I recently had the privilege of being a part of a benefit show in Syracuse where the headliner's vocalist (Philly pop punk staples, Dark Thoughts) grieved the broken state of the world, and specifically America. Directly after this lamentation he spoke hopefully about the importance of our clandestine communities and how we should use the love and camaraderie of these gatherings to trudge on in the face of systemic corruption and economic rot. In the DIY punk scene, they/we are at the mercy of physical spaces to host our rituals, though lately bands and promoters are cutting out the middle man and setting up under bridges, with generators juicing up the works. House shows rise and fall, often due to interpersonal fall outs (you didn't wash the dishes as the communal chore calendar asked you to, you slept with my girlfriend, you are a raging alcoholic, etc), new neighbors, college ending, or too many visits from the fuzz.  The punk world I've inhabited has a transient qualit...

The art of staging an argument seems to require a deep lived-in comprehension and understanding of the act itself. I’ve never been in an argument in my entire life, I’ve never even disagreed with a single other person in this world, so I wouldn’t know. From what I’ve gathered from motion pictures, they start strong and heavy, often with a confession of infidelity, then calm down (eye of the storm, don't be fooled) momentarily, only to be resurrected by a laugh or a goading smile, sometimes sex happens because I hear that this type of sex is really superior to sex during peacetime, and things get swept under the rug until the next one. I remember going to the local “independent” theater to see Richard Linklater’s Before Midnight , where Ethan Hawke and Julie Deply have a showstopper spat that lasts about fifteen minutes. I was packed in a small uncomfortable room, knee to knee, with a horde of giggling septuagenarians. It wasn't the worst experience I had at that now defunct the...

The rooftop tumble in Paul Thomas Anderson's One Battle After Another brought to mind Abbott and Costello Meet Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde from 1953. If you know me you know I mean business here. This type of thing is funny to me. It's executed nicely here; a wheezing shell of a hippy trying to keep up with young cool skateboarders while rioters chant and Johnny Greenwood yammers away, the kids look like they're in West Side Story right before the punchline. Just beautiful stuff. Maybe my favorite thing he's ever done sans the Mattress Man commercial.    The movie's Overture follows the French 75, an activist sect similar to the likes of The Weather Underground, The FLA, or The Black Panthers, carrying out bombings, bank robberies, and busting out caged migrants wrapped in emergency blankets. Leonardo DiCaprio plays Bob Ferguson (or Ghetto Pat), the group's explosions expert, who works alongside Perfidia (Teyana Taylor), a fellow 75 soldier raised by a long line o...

  Do it again, but good.  Recently I listened to an interview with director Rungano Nyoni regarding her On Becoming a Guinea Fowl . She said something that caught my ear and made me think about my own complicated bond with my parents. She said “our mothers are trying to protect us from a world we refuse to inherit.” For context, this was in relation to her heritage, with which she admits to having a complicated relationship to. In her movie, Shula, played by Susan Chardy, is a young Zambian woman who discovers her Uncle Fred’s fresh corpse in the middle of the road while driving home from a costume party. She calls her father who tells her to stay put until the authorities arrive, and asks her to wire money so he can procure a cab, which he doesn’t do. Her cousin Nsana (Elizabeth Chisela) joins her, by coincidence, and it’s abundantly clear that neither will be shedding a tear for the deceased. As Shula’s aunts and mother arrive at her house the following day in preparation fo...