Playing Against Type

YO!!! Its your Boy DJ SAVAGE
Opening for my man MC FISTICUFFS on
3/9/07
The REVOLUTION is Coming


Lock yo doors, grab your Gats Cause this shit is FO REAL

Great Expectations

Great things are happening.

Haven't you heard?

Howl, Baby! And beware the Nothing

May Lights Guide Thee

All three of these men have something in common - they are Matt Hamiltion.

Now, I've never met either of the fotos you see here. But, their faces were on Google images, so if they've got an issue, take it up with Google.

Anyway, there is a fellow by the name of Matt Hamilton who will be in the United States today....

And Welcome Home.....

How Unfortunate

Unfortunately, I was unable to attend New Year's Eve this year in Austin, despite all of the hoopla and ballyhoo that I tacked onto it. My most sincere apologies for my failings. However, I do havethanks for all of the people who offered me a home while I'm away from my true home: Mark, Emilie, Jason, Leanne, and everyone who offered out of the goodness of their hearts.

Hulk sad he could not come.

Hulk very sad.

Hulk glad he will be back soon.

Hulk will have own car soon and not rely on puny Greyhound. This make Hulk glad.

So this is Christmas

Feliz Navidad !!!! Natal feliz !!!!

Joyeux Noël !!!! С Рождеством Христовым !!!!

Fröhliches Weihnachten !!!! Lystig Jul !!!!

Buon Natale !!!!

Vrolijke Kerstmis !!!!

A very Merry Christmas And a Happy New Year
Let's hope it's a good one Without any fear....

LATE ADDITION

It is with sad and heavy heart that I inform you that James Brown, the Godfather of Soul, A.K.A. Soul Brother #1, a man who may have become something of a novelty in his later years, but in the early 70s turned the phrase 'I'm Black, and I'm Proud' into an anthem and pledge,

has died, this early Christmas morning, 2006. Our thoughts and prayers go with his family.

Money, Money, Money

Blog Preview: So, just think - all of our toils, our worries, our blood, tears, and sweat, all of the theft, murder, war, rape, dashed hopes, crushed dreams, pained nights and lover's quarrels, and what's it for? A bunch of pretty shiny rocks.


Well, dear readers, it's Christmas time (Hanukkah, Kwanzaa, and Solstice also), and in this time of year one phrase is used more often than any other. Can you guess what it is?

"How would you like to pay for that?"

For this special time of year, I've presented a very unique blog: a notion that has tooled around my head for some years - you will note, that there is a clear warning that this blog may be the ramblings of a dilettante.

Here, now, my friends, is Marshall's History of Money


Let's not start this off like a college essay, defining money. We all use it, to some degree or amount, we all have some. Life on this planet, now, is nigh impossible without it. But what is it really?

In this day and age, money isn't money. It isn't anything you can hold. Sure, you may have something in your pocket, but that didn't come from nowhere. Today, money is essentially a series of ones and zeros - binary code - that signifies a particular amount that is possessed by a nation, a company, a bank, a family, a household, a person, etc. Over your heads, under your feet, and - thanks to the many waves and signals floating through the air - in you, through you and around you, binary codes flow signifying a constant transfer of money.

But, we're getting technical. Let's keep it simple, shall we? All the various forms of money were, at one time, over-complicated IOU's. You could trade a dollar, or any coin for it's equivalent in something useful (back when there was a true equivalency). A good example of this is a scrap metal dealer. You could exchange a dollar for any metal that you needed to, say, build your home, or you could exchange metal for it's worth in dollars. This continues to this day, in theory. Of course, the gold, silver, jewels, and precious metals which once guaranteed these paper IOUs are nearly depleted in some countries.

America, for example, doesn't have nearly as many of these items, and instead some of the IOUs signify America's corporate, technological, and industrial resources to back them up. But we passed the point where we could keep pace with that decades ago.

By now, you probably know that I'm getting to the bartering system. Where, instead of trading a piece of paper that's a guarantee for it's worth in metals, jewels, or even food, water, etc, you could just trade the item itself for another item(s) of equivalent value. For protection from robbers and thieves, people exchanged these precious items that were instantly usable into paper IOUs from governments. At some point, the paper IOUs became equally as valuable or important, although in and of themselves, useless.

To recap - people lie, steal, cheat, murder, destroy lives, families, homes, cities and countries for useless IOUs that are no longer viably supported by anything and have now been turned into a series of signifying ones and zeros that float around in the air.

Let's keep going, eh?


By now, you're saying, "Marshall, you want us to go back to carrying bags of diamonds, and toiling in indentured servitude to serve your notion of Christmas season anti-Capitalism?" My response to that is, "Stop using so many big words, you pretentious fuck."

In all honesty, though, I'm not offering any solutions. Just a theory, and a story. The story comes in but a few moments.

So, bartering - "You want some chickens? Well, I've got some gold. Let's trade." Wait a minute-
Why the hell would anyone want gold? I can't eat gold, and if I do, it ain't gonna taste good going down, or feel good coming out. What good is gold? Did you ever think of that? Precious metals? Unless you're going to make something useful with them, why need them? Let's take our way of thinking back to the pre-tech days of 1000 years ago. Why did people need gold? It was good for bartering for things, and it looked pretty. You could maybe melt a precious metal into a roof, but that's all. You could do a hell of a whole lot less with precious gems.

Did anybody notice my (supposed) hitting the nail on the head? No? Let's take it back a few more million years.

THE DAWN OF MAN - Que 'Thus Spake Zarathustra' from 2001: A Space Odyssey. A hairy fellow named Grog steps out of his cave with the lush straw carpeting that his bitch loves when they make the beast with two backs. It's before dawn, still dark, and he's about to begin his morning hunt before Grogette begins to nag him in her pre-syllabic way that's just goddamned annoying.

Then, as the sky brightens, a shimmer of yellow light catches his eye. From the sky? NO! From the ground. Tentatively, he steps to it, not knowing what it is. It shines like the sun, true, but it's not as hot as the sun. It looks like an ordinary rock, but it shines like the sun.

Grog throws it in the air, and it falls down, just as the the Sun's real rays begin to shine through the morning clouds.

For Grog, there is only one logical conclusion, "A piece of the Sun fell down, and I HAVE IT!!!"

'Callou, Callay!' he exclaims. His yelps get the attention of other Cro-Mags, as they look from his yellow rock to the sky and back and forth and back and forth like babies looking between the ketchup in the ketchup bottle and the mustard in the ketchup bottle and believing that they're pondering one of the great mysteries of the universe.



Ah, but Grog is about to get a brutal lesson in humanity that is out in force today - greed. That's right. There's no reason why Grog should hog all of the ground sun. Why shouldn't Ug, Non, Adam, Eve, Lilith, and Dick Clark have some? So they grapple for the sun, but Grog waving his fire-stick over his head and with nothing but disdainful, possessive pride wins them out. Why? Grog probably couldn't give a shit about the sun, but with ground sun, Grogette will start dressing like this...
...and that makes Grog glad.

Time and again, do the others try to steal the ground sun rocks in and around Grog's cave. He even gets wild dogs and bees to guard the outside. Hell, he even promises someone a few of the rocks if he'll watch his place. This makes that Cro-Mag's wife dress like Raquel Welch, too.

Time goes on, and the others resent Grog, but go about their lives. But, time and tide respect neither rocks or wealth. Winter comes, and Grog realizes that he spent so much time protecting his rocks that he forgot to hunt for food. No matter how good Grogette looks, she'll be a bit less attractive if she's skin and bones. But there's no food to be had. To survive, Grog is going to have to give one of his pretty rocks in exchange for a meal and a pelt to keep warm.

To the others, this makes Grog special. Surely, he was meant to find the rocks. There must be something special about him. Maybe, just maybe, there's something up there that wanted him to have the pretty rocks. Maybe, just maybe, the Sun wanted him to have the pretty rocks, and if they're nice to the Sun, the Sun will give them some too.

Okay, this has gone on awhile, and you probably get the point, so let's sum up Marshall's history of money

From ones and zeros in the ether to paper that signifies precious metals (that almost no one has) to precious metals in exchange for precious goods. And these metals are precious than for no other reason than because they're pretty, shiny rocks. So, just think - all of our toils, our worries, our blood, tears, and sweat, all of the theft, murder, rape, dashed hopes, crushed dreams, pained nights and lover's quarrels, and what's it for? A bunch of pretty shiny rocks.

Merry Christmas, everyone. Oh, on a separate note, I shall be arriving on the Friday before New Years, and I shall need a place to sleep and shower. I solicit brazenly, in hopes that I will get an offer.

BIG HINT

No one can forsee the future, but, lest something incredible happens, I believe I will return to Austin BEFORE THE END OF THE YEAR. hint, hint


UPDATED - 12/07/2006
My dear friends, it has come to my attention that may blog may be a bit misleading. I will return to Austin before the end of the year, but not permanently so, I'm afraid.

I'm sorry for any confusion

¡CUMPLEAÑOS FELICES!

New job, new rules, little time.

Also, to Jarad:

Unfortunately, it was late when I discovered that my phone at home does not carry long distance (perils of living paycheck to paycheck, I'm afraid). However, I did want to let you know that I have not forgotten that this day, 11/14 is your quarter century mark. I say to you what I say to everyone - may you live as long as you want, but never want as long as you live.

¡CUMPLEAÑOS FELICES!


¡CUMPLEAÑOS FELICES!


¡CUMPLEAÑOS FELICES!

Grrrrr!

First of all, let the reader beware - I'm going to be bitching about the job I just recently had and quit...and lots of other things.

After 3 months of unemployment, a staffing agency (which shall remain nameless) placed me with a company that does outsourced customer service; read: Call Center; read: place where you take phone calls from people who complain, bitch, whine, and moan. Thank God I was only in training.
It was a unique place, structurally no different from a Sam's Club from the outside. Most of the space inside were cubicles. The people, however, were another story. Most of them were, for lack of a better word, ghetto in behavior. Perhaps it's due to my surroundings but I find myself much less accepting of people now. Houston does something to me, makes me cynical, makes me conceited, holier than thou and condescending. Some would say that I'm that way wherever I go. Fuck them.
That last phrase, you will find is a theme that continues, as I post some of my collected thoughts from one night at my $7.00/ hour call center job.

Fuck this place

It's dark now. A light, dripping rain comes making the smell of the nearby trees on this our of the way road come out. Its the first time any part of this city has felt close to beautiful. Or, it could be lack of sleep, or coffee and cigarette overdose. I've learned that a city can have a vibe, a personality, a feeling, a mood. Perhaps it was the people, or the college, or the size, or the music, but I've never missed Austin more. The friends I had there feel like a family I've lost - distant relatives separated by space; memories lost now in too many hazes of smoke and warm, drunken flashes of light, and faces, and laughs, and vomit. Eventually, the good times were killing me, but it was a lovely sort of death.
Here, now, in the smoker's courtyard of a call center, I dream of being back there. Of discussing matters of personal importance or matters of no consequence that I could with no blood relative.
The City of Austin - a vibrant cultural jewel in the wasteland that is Texas. A place where ideas are just as important as deeds, and deeds are given their full measure and weight; a place where you can enjoy your vices in peace. In most places in the city, taste, race, and class are more overcome than anywhere else in this area. It is a place that significantly lacks cultural conservatism - do what you want, but harm no one else. Friendliness is coupled with a bitten Texan cynicism; hope is tempered in reality, but not killed. The people are such with the courage to stand up for their convictions, to work for whatever social justice they feel is necessary whether its a lone person shouting in the wilderness or hundreds in front of the State Capitol.
Austin will forever be the place of my true birth, true mind, true soul, true heart.
Fuck Houston, and everything about Houston. Fuck the middle-aged White people, the middle class conservatives and their Stepford Wives. You want to go back to 1950s? Kill yourselves.
Fuck the 'I prefer to be ignorant 'cause that's keepin' it real' Niggas. No, I don't know any Slim Thugz songs. Do you know somebody named Shakespeare? No? Then shut the fuck up. But I can't entirely blame them.
Fuck the politicians, and Texas politics. Republican, and Democrat. Talking, and talking, and getting nowhere; so obsessed with winning and power that you've forgotten that you're all social servants in low-paying temp jobs, and that those jobs entail helping people and educating our children. You are all disgraces to anyone who served their country in anyway.

The remainder of said personal journal note is so offensive, not to mention incomplete and lacking lucid, reasonable thought, as needs be edited by the writer in hindisight. Suffice it to say, there may be more self-reflexive social commentary forthcomming.

On a completely different note, if any of my friends and readers have seen the Borat movie ( Borat: Cultural Learnings of America for Make Benefit Glorious Nation of Kazakhstan http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0443453/), please send me your thoughts and reviews.

That's all for now. I'm alive, and well (maybe just a bit darker) and drinking a screwdriver.

More Yet to Come...

For you cursed, yet diligent few who check this space for new postings, fret not. The writing bug's caught me again in the face of soulless-ness. What the hell does that mean?

Stay tuned.

Review: The Departed

"I don't want to be a product of my environment. I want my environment to be a product of me."

With this sentence, Jack Nicholson opens what may be the best American film of 2006, and it's actually a film. Sure, it's Hollywood with a pedigree cast that only somebody like Scorsese could muster - Nicholson, DiCaprio, Damon, Sheen, Wahlberg (yes, I'm moving Wahlberg to pedigree status, and I'll tell you why later), Baldwin (Alec, the good one). But it's entertaining as hell, has a point without beating a message into you like last year's top Oscar faves Brokeback Mountain and Crash. Above all else, this is damned good movie-making.

If you make another Kevin Smith movie, I'm gonna pop you one!!

In case you don't know who all is involved, this is Martin Scorsese's (Goodfellas, Casino, Taxi Driver, Cape Fear) third film with DiCaprio, and, although Leonardo truly became an actor in The Aviator (http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0338751/) this is the movie that solidifies that he's an actor. But the true star of the show is, of course, JACK.

You see, this has been a good year for jacks. Good ole Capn Jack Sparrow knocked one way the fuck out of the theme park, and now Nicholson reminds everyone why he's a legend.

But let's get to the story at hand: In the film, based on the Hong Kong thriller Infernal Affairs (http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0338564/) and adapted by the up and coming great William Monahan (Kingdom of Heaven), Jack Nicholson plays Frank Costello, a rock-star of the Irish mob in Boston. So rocking, in fact, that the special investigations unit of the BPD is focusing its attention on him. Enter two recent police academy grads: Collin Sullivan (played with the shameless assuredness of a Republican party leader by Matt Damon), and Bill Costigan (DiCaprio is incendiary; he's getting some gold this award season).

While Sullivan is the handsome All-American with the clean record, Costigan is a Southie (raised in South Boston, a notoriously tough Irish/Italian neighborhood) with connections to the Costello crew. Sullivan is sent straight to Special Investigations, while the undercover unit of the same department invents a charge, prosecutes, incarcerates, and releases Costigan to infiltrate Costello's crew. What we know before even the opening credits is that Costello has an infiltrator of his own in the force.

That much, you can gather from the trailers. Here's what you don't know: what sounds like it has the makings of a shoot-em-up (and in the hands of a lesser director, may have been) is actually one of the most engaging thrillers in recent years. Its a cat and mouse game, and both sides are using the exact same methods. As Costello says, "When I was your age, they would say you could become cops or criminals. What I'm saying is this: When you're facing a loaded gun, what's the difference?"

It is said that on the set of The Godfather (and damn you to cinematic hell if you haven't seen this movie) every actor that was in a scene with Marlon Brando (Pacino, Duvall, Caan, et. al.) was trying desperately to out-act him, to steal the scene from him, to not be swallowed up by him. The theory is that this made every single actor in the film work their damndest and increased its quality. The same can be said of everyone in a scene with Jack Nicholson. Although he continues to steal the show (and Scorsese appeases him with just a few scenes to chew on), everyone on screen with him at any given moment (even veteran Martin Sheen) is giving it their all.

A quick word on DiCaprio's performance - par excellence. I recall seeing this guy in The Basketball Diaries (http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0112461/) in the mid-90s, and said to myself 'this kid is going to be good.' My expectations may have been lofty, but he's finally fully fulfilled them. DiCaprio is totally believable as both a tough (!?) Irish thug, diligent cop, and a lonely man who is terrified for his life and losing sense of who he is, was, and will be.

Two honorable mentions who, I hope, will see some nominations coming their way from this movie: Mark Wahlberg, and Ray Winstone. As Sheen's character's right hand man, Wahlberg actually steals every scene he's in. So much so that you can't wait to see when he'll pop up next. As the only legitimately tough Irish thug from Boston (Damon's from Boston all right, but Wahlberg really is a Southie) he slips into the role like a second skin, spewing invective dialogue towards anyone who comes his way and backing it up with a good left cross.

By contrast, Ray Winstone is Costello's right hand man as Mr. French. An off the boat Irishman, Winstone's French acts the expletives Wahlberg gets to say. From a performance of few words, Winstone crafts a character who possesses the honor system of an old school gangster and the sociopathy of a real killer. He's so convincing that he almost seems to be based on a real character. He's a brutal, hulking monster who cannot be mistaken for fool.

Yes, every other critic has praised this film. Rarely are reviews unanimous. When it happens, there is a reason why. It's good. This film will not make you think of the state of the world as it is, or highlight significant social problems. Its about internal conflict and struggle, and blurred lines. It is a unique way of highlighting the age old story of cops and robbers. But this one is worth it.

So, even though, as of this publishing, it's the #1 movie in the country, and Scorsese's most financially successful film to date, go see it. After a summer of M. Night Shymalan's, Lindsey Lohan's, and other disappointing bombs, you owe it to yourself. See the Departed, cause IN THIS COUNTRY we reward good filmmaking.

Webstar is the Black Angel of Death

I have seen the end of the culture, and I hardly knew it.

Yes, dear friends, I am back. Alive and well. Actually, I'm not well. True to form, I return to rant, bitch, whine, moan, gripe and complain about something. This time, it's legitimate. You see, I formerly had no love for the culture that is Hip Hop. Just a bunch of niggas (in this case, the term is used to mean a completely ignorant African-American) talking about how many hoes and/or expensive baubles they possess, while opining about the days when they used to sell crack. You know? Simpler times.

It was then that I discovered the true origins of Hip Hop culture. I discovered that Hip Hop was a reaction to 'white flight' or suburbanization, leaving inner cities despondent and forgotten, with no business to bolster the economy. I learned that Hip Hop culture was born of spoken word poetry and the sort of art that can only come from bored creative young people. It was ANTI-ESTABLISHMENT. It was the antithesis of the Reagan 80s. I like to refer to ghettos in the 80s as the dirty puddles into which Reaganomics trickled down, and Hip Hop as the fist rising from these puddles to scream 'You cannot kill us.'

How horrified am I, now, that the end has come so soon. You may ask, what is this end that you speak of? Do not mistake, the end has been in sight for a long time. Those who are serious about the art have forseen it for years like prophets screaming at doubting sinners. The beast with three 6's on his forehead (not to be confused with the Three 6 Mafia) is named DJ Webstar. His trumpet's call of the end times for Hip Hop is a song called 'Chicken Noodle Soup'. Now, you don't believe me. I'm still new to this magical box called a computer, so I'll just post the link to the video, courtesy of our good friends at YouTube: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7qljIi-4ZEU

I dare you to watch and not find a strange sensation in your back teeth. That's called gnashing. Revelations spoke of this.

'But, waitaminute,' you misspell, 'how is this worse than Lil Jon or the Ying Yang Twins, or Ja Rule?' Excellent questions. I am equally impressed that you or anyone else remember Ja Rule. But people usually remember their last Herpes flare up. The reason that this song is worse is that its geared exactly, irrevocably, unabashedly, and directly towards kids. Yes, a great deal of Hip Hop is geared towards teens and tweens. But let's look at this from a grander point of view-

During the Renaissance, there were works of art made only so that the artist could make money, but even then they took their opportunity to use the preferred medium of choice and voice to speak to something grander. If a simple portrait were requested, they tried to capture the essence of the person they are painting for posterity. You see, back then, everyone knew that they weren't going to live forever, so when they got the chance to speak to the world, they made it count.

DJ Webstar has no meaning. He has no purpose. He has no message other than give me money. And like any sugar coated confection that will eventually rot some part of your body, kids are lapping it up. Let's not even get to the reprehensible hook of the song. Getting Hip Hop appreciated and accepted as an artform and a medium has been a difficult struggle. There are those who believe there is no art in it. They tend to overlook groups like the Roots, who perform all of their own instruments live on stage, or the operatic and/or soulful qualities in voices such as Lauryn Hill, or Mary J. Blige.

Maybe I've got a stick up my ass. Maybe this is harmless entertainment. Maybe it won't be so bad. I said the same things in November of 2000 when Tom Brokaw said the name George Walker Bush. If for no other reason, I gripe now because I'm flat out embarrased that such a song can exist. I fear for kids who can't see that this is, in fact, bullshit. But most of all, I fear for a culture that can ill survive such ignominy.

Big ups to my people in Seattle, in Saratov, Los Angeles, and, as always, Austin, TX. My body's here, but my heart is there.

Better Than Mine

I still haven't learned the layout of this blog. Until I do, here's some stuff better than mine.



"Life is a process of becoming, a combination of states we have to go through. Where people fail is that they wish to elect a state and remain in it. This is a kind of death."


"We do not grow absolutely, chronologically. We grow sometimes in one dimension, and not in another; unevenly. We grow partially. We are relative. We are mature in one realm, childish in another. The past, present, and future mingle and pull us backward, forward, or fix us in the present. We are made up of layers, cells, constellations."

-Anais Nin

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Full Mental Jacket

This is the inaugural blog of Shit and Gamma Rays. My thanks to Mark for the title, and a whole slew of people for their support.


I probably won't blog here often. Not enough time, too much life. I've fled my MySpace blog. When your niece sends you a friend invite and you start thinking of all of the outlandish shit you've typed, it's time to go.


I don't have digital pictures of myself that I like, or a digital camera. You're welcome to send me some if you think it'll spice up my blog. Beyond that, not much left