Chevy Malibu. We listened to Morrissey all night and at that point in my young life, it was the most magical, exciting thing that had ever happened to me. I remember looking out the window at the ocean and thinking how a person could be sucked in by the waves, into the cold and dark, never to be seen again. Admittedly, it was a dark thought for such a lovely night, but the second I realized how true that was I never felt the same about the ocean again. I’m still terrified of it, but also strangely drawn to it, like many people/things in my life. The point of all of this, of course, is that Swanlights reminds me the late night drive and the ocean and strangely enough, of the overwhelming difficulty of being a teenage girl when—as Hegarty sings on the opening track—“Everything is new.”

I’m convinced that “I’m In Love” is the happiest you’ll ever hear Hegarty. Red corral is caressing him, he’s kissing his partner like a hummingbird, and all his dreams came true the day he laid his head on you, but in true Hegarty fashion the song ends with the day his partner cracks open, dies, and “ten black boys flew free from inside.” You’ve got to take the bad with the good, kids, and Hegarty knows this like no other.

Written by: Tina Vasquez, December 16th 2010

The Woman with the Bouquet

brittany — Tue, 14 Dec 2010 00:00:00 +0000

By Eric-Emmanuel Schmitt, Alison Anderson

Europa Editions

Eric-Emmanuel Schmitt was been described as one of Europe’s most beloved authors and just a few pages into the first of the five short stories that comprise The Woman with the Bouquet, I began to seriously doubt that claim. Initially, “The Dreamer from Ostend” seemed heavy-handed and awkward in its formality, so much in fact that I found it difficult to focus on the story. However, I trudged forward, and I’m happy that I did. I blame the jerky translation, but once you get past that you’ll be drawn into the secretive world of Emma Von A, an old, “invalid” inn-keeper who shares her deepest secret and most severe heartbreak with a young writer who’s staying at her inn hoping to recover from his own love-related sadness. Family members, such as her niece, tell the writer that Emma Van A has essentially led a lonely, suicide-inducing life; a life spent dreaming and staring out windows. What they don’t know is that Emma has a burning secret, so pure and true that it’s sustained her through years of sickness and sadness.

Emma’s tale sets the tone for each story featured in The Woman with the Bouquet, a book solely comprised of emotionally stunted, brokenhearted, dejected, and insecure loners who, despite their age, don’t seem capable of detaching themselves from the difficulties associated with adulthood. With unflinching honesty, Schmitt reveals just enough about each person to shed light on their inner workings and what makes them tick.

In “Perfect Crime,” we become acquainted with Gabrielle de Sarlat, a wife and mother who’s convinced herself that her husband is doing something deeply dishonest and for a lack of a better word, shady. It’s common knowledge that he has a hiding spot in his office where he keeps a number of small chests under lock and key, the contents of which he will not share with his wife. This is a source of great unease for Gabrielle and it’s only made worse by the types of everyday annoyances that grate on your nerves after years of being married to the same person. For example, Gabrielle’s husband often refers to her as “old girl;” he believes this to be a term of endearment, while hearing it makes Gabrielle’s blood boil. When it feels as if marital bliss has flown south, many women would seek refuge in their friends or in the warm embrace of a cocktail, but Gabrielle murders her husband in a particularly cruel way. Well after his death, Gabrielle finally gets to investigate the contents of the chests in her husband’s office and what she finds are poems, letters, and other tokens of his love that he hid not out of guilt for wrongdoing, but out of embarrassment for his own sentimentality.

Each character and story in The Woman with the Bouquet brought to mind a quote from Janet Fitch’s White Oleander, in which Astrid’s imprisoned mother Ingrid tells her, “Loneliness is the human condition. Cultivate it. The way it tunnels into you allows your soul room to grow. Never expect to outgrow loneliness. Never hope to find people who will understand you, someone to fill that space... If you expect to find people who will understand you, you will grow murderous with disappointment. The best you'll ever do is to understand yourself...”

Now, those are depressing, unsettling words (for Schmitt’s characters) to live by.

Written by: Tina Vasquez, December 13th 2010

Baked Explorations: Classic American Desserts Reinvented

brittany — Thu, 18 Nov 2010 16:00:00 +0000

By Matt Lewis, Renato Poliafito

Stewart, Tabori & Chang

Everything good these days seems to be coming out of Brooklyn, so I wasn’t surprised to find that Matt Lewis and Renato Poliafito, authors of Baked Explorations, have a tremendously successful bakery in Brooklyn that is garnering national attention—not to mention a whole lot of love for from the food-centric blogosphere.

This is the second book by the duo; their first was aptly titled Baked and named after their bakery. Lewis and Poliafito are becoming known for upping the ante and recreating run-of-the-mill sweet treats; think the usual suspects—brownies, pound cakes, scones—but on steroids. Their latest cookbook is in the same vein but aims to put a clever spin on classic American desserts. During their travels, Lewis and Poliafito were often approached by fans who wanted to share their favorite desserts that have been passed down through generations at “church suppers and small town gatherings.” Many of these were hyper-regional or long thought of as passé or just plain bizarre, like Mississippi Mud pie or Jell-O pretzel salad—a favorite at Mormon gatherings. (I can personally attest to this—don’t ask.)

Thumbing through a baking cookbook, especially one as stylish and hip as Baked Explorations, is equally enticing and discouraging to me. As I’ve said before, I do not enjoy baking, mostly because I’m very bad at it and looking at page after page of perfectly executed desserts only reminds me of how inferior my baking skills are. That being said, Baked Explorations isn’t all towering, perfectly-iced cakes and multi-tiered treats. There are many recipes that not even I could screw up, including a no-bake cookie.

The first thing that caught my eye was the second recipe in the book, intended for breakfast: pumpkin cheddar muffins. The combination sounded a little odd, perhaps even a tad gross, so naturally I was intrigued. This time of year I’m all about simple pumpkin goodies and have been known to churn out countless pumpkin chocolate chip cookies and more than a few loaves of pumpkin bread. I love when sweet and savory collide and these little gems do not disappoint. Since receiving Baked Explorations just one month ago, I’ve made these pumpkin cheddar muffins a total of six times; I’ve eaten them for breakfast, I’ve dipped them into bowls of turkey chili, and sopped up the last bit of soup in my bowl with them. They are dead simple to make and taste just like you think: cheesy and pumpkin-y, but they’re also spiked with a bit of cayenne pepper that hits your throat ever so slightly after each bite. They are divine.

I really wanted to talk about the Nutella scones, which in theory are perfect. Nutella is a decadent chocolate hazelnut spread from Italy and when you combine it with a chocolate scone and chopped hazelnuts, you should have heaven on a plate. I had a dry hockey puck, but I hope others will have more luck with these than I did. In my defense, making a good scone has a lot to do with baker’s intuition, which I have none of. Plus, the directions for rolling the scones out were complicated at best.

For those of you yearning for diabetes, I highly recommend making the double chocolate loaf with peanut butter and cream cheese spread. I love simple bread/loaf recipes that don’t require yeast or kneading and much like the pumpkin cheddar muffins, this recipe was incredibly easy to whip up. It’s rich, it’s decadent, and it made my toothless eighty-year-old great uncle giggle like a schoolgirl. To me, that’s the ultimate test of a recipe’s yum factor, and this one passed the test with flying colors.

Written by: Tina Vasquez, November 18th 2010

Max's Kansas City: Art, Glamour, Rock and Roll

brittany — Sat, 16 Oct 2010 16:00:00 +0000

Edited by Steven Kasher

Abrams Publisher

The iconic New York club Max’s Kansas City was the art world equivalent of the equally iconic CBGB; it was where all of the beautiful freaks and geeks; aspiring, wannabe, and legitimate artists congregated to see and be seen. Editor Steven Kash has done a magnificent job of compiling photographs that features all of the glitz and grime, genius and depravity that was the New York art scene of the 1970s.

Max’s Kansas City is a photography book, but there are a few well-written essays sprinkled in by Lou Reed, Lenny Kaye, Lorraine O’Grady, Danny Fields, and Steven Watson. Watson points out that though some of the female artists in the scene like Brigid Berlin and Sue Hoffman (aka Viva) weren’t taken seriously by their male contemporaries, they weren’t “just girlfriends” either. They had their own identities and were forming their own careers and according to Watson, were “on the cusp of feminism.”

I’d argue that they were seen as “just girlfriends” and that this is a common occurrence in artistic movements. Take the beat generation for example. Jack Kerouac, Allen Ginsberg, William S. Burroughs—they’ve become icons and the women writers were their caretakers and meal makers, struggling to get published. Just think of brilliant writers like Diane di Prima and Hettie Jones, who are—to this day—treated as minor footnotes or oddities in a scene comprised of men. Sadly, not much has changed.

Gender disparities of the scene aside, the photos are all inclusive. I have a thing for 70’s fashion and music, so flipping through the pages of Max’s Kansas City was nearly overload. How many images of young and beautiful icons like Patti Smith, Iggy Pop, Lou Reed, Debbie Harry, and Tom Waits can a girl take before she drops? Oddly enough, what’s almost more interesting than the superstars are the images of the unknowns, the beautiful losers who appear to have just wandered in from off the street at the most opportune moment—when the cameras are flashing near Andy Warhol or Nico.

Some of the photographs are almost too up close and personal, like the one of a fresh-faced Janis Joplin sitting at a superstar populated table. What are they talking about and what kind of salad is that in front of them? And look, there’s an incredibly young and handsome John Waters holding a cigarette, the image so crystal clear you can almost smell the smoke.

What I especially love about Max’s Kansas City is that so many people associate the 70’s with polyester and bullshit disco music, but these images are proof that those on the outskirts of the city and on the fringes of society were creating groundbreaking art and music in dingy clubs tucked away in shady neighborhoods. To me, that’s so much more interesting than doin’ a little dance and makin’ a little love at a bullshit disco club.

Written by: Tina Vasquez, October 16th 2010

She's Gone Country

brittany — Sat, 16 Oct 2010 00:00:00 +0000

By Jane Porter

Hachette Book Group

When I received Jane Porter’s second novel, I’d been sick in bed for nearly two weeks. Though the book helped pass the time, it did little to hold my interest. From this reviewer’s perspective, a true test of a novel’s worth can be answered with one simple question: Would I buy this book? As it pertains to She’s Gone Country, the answer is no, even if I were to set aside my general dislike of “chick lit.”

She’s Gone Country tells the story of Shey Lynne, a model who had a seemingly perfect marriage to a successful photographer. Essentially, she was one half of a glamorous New York City power couple—and then it all went to hell when her husband came out of the closet (a surprising twist, I’ll admit). Shey Lynne hightails it to Parkfield, the small Texas town where she grew up. It’s here that we’re introduced to her controlling Southern Baptist mother, rough and tumble brother Brick, uppity brother Blue, and the memory of her deceased brother Cody, a bi-polar schizophrenic drug addict who died too young and whose death haunts the family like a ghost.

It’s in this environment that Shey Lynne is raising her three sons, who are trying desperately to adjust to life in the sticks after enjoying a private school education and a privileged life in the city. Though much family drama ensues, the meat of the story is Shey Lynne’s relationship with Dane Kelly, a former bull riding champion and wealthy cattle rancher that Shey Lynne dated briefly but intensely as a teenager. At sixteen, Dane was her world, so her parents sent her off to boarding school to keep her from doing something stupid like getting pregnant or running off with Kelly while he rode the circuit. Fast forward twenty years and it’s immediately apparent that Dane still has the power to make Shey weak in the knees when they run into each other at a popular restaurant in their small town.

Shey’s constant, almost obsessive references to Dane’s masculinity; his strength; his big this and strong that; his virility; his tight jeans; his smell; his every goddamn thing becomes too much to bear a few pages into their rekindled romance—let alone 340 pages later. It’s the thing I hate about flowery love stories; they’re always flirting with sex and alluding to certain female feelings. I’d have nothing but respect for Porter’s work if somewhere in She’s Gone Country she included the sentence “Dane made Shey Lynne’s pussy wet.” That’s what we’re talking about; that’s the funny feeling Shey Lynne experiences “down there” every time Dane walks into the room.

She’s Gone Country aims to provide a snapshot of a family in transition and perhaps even feed the myth that everything happens for a reason. It supposes that even after a lifetime of heartbreak, some women get their storybook ending, and this is precisely why I disliked the novel. I prefer a bit more depth in my books, and I want writing that more closely adheres to reality.

Written by: Tina Vasquez, October 15th 2010

The Night Bookmobile

brittany — Thu, 14 Oct 2010 16:00:00 +0000

By Audrey Niffenegger

Abrams ComicArts

I am new to the world of graphic novels and so is The Night Bookmobile’s author Audrey Niffenegger, bestselling author of The Time Traveler’s Wife. According to the author, the book was inspired by a short H.G. Wells story and a dream she had as a teenager. In just thirty-three pages, Niffenegger manages to intrigue and captivate with the story of Alexandra, a young woman who gets into a fight with her live-in boyfriend and begins wandering the neighborhood in the dead of night hoping to blow off some steam. That’s when she comes across The Night Bookmobile, a mobile library run by Mr. Openshaw.

Once inside, Alexandra soon discovers that the library is filled with everything she’s ever read, from old takeout menus and her childhood diary to her family Bible and various Jane Austen titles. When daylight breaks Mr. Openshaw rushes Alexandra off, not allowing her to check out any of the books. For weeks after this bizarre encounter, Alexandra wanders the streets in the middle of the night searching for the mysterious Mr. Openshaw and his roving library. Her boyfriend, convinced she’s having an affair, eventually leaves Alexandra and so she lives alone, spending a majority of her time reading.

Nine years later in front of Wrigley Field, Alexandra has another chance encounter with the bookmobile. Once inside she takes note of all the new titles that have been added and asks Mr. Openshaw if she can be his assistant, but he refuses and recommends that she become a “regular librarian”—and so she does.

Twelve years elapse before she sees Mr. Openshaw again and during that time she’s become a librarian leading a rather solitary life. The story ends in a rather surprising way just a few pages later, which left me feeling a bit shocked and sad that Alexandra’s story was over so soon. Thankfully, this is just the first installment of a much larger work called The Library that will be released in segments.

From its very first pages, The Night Bookmobile has a sort of lovely sadness that lingers over each frame and you find yourself—right along with Alexandra—loving the idea of the bookmobile for unidentifiable reasons and wondering what it all means. With The Night Bookmobile’s quiet intensity, Niffenegger has made me a graphic novel believer.

Written by: Tina Vasquez, October 14th 2010

Cho Dependent Tour (9/23/2010)

mandy — Wed, 06 Oct 2010 08:00:00 +0000

Margaret Cho

Anaheim, California

Margaret Cho's hour-long set at The Grove began with a story about her recent experiences as a contestant on Dancing with the Stars that parlayed into a story about using a vocal coach from American Idol while touring in support of her newly released album Cho Dependent. Apparently her vocal coach made her drink shots of olive oil when she developed a sore throat, and as a result, Cho suffered from uncontrollable flatulence and diarrhea. This was a reoccurring theme of the night (I actually wasn’t aware Cho had such a penchant for poop jokes), and while I spent half of Cho’s act loving her intensely and laughing out loud, the other half I found myself wondering if she’d lost her edge.

Shitty stories aside, I’m convinced that Cho and I have the potential to be best friends. During her set I learned that we have many of the same concerns (like who will fuck us when we’re old) and interests (e.g., gay men and the American south). I’m considering a move to the south, in fact, but one of my biggest concerns is the lack of multicultural and LGBT communities, two things that are vital to my happiness here in Los Angeles. Cho touched on the south many times, as her Lifetime show Drop Dead Diva is filmed in a small suburb of Atlanta where Cho now spends a great deal of her time. Besides picking up a southern boyfriend with a massive dick (her words, not mine), she’s made a few gay friends as well.

Cho revealed that while living in Georgia she’s encountered many people who feel the need to share their opinions about homosexuality with her, a majority claiming it’s in opposition to their religious beliefs. She says her standard response to this and other statements made by close-minded folks has become, “Well, fuck you then.” I mean, really, when no amount of philosophizing or arguing will get through, what else are you able to say?

Sexuality is always a major part of Cho's performances, and as always, I applaud her candor. At the Anaheim show she expressed her love of the now-defunct Craigslist casual encounters ads, and joked about her many sexual conquests, her desire to be fucking well into her seventies, and her recent attempts at having a baby with a drag queen sperm donor. (Maybe that last one wasn't a joke?)

While listening to Cho, a woman who seemed so badass and ballsy when I was younger, I realized that the forty-one-year-old comedian may very well be less edgy. Although she may be more apt to discuss topics pertinent to her changing lifestyle, her mainstream success, and her audience’s changing demographics, Cho's biting social commentary, brazen sexuality, and championing of the LGBT community will always be enough to keep me coming back for more.

Written by: Tina Vasquez, October 6th 2010

FYF Fest/Big Freedia (9/6/2010)

brittany — Mon, 27 Sep 2010 06:00:00 +0000

La Cita Bar

Los Angeles, California

In 2008 I attended what was then known as Fuck Yeah Fest and despite confusing and complicated scheduling, it was obvious that the festival’s mastermind, a very young Sean Carlson, was on to something special. Fast-forward two years and the fest has a new name (FYF Fest), a more centralized location (Los Angeles State Historic Park), and a killer lineup (The Mountain Goats, The Rapture, and Ted Leo and the Pharmacists, among thirty-four others). I thought this would be Carlson’s year, but I’m sorry to report that the fest was a bust. I appreciate Carlson’s enthusiasm and obvious passion for independent music and I especially love the many affordable shows he throws all over town, but there were many problems I can’t look past.

Fans paid $30 for twelve hours of entertainment, which was quite extraordinary, though it was hot, dirty, and dusty. Security guards stripped concert-goers of their water bottles and food upon entering the park. This was fucked up because a.) Lines to get food were well over an hour long, b.) Water bottles, no matter what vendor you visited, were four dollars, and c.) The food was grossly overpriced. All of this was incredibly upsetting, but I was going to stick it out until 10:30 p.m. so that I could witness the magic that is my latest obsession: New Orleans sissy rapper, Big Freedia.

I caught amazing sets by The Mountain Goats, Dead Man’s Bones—which features an awesome children’s choir who dress up as various historical figures—and Man Man, but my enthusiasm was dwindling. I was sick and dehydrated and after purchasing one $4 water bottle, I couldn’t bring myself to buy another. Earlier in the day I heard that Big Freedia was playing an after show at La Cita, a popular Mexican bar in the heart of downtown L.A. So, just after three hours of FYF Fest, my two friends and I walked over to Chinatown and sat down for some much needed food and drink. I feel compelled to report that the only other patron at the restaurant was Keith Morris, founding member of seminal Los Angeles punk band The Circle Jerks.

Bounce music is a type of rap that was born in New Orleans. Despite being around for nearly twenty years, it took a group of “sissy” (gay) rappers like Big Freedia to breathe life into the scene and get it recognized on a national level. Sissy bounce, as it’s now known, deals with slightly different themes than bounce music, like men who are on the down low. Freedia’s song “Hit Me on My Next” is about creeping in the different wards of New Orleans with straight men. “I’m full of gin; I’m going to do that boy again. He’s full of that Jack; so why don’t you hit me from the back,” is pretty classic Freedia.

By the time of her show at La Cita, I’d been listening to her album Queen Diva non-stop for months. Never a huge fan of rap, I was quickly drawn in by the back story of sissy bounce and Freedia’s infectious beats and clever rhymes. A few months ago I interviewed Freedia for a piece I was writing on sissy bounce and she told me her show would essentially, blow my face off. I was skeptical and nervous for her. How well would New Orleans bounce translate and more importantly, would jaded L.A. hipsters get it?

When Freedia showed up on stage my heart soared with joy. Her two back up dancers wore nothing but small tank tops and booty shorts and it immediately became clear that their only job was to shake their shit or do what Freedia refers to as “pussy popping.” They were awesome, but Freedia commanded the stage. She was both masculine and feminine; intimidating with a deep voice and lanky frame well over six feet tall, but oh so lovely in dangly heart-shaped earrings and a massive, glittery necklace.

One of the tenants of bounce music is engaging the audience and when Freedia wasn’t having us chant back “Big Freedia the Dick Eata,” we were yelling the classic New Orleans chant “Who dat.” She went through her most popular songs, like “Gin In My System,” “Azz Everywhere,” “Y’all Get Back Now,” and “Rock Around The Clock.”

Simply put, it was the best show I’ve ever been to and the only show I’ve ever danced at. I am notorious for being stoic and boring; no matter how many Crown and Cokes I consume, my feet always stay firmly planted. No one at La Cita could resist Freedia; her music was that good; she was that engaging; her charisma that infectious. We were all sweating with Freedia, dancing, laughing, and having the time of our lives. At one point I looked around the bar and noticed that everyone was having a blast. Los Angeles did get it and what’s not to get? Big Freedia gives her audience all she’s got and she lacks the smug, pretentious attitude that so many artists in the rap community seem to have. Big Freedia’s currently on a West Coast tour and I highly recommend you catch one of her shows; it will quite literally blow your face off and you will be all the better for it.

Photos by Ramiro Rubio

Written by: Tina Vasquez, September 27th 2010

The United Cakes of America: Recipes Celebrating Every State

mandy — Tue, 14 Sep 2010 10:00:00 +0000

By Warren Brown

Stewart Tabori & Chang

I’m the girl who never goes to a party empty-handed. I come bearing brownies, fudge, or cake balls for all of the guests. And every week I make my seventy-eight-year-old great uncle something decadent, and usually chocolate. He has an astounding sweet tooth, despite not having a single tooth left in his head. (Maybe it’s from all the sweets?)

But, truth be told, I really dislike baking. It’s too scientific, too laborious, and feels like a chore. I much prefer the pinch-of-this, dash-of-that approach I take to cooking. I’m also not very fond of sweets, but I always find myself making them because it’s what others love. If it were entirely up to me, I’d show up to the party with a perfectly roasted chicken and a fifth of whiskey—but the world does not bend to my will.

Before receiving The United Cakes of America, the baking books I’d encountered only legitimized my distaste of the craft by suggesting odd techniques, requiring specialty equipment, and featuring overly complicated or poorly written recipes. But Warren Brown’s The United Cakes of America flipped a switch in my head and made me realize baking doesn’t have to be a frustrating affair.

Brown is a former lawyer who shifted his focus to baked goods by opening the Washington, D.C. bakery CakeLove in 2002. He wanted to honor the dying art of baking from scratch. Now years later—after scouring the internet, traveling the country to extensively speak to locals, and compiling a sort of Americana cake history—The United Cakes of America is born.

It all begins with an overview that details the finer points of baking, such as the importance of unsalted butter, when to use different types of sugar, and the utility of equipment like scales, stand mixers, and candy thermometers—none of which I have. But I quickly learned that, while these items are ideal, they aren’t strictly necessary for many of the recipes in the book.

Brown breaks each cake down into sections: filling, wet ingredients, dry ingredients, and frosting. You can prepare each component separately, and once it’s time to actually build the cake, your life is made exponentially easier.

The book is split into four sections—The Northeast, The South, The Midwest, and The West—with each state represented by a different sugary confection. We have the likely suspects: Boston’s cream pie, Mississippi’s mud cake, and New York’s cheesecake. But other cakes are a little more… interesting.

Brown chose avocado cupcakes to represent California, my home state. I love avocadoes. I’ve had them in milkshakes, and I’ve eaten them smashed up with milk and sugar (as is common in many Filipino homes), but it would have been more appealing to honor California’s rich Mexican heritage with a tres leches cake, or something equally delicious. I suppose I was just hoping for more, and, frankly, there is something very off-putting about garnishing a cupcake with a slice of avocado.

On the other hand, I really loved the Texas sheet cake. The chocolate cake portion took only minutes to whip up, but the labor intensive (yet well worth the trouble) chocolate pecan icing and sugar pecans threw me for a loop. This is not a cake for the faint of heart; it has enough sweetness to make your teeth hurt, but in the best way. Needless to say, it made my Great Uncle Willy a very happy man.

The Delaware coffee cake was the best I’d ever had. I was sure I’d mess up the nutty, heavily spiced filling and crunchy, ginger-laced topping since I’ve had so many baking mishaps, but after pulling that glorious golden brown cake out of the oven, I felt a sense of accomplishment.

I may become better suited for baking with age, as it requires a great deal of patience. Unlike cooking, it’s not about instant gratification. There is dough to rise, cakes to cool, and frosting to set up. It’s something different, something slower, something sweet. How could that ever be a bad thing?

Written by: Tina Vasquez, September 14th 2010

Cho Dependent

mandy — Sat, 11 Sep 2010 10:00:00 +0000

By Margaret Cho

Clownery Records

To call comedienne Margaret Cho’s latest endeavor, Cho Dependent, a comedy album seems like a disservice. Though songs like “Calling in Stoned” (featuring the ever-stoned Tommy Chong), “Your Dick,” and “Eat Shit and Die” do little for my argument, Cho Dependent is completely unlike her six previous comedy albums. This, my friends, is Cho’s foray into the music world, and a damn fine one at that.

I accidentally began following Cho’s career thanks to the short-lived television series All American Girl. I didn’t have cable television until I was twenty-three, so I would watch just about anything on the “regular” channels. From what I recall All American Girl wasn’t spectacular by any means, but I knew it was unprecedented for a television show’s focus to be on a Korean family. By the time high school rolled around, I spent weekends lying in bed with a friend watching VHS tapes of Cho’s standup. I ultimately fell in love with her wit, her hilarious take on sex and race, and her devotion to issues surrounding the LGBTQ community.

Cho’s wonderfully offbeat humor is present in nearly every song on Cho Dependent, and an impressive collection of musicians are along for the ride. The album is a mishmash of the alt-country and pop sensibilities of such talent as Ani DiFranco, Ben Lee, Brendan Benson, Jon Brion, and Grant Lee Phillips who providing the backbone for many of Cho’s songs. On opening track “Intervention,” featuring Tegan and Sarah, Cho admits to an obsession with the television series from which the song’s name is derived. Much like the show, “Intervention” features a nervous Tegan unsuccessfully reading a heartfelt letter to a drunken Cho who barfs on Tegan’s jack-o-lantern. The sisters then break into a chorus of “No more hugs ‘til you give up drugs. I know it sucks, but for once think about us.” I had no idea Cho has such a lovely, lilting voice, nor was I aware of her knack for songwriting.

Amid the dick jokes and songs about vaginas is the standout track “Hey Big Dog,” co-written by the amazing Patty Griffin. According to Cho, the song is about conversations she’d like to have with her (now deceased) dog Ralph, if only Ralph could speak. Cho imagines telling Ralph (played by Fiona Apple) there’s no reason to be afraid of the wind—as he was his entire life—and Ralph would respond that Cho should stop waiting for a certain man to call because he probably isn’t going to and the guy was no good anyway. As I write this I’ve become aware that this is a silly concept for a song, and I’m embarrassed to say the sincerity and soulfulness of the song made me cry: “Hey big mama, why you let that man come around? I don’t like the way he looks. I don’t like the way he sounds. I didn’t tell you, but he stepped on my tail. And he smells just like he’s fresh out of jail.”

A lot has changed for Cho since I spent lazy weekends watching those hazy VHS tapes. She’s become a gay icon, a burlesque star, a clothing designer, and an author. Most importantly, she’s comfortable in her own skin, a large part of which is now covered by tattoos, which is no small feat for a woman who once starved herself to the point of suffering from kidney failure and descended into a drug- and booze-fueled downward spiral. In other words, Cho has lived through a lot of rock star clichés, only now she has created an album to respond to the bad behavior.

If you were expecting a conventional comedy album, Cho Dependent will not deliver. But if you’re interested in seeing a slightly sweeter side to one of the ballsiest female comedians to ever grace the stage, this album will not disappoint.

Written by: Tina Vasquez, September 11th 2010

The Last Living Slut: Born in Iran, Bred Backstage

admin — Tue, 27 Jul 2010 16:01:00 +0000

By Roxana Shirazi

It Books

The Last Living Slut: Born in Iran, Bred Backstage, written by Iran native Roxana Shirazi, was a complete and utter waste of my time. The book was championed by writers Neil Strauss and Anthony Bozza, who met up with Shirazi one faithful day and immediately became enthralled by her tails of debauchery with bad up and coming rock ‘n’ roll bands, as well as some oldies, but not so goodies like Guns N’ Roses. Appetite for Destruction never did anything for me musically or otherwise, but apparently the mere appearance of Axl Rose was enough to give Shirazi “gushing orgasms” as a teenage girl and her sexual fantasies about him set her on her path to groupiedom.

I’m not surprised that two men would be impressed by a book in which an otherwise intelligent woman makes a fool of herself by revealing that she’s let musicians piss on her and has had sex while so wasted that she threw up on one of her many partners for the night. According to these boys, “This was a woman who was not a victim, but who made rock bands her victim—and she got off on pushing them to extremes that made them uncomfortable.” Did these guys read the book? From what I could tell, it didn’t take much coercing to convince the men to degrade her, and a person who’s completely at ease with their lifestyle isn’t prone to nervous breakdowns, depressive episodes, or the need to constantly be wasted, as was detailed by Shirazi.

It’s apparent that this book is meant to shock, but I found nothing shocking about it. Shirazi, who calls herself a feminist, defends her use of the word slut before her story begins. I don’t care about her use of slut; it’s not offensive to me in any way. What is offensive, however, is attempting to pass this book off as a heroic piece of writing by a fun and carefree young woman who happens to have a penchant for wild nights and rock stars. If anything, this book just verifies that being a groupie is a lifestyle often chosen by women with low self-esteem.

The first portion of the book details the author’s childhood in Iran where she was a “child basked in gunfire, Islamic law, and sexuality.” Raised mostly by her mother and grandmother, Shirazi was abandoned by her opium addict father, molested and raped by neighbors, and beaten by her step father. It seems to me that these are the kinds of things that shape a young woman.

Having suffered through similar circumstances, I can attest to the fact that burying the feelings that result from these occurrences only sets you up for disaster once your sexuality is blooming and your childhood has left you with the impression that men are supposed to hurt, yell, hit, and take anything they want from you—even when you say no. It seems absurd to me that Shirazi doesn’t make the connection in the book that her feelings as a child, a belief that the abuse she suffered at the hands of men was her own fault, was the most likely reason she grew up and allowed herself to be further taken advantage of, almost as if she felt like she deserved it and that it was her duty to be the thing that men used to get off.

What’s wrapped up to look like a fun package, a carefree romp in the hay, is actually a very depressing book that often reads like a bad romance novel. (“I don’t understand how Stuart found the energy and ability to fuck me so masterfully all night, nor how his testicles were able to produce such a huge amount of sperm.”) Shirazi is disparaging of other women, often only describing them in terms of their weight, makeup, clothing choices, and ability to be fucked by second rate rock stars. You get the impression that she’s the type of person who thinks calling another woman fat or ugly is the biggest insult that can be hurled.

If anything was shocking about The Last Living Slut, it was the author’s implication that the rockers she is sleeping with are fulfilling her “hunger for a free-spirited life, for breaking the rules, for laughing, for knowing the meaning of it.” If fucking teenage boys in bad bands and has-been rock stars in worse bands is the meaning of life—and the new face of feminism—I better bow out now.

Written by: Tina Vasquez, July 27th 2010

Hungry Town: A Culinary History of New Orleans, the City Where Food Is Almost Everything

admin — Sun, 11 Jul 2010 16:01:00 +0000

By Tom Fitzmorris

Stewart Tabori & Chang

I’ve had a long and passionate love affair with New Orleans, although I’ve never been there. In fifth grade, I did my state report on Louisiana, and as a bored teenager in a Los Angeles suburb where everything was bright, shiny, and new, I’d dream of spending my days in the historic French Quarter, hanging out in smoky jazz bars and eating poor boy sandwiches at cramped lunch counters. I idealized the city even further when a childhood friend became a teenage runaway, hitchhiking her way to New Orleans with her much older boyfriend, both of them squatting in abandoned houses and panhandling in the streets. For some reason, that sounded like a beat novel I wanted to be a part of, as opposed to the nightmare it actually was.

Like everyone else, I watched with a heavy heart as one of our nation’s finest cities, so completely unlike any other place because of its history, demographics, and genetic makeup, disappeared off the face of the map, under sludge and murky water. I knew New Orleans would recover—it had to—but I was worried it would never be what it once was, that it would turn into a sad caricature of itself. If the premise of Tom Fitzmorris’ book Hungry Town is correct, no matter what happens, New Orleans will never be lost as long as its food culture survives and thrives, breathing life into the incessantly struggling city.

Fitzmorris’s thesis is actually quite simple: Food saved New Orleans after Hurricane Katrina. Now, I know many won’t believe that. I also know that recommending this book to lovers of food, regional cooking, or the city of New Orleans itself wouldn’t be fair. Truth be told, there are many who won’t understand the purpose of this book. Many will not like the author’s obsessive details or encyclopedic knowledge of the city’s food and restaurants. They'll think he's pompous, self-important, and crazy to think that it was the poor boy or red beans and rice or simple gumbo that saved the city—and that’s fair. But for those of us who know the power of food, its ability to bring people together, to calm the nerves and the soul, and quiet the hunger, we can believe that Fitzmorris is right in every way.

The author is a lifelong New Orleanian who’s been critiquing the city’s food, writing about it in various formats, and discussing it endlessly on his radio show for over thirty years. It all started in the late 1970s, when he began publishing a newsletter called The New Orleans MENU, which lives on today on his website. It would be an understatement to say that Fitzmorris is a fanatic, a man completely obsessed with his city’s food culture, its Creole and Cajun cuisine, and its restaurants; Hungry Town is the embodiment of this fanaticism.

After Hurricane Katrina, the author was forced to stay away from his beloved city for longer than he ever had before: about two weeks. While away, he received word that some of the city’s restaurants were reopening, using bottled water and small burners to feed the crowds that braved the storm. Fitzmorris began calling chefs and friends in the area, each day adding to a list on his website that featured all the eateries that were opening their doors. Just two weeks after the hurricane blew the lid off of New Orleans, twenty-two restaurants were open for service. It is because of this and similar compelling evidence that Fitzmorris believes that food saved New Orleans and that its slow-coming rebirth is beginning in the kitchen.

Interwoven with recipes for delicious New Orleans treats, menus from some of the city’s oldest restaurants, timelines, and a rundown of every major player in the New Orleans food scene, is the story of how Fitzmorris' love affair with his city’s food began. I thought Hungry Town was a beautiful ode to a great city and its wonderful food, but I know it’s not for everyone. This summer, I will be traveling by train to New Orleans and I’ll be using Hungry Town as my restaurant guide, which I think is a testament to how informative Fitzmorris' book is and how alluring a beignet and a cafe au lait can be.

Written by: Tina Vasquez, July 11th 2010