Wednesday, January 6, 2010


I remember staying up to watch Arsenio. It was one of Snoop's earliest appearances, when his middle name was Doggy, last name Dogg. He was wearing a Toronto Maple Leafs sweater maybe. Yeah it was. It was blue. He was eighteen nineteen. Shy. Quiet. Doggystyle had yet to be dropped. Or maybe it had just dropped. I don't remember the details but I don't need to check my facts because the details don't matter, it's the memory as a whole that moves me. Yes, he was bashful. I probably taped that show too.

I remember watching Outbreak in the theatre and there's this guy. He's in the movie quite a bit but there's this one scene where he's operating. He's a doctor. There's an outbreak -- obviously -- and the patient's got it. The guy, the doctor, he's cutting flesh and slices into his own, through his glove and into his finger. Pause. Close-up on his eyes. He continues operating. Who the fuck is this guy, I gotta stay for the credits find out who this motherfucker is, it's a guy named Kevin Spacey.

I remember a photo in The Source. It's Tupac and someone else. I can't remember that someone else even though his name was in the caption: "Tupac and [someone] at [somewhere]. Photo credit: [another someone]." That someone was important enough to be chilling with Tupac all smiles and important enough to have that moment documented and be named in the rag, but I'm not talking about him. I'm not even talking about Tupac. I'm talking about that fucking pudgy dude in the background, a pedestrian who looked into the lens upon the instant of flash. I don't think his walking into the frame was an accident. 'Cause there's Tupac all smiles and behind him is pudgy dude scowling, maybe at Tupac, lurking around the rap show hoping someone will give him a listen. Hungry and anonymous. Soon we would know him by two names: Biggie Smalls and Notorious B.I.G..

I remember watching Boogie Nights in the theatre and there's this guy. He breathes through his mouth while lifting the porno boom and he's pudgy. The movie's not about him, not at all. But I could watch him grasp that mic, wheeze like a pug, be rotund and shove his tongue down Mark Wahlberg's mouth for hours. Here come the credits. Who is this fucking guy Philip Seymour Hoffman?

I remember a photo in The Source. This kid, he's reclining on his dingy bed in his sparse bedroom in his mother's apartment in Queensbridge. It's his apartment too, I guess, 'cause he was still living at home. I think. I don't remember the details. But I do remember everything looked poor. The kid was poor. He looked at once both humble and hopeful. He'd just dropped an album called Illmatic and his name's Nasir Jones, and now he's known as Nasty Nas and then, well...


Druske said...

Word is bond son. That's what i'm talkin about. I call you Son cause you shine like one. I wish I had those memories. Brought me back to a good time.

Shango said...

I remember a winter in 2002 maybe 2003 and I was dating this hot redhead. She had a perky body and was wicked smart. Ran an art gallery in Seattle, but this isn't about her. We went up to Vancouver on a sex and art junket. Stayed at the Wall Centre, had sex overlooking the City pressed against the floor to ceiling window. We were walking along the street later and saw the remains of a scraped building;only the sub floors remained. There were stairs going from street level to absolutely nothing. There was a great mural there of a couple in relationship angst. The chick was hot. There was a naked light bulb. I took a photo through the cold fence and hung it in my art studio.

Several years later, I picked up a magazine and saw that same damn art piece with a credit. Norman Yeung.