I steal a glimpse out the window. Palm trees. Steel grey sky. I look back at the monitor. I count the windows. 17. A good number. I could live my life with those digits.
My voice is soft. No coffee. No edge. It chirps like an itching laugh. I can't even control the flashing smile. It is connected to the coup.
Most say a smile isn't comparable to a revolution. I know different though. I also know some would agree.
"Our brain is made of million of neuron," my father reminds me. "When this frequency is in tune, all the neuron are activated for to make this smile."
I imagine him saying this. He is the scientist. I am the metaphysicist. I construct formula with pictograms and alphabet. I do not need a burning flag to make a country tremble.
My fist is made of leaves and bark. It was bred to burn by my ancestors.
"Light the way for others to burn," they said.
I am a defiant one though.
"No," I say. "Not burn."
I have seen the scarecrow. He is only straw.
Others may say he is born to be consumed. I do not. I have seen Dorothy click her heels. Home is coming for us all. It is not made of scales or balances. It is only digits. Numbers which we may pass out of fear. 1. 2. 3. 17.
This is how many times I make revolution within 1 hour of my life behind a monitor and a fist that was called to burn. This is American Idol. Simon Cowell on the Hotties List at work. This is all of America waiting for Bucky to make it one more song with Queen and a grin to make us testify.
For it is not how we lose on television. It is what we show while we are busy doing it. 1. 2. 3. 17.
I listen to Queen now. It is night. It doesn't matter what I write. I don't even have to make sense. For some reason it lets itself be and in that being it becomes light and bark and all things nice.
Isn't that nice?
What was I singing? Oh, yes. 1. 2. 3. 17.
Today at Immigration and the Company
Jim's book is out. Dacheux is in town. Sonny and I are writing lyrics for his new album. Paiman and I are writing the script for The Whopper Strategies. Panauh and Michaelangelo are making the Nothing record. The Downtown Harvest are releasing their debut cd in New York City. I got a shirt on Melrose. I am shooting an MOS for Dr. Drew. Things couldn't be better. Oh, and to top it off,
I am an American citizen!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Then I go to work. Patrick, our Supervisor, had a giant American flag duck taped to my cubicle. Then later the entire company surprised me in the large conference room with ice cream cake and more flags.
"Sing the National Anthem," they said.
"In the key of G minor," someone shouted.
I managed three notes.
"Uh," I said. "I don't even know the key of G minor."
Everyone looked at me. Speech, their eyes seemed to say. I managed to trip lighlty over my tongue to some semblance of love and gratitude.
In other words, I don't know what I said. I was just talking and completely shocked.
Afterwards, I wrote an email to the entire company:
Dearest Friends,
The Boss is on the jukebox. My head is moving back and forth. I am heading down the 101. I am saying to myself, "Thank you." I say to you all, "Thank you." I am an American citizen and I have all of you in my life. Thank you for being part of my dream.Thank you for the warmth and good wishes. Thank you for being you.
With All the Love in My Heart,
Pirooz Kalayeh
Now it goes to all of you. Thank you.
Kisses, P.
I am an American citizen!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Then I go to work. Patrick, our Supervisor, had a giant American flag duck taped to my cubicle. Then later the entire company surprised me in the large conference room with ice cream cake and more flags.
"Sing the National Anthem," they said.
"In the key of G minor," someone shouted.
I managed three notes.
"Uh," I said. "I don't even know the key of G minor."
Everyone looked at me. Speech, their eyes seemed to say. I managed to trip lighlty over my tongue to some semblance of love and gratitude.
In other words, I don't know what I said. I was just talking and completely shocked.
Afterwards, I wrote an email to the entire company:
Dearest Friends,
The Boss is on the jukebox. My head is moving back and forth. I am heading down the 101. I am saying to myself, "Thank you." I say to you all, "Thank you." I am an American citizen and I have all of you in my life. Thank you for being part of my dream.Thank you for the warmth and good wishes. Thank you for being you.
With All the Love in My Heart,
Pirooz Kalayeh
Now it goes to all of you. Thank you.
Kisses, P.
The Peep Show: Text Interview with Nadim Amiry
Peeparazzi is being displayed at the Ghettogloss Gallery. It will be up for the next several weeks, so get there and make some purchases while you can. This fine bunny to my right is entitled, Peep John Paul. Believe me. He is just one of the many peeps out there. Peep Prince, in my opinion, really takes the mustard out of your lungs.PK: This is so cute and funny it's ridiculous. Who came up with the idea?
Nadim Amiry: It was Tiffany's [Yeager] idea to do something with peeps, and then the three of us came up with a bunch of ideas one night over margaritas. We eventually paired them down to six. A few that we ultimately decided against are "peepsbu ghraib", "the village peeps", and my personal favorite "peep doherty". I think the six that we decided on represent a pretty broad cross section of both contemporary and historical entertainment and politics. I don't think we're trying to make any statements with the photos. Mostly, we did it because it cracked us up.
PK: These pieces are on display at The Ghettogloss Gallery. Was this the goal from the onset?
NA: Not really. Just seemed like a fun way to spend a few Saturdays.
PK:What are the hopes for Peeparazi's future? Comic books? Video Games?
NA: Not sure what the future holds for peeparazzi. depending on the response, we may feel compelled to do another set. Like I said before, a lot of ideas were put on the back burner.
PK: Can our readers order custom peeps?
NA: No plans to customize peeps at the moment, but now that you mention it, it's not a bad idea.
Peeparazi April 6 - 31st.
by nadim amiry, deana bracken, tiffany yeager
On display at the Ghettogloss Gallery 2380 Glendale Blvd., Los Angeles, CA
Contact Ghetto Gloss
by nadim amiry, deana bracken, tiffany yeager
On display at the Ghettogloss Gallery 2380 Glendale Blvd., Los Angeles, CA
Contact Ghetto Gloss
Jim Goar Releases Whole Milk with Effing Press
I have talked about this book several times. It is my personal favorite. Request a copy in your bookstores today.
"Any book with two poems that begin with the line 'a tree sprouted from my penis' is destined to break new ground. "
-- publisher's mom
Waffles or Eggs?
Tonight I went and got a haircut at Rudy's Barbershop on Sunset. It was a pretty cool place. Dominica did the cutting. She used a straight razor the whole time.
"You're good with that," I said.
"I should be after 20 years," she told me.
"How long you been here?"
"5 years."
"You like it?"
"L.A. is horrible."
"You think so?"
"It is."
"Why'd you come here?"
"I followed my heart."
"For a boy."
She nods.
"You still with him."
She shakes.
"I'm sorry."
"Why you say that? There's nothing to be sorry about."
"I don't know."
"I learned from what happened. I am also glad it happened. Sooner than later."
I liked Dominica. She was a beautiful person. I could tell from the get-go. She liked my name.
"Peers? What kind of name is that?"
"Persian like the cat and the rug."
"I only know one Persian."
"Now you know two."
That last line is what I would have said if I was feeling funny. I wasn't though. I was mopey. I even found myself walking into a bar around the corner from the barbershop. It was this Chinese meets industrial L.A. tiki bar sort of vibe.
"Martini," I said. "Very dry with lots of olives."
"Very dry? So you want very little Vermouth."
"Yeah, just a splash."
The bartender obliged. She was this hot, Asian number. We hit it off talking about the juke box.
"Any Dinosaur Junior?" I asked.
"No, they don't have anything good anymore."
"What happened?"
"They took it all out."
"What about about some Violent Femmes?"
"No, they took that out too."
I thought about yapping with her a little longer 'cause she had a similar taste in music to me, but her boyfriend kept giving me the evil eye, so I just went and hung out with him instead. We looked over the jukebox. I pointed.
"How about some Jane's Addiction? Summertime Rolls. That's a good song. It's perfect for tonight."
"I haven't heard that album in a long time."
"It's a great album."
He nodded and looked over at his girl behind the bar.
Love will hit you like a ton of bricks being poured from a pinata on Cinco de Mayo. Shit if I didn't see arrows walk between them and do the cha-cha.
Well, there wasn't much use in wasting my slight buzz from the semi-good martini on two lovebirds in a debacle over a washed up jukebox. I headed out of the place with a thank you, pronounced in beautiful King's Old, and walked through the pouring rain to white girl, AKA Honda Prelude, and hopped into the front seat.
The windows steamed up instantly. I looked in the rearview. I looked okay. My cheeks? Chubby. Hair nice. Very nice.
I could feel hot alcohol on my tongue as I drove up Hillhurst. The wipers going swoosh swoosh like buckets in my head dropping one after the other until I could see was a parked car in front of me and the car idling on the speedometer.
"Well," I said aloud. "Time to go."
I opened the car door. I walked down Van Ness. I made a left on Hollywood. That was when it hit me. Kahlil Gibran wrote The Prophet. That was his famous book. I don't know why I forgot. Dominica, the hair stylist, was asking me to remember.
"I know you remember," she said. "What was his name?"
"He wrote all those books."
"Yeah, all those books," she laughed. "What are they called?"
"I don't know."
Now I do though. I look through the bag of products she gave me and find the barbershop's number.
"Is Dominca there?"
"No, she's gone."
"Okay."
I hang up. Maybe, I can tell her some other time. The Prophet. That was Gibran's book.
As I make a left on Taft, I think about how my ex-father-in-law gave me that book for our first Christmas together. I still haven't read it. I tried. It just wasn't my taste.
Tastes change though. Maybe, I will like it now. Who knows? I got work to do though. Let me paint this cover fro Dylan. Lets see if I can come up with something. I want to get to bed early. Breakfast at the 101 diner tomorrow. I have been planning it all week. The only quesiton is waffles or eggs.
"You're good with that," I said.
"I should be after 20 years," she told me.
"How long you been here?"
"5 years."
"You like it?"
"L.A. is horrible."
"You think so?"
"It is."
"Why'd you come here?"
"I followed my heart."
"For a boy."
She nods.
"You still with him."
She shakes.
"I'm sorry."
"Why you say that? There's nothing to be sorry about."
"I don't know."
"I learned from what happened. I am also glad it happened. Sooner than later."
I liked Dominica. She was a beautiful person. I could tell from the get-go. She liked my name.
"Peers? What kind of name is that?"
"Persian like the cat and the rug."
"I only know one Persian."
"Now you know two."
That last line is what I would have said if I was feeling funny. I wasn't though. I was mopey. I even found myself walking into a bar around the corner from the barbershop. It was this Chinese meets industrial L.A. tiki bar sort of vibe.
"Martini," I said. "Very dry with lots of olives."
"Very dry? So you want very little Vermouth."
"Yeah, just a splash."
The bartender obliged. She was this hot, Asian number. We hit it off talking about the juke box.
"Any Dinosaur Junior?" I asked.
"No, they don't have anything good anymore."
"What happened?"
"They took it all out."
"What about about some Violent Femmes?"
"No, they took that out too."
I thought about yapping with her a little longer 'cause she had a similar taste in music to me, but her boyfriend kept giving me the evil eye, so I just went and hung out with him instead. We looked over the jukebox. I pointed.
"How about some Jane's Addiction? Summertime Rolls. That's a good song. It's perfect for tonight."
"I haven't heard that album in a long time."
"It's a great album."
He nodded and looked over at his girl behind the bar.
Love will hit you like a ton of bricks being poured from a pinata on Cinco de Mayo. Shit if I didn't see arrows walk between them and do the cha-cha.
Well, there wasn't much use in wasting my slight buzz from the semi-good martini on two lovebirds in a debacle over a washed up jukebox. I headed out of the place with a thank you, pronounced in beautiful King's Old, and walked through the pouring rain to white girl, AKA Honda Prelude, and hopped into the front seat.
The windows steamed up instantly. I looked in the rearview. I looked okay. My cheeks? Chubby. Hair nice. Very nice.
I could feel hot alcohol on my tongue as I drove up Hillhurst. The wipers going swoosh swoosh like buckets in my head dropping one after the other until I could see was a parked car in front of me and the car idling on the speedometer.
"Well," I said aloud. "Time to go."
I opened the car door. I walked down Van Ness. I made a left on Hollywood. That was when it hit me. Kahlil Gibran wrote The Prophet. That was his famous book. I don't know why I forgot. Dominica, the hair stylist, was asking me to remember.
"I know you remember," she said. "What was his name?"
"He wrote all those books."
"Yeah, all those books," she laughed. "What are they called?"
"I don't know."
Now I do though. I look through the bag of products she gave me and find the barbershop's number.
"Is Dominca there?"
"No, she's gone."
"Okay."
I hang up. Maybe, I can tell her some other time. The Prophet. That was Gibran's book.
As I make a left on Taft, I think about how my ex-father-in-law gave me that book for our first Christmas together. I still haven't read it. I tried. It just wasn't my taste.
Tastes change though. Maybe, I will like it now. Who knows? I got work to do though. Let me paint this cover fro Dylan. Lets see if I can come up with something. I want to get to bed early. Breakfast at the 101 diner tomorrow. I have been planning it all week. The only quesiton is waffles or eggs.
Painting, Etymology and Love: Audio and Text Interview with Alie Ward, March 2006
Curiology 101
Curiology is a little funky company founded by visual artist Alie Ward. Originally from San Francisco, Ms. Ward relunctantly relocated to Los Angeles five years ago, and has become known for both her apparel line and her paintings.
Working almost exclusively on wood, Ward's paintings show a passion for the exploration of words as labels, and the elasticity of such when applied to simple illustrative images, as seen in her ongoing "Dichotomy" series.
PK: What is a signologist? Is this your term?AW: Did I call myself that? I'm such a dork. No, I'd say that, in a way, that's the fictional term for a field I'm passionately drawn to...(Technically, I would be a semiologist though...) One of my greatest attributes and downfalls is that there are so many -ologies I adore. Etymology, entomology, biology, curiology...
_______[ "dime / dozen" ]____________
PK: Are you more inclined to oogle over a billboard or a Picasso?AW: Hahaha. Amusing query, sir. I suppose the nature of billboards and marketing lies in their accessibility, so by virtue of sheer interfacing, I'm spending more time looking at the billboards, as they are all around me. And I could be flayed for saying this, but I'm probably more interested in the mechanism at work on the billboard. I often can't help but think about the plotting and the sheer social science that went down in a board room at some corporate HQ to get me to look at the billboards for a new zesty taco. I think what's interesting about signs and billboards is their drive to communicate something very specific, and what I love about painting is the crude use of signage to communicate ideas that are merely for the sake of the concept itself. There's a certain authority in creating a sign, and it takes the pretentiousness that is so rampant in art, throws it away and makes room for function and simplicity. I love love love making paintings that are very simply trying to communicate a verbal idea, I guess. Wow, I'm rambling.
Would you classify yourself as a writer or painter?
Professionally, recreationally, physically and mentally I am both. But I "write" my paintings as thoughts or sentences before I make them, so perhaps writing trumps it? Curiology literally means writing with pictures, so there you go. Both.
Will you be exhibiting in any galleries in the near future?I'll be showing with the collective project: for their C-note show, and most likely with Cannibal Flower again soon as well, the a group show in Paris which is scheduled for April. Meanwhile, still doing illos and articles for the Weekly, running the shirt business, and doing commissions for clients. It's matter of having enough work to show really. I just took down a solo show yesterday, and I've had two full solo shows this year, so right now I don't have any available new work. Ah, the very day after a show comes down, and I'm plotting the next. Thank god for yerba mate, nature's answer to meth. Without it, I'd have to sacrifice an -ology or two.
Alie Ward is a painter and journalist. She lives and works in Los Angeles. To purchase her paintings, check out her apparel line, or to experience her parched, dry wit with accompanying visuals, go to Curiology.
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