DAMN BBQ! You Scary!

(from howispentmyperdiem.com)

In the country of Texas as is required, the two Jasons and his Lar embark upon our mission from God in search of barbequed swine… because not doing so would automatically revoke our American citizenship which applies even for a resident Canuck like Dunda. Luckily and per the father of Pun Intended alumna Ali Landers, said three amigos via Skobbler arrived in the parking lot just inside downtown Houston at Luling City Market in anticipation, in hunger, and suffice to say, in love.

Like the many convicts incarcerated in the Lone Star State awaiting their conjugal visit, it was truly love at first sight soon to be consummated. And why not as the picture (bride) below of our sauced and saucy dreams prove.

Outside this dude ranch straight out of City Slickers (or at least, a suburbanized version of Giant with Jimmy the Dean and Rock the Hudson), the waft of smoked meatage in the hot eighty degree air bitch‐slapped us like a leopard chasing down a marmoset and ripping into its flesh making you say, “If that thing came by my house, I’d kill it!” kind of good.

Inside among the good ole boys and preppy business folk out to satiate their meatlust is, quite simply put, hog (and beef brisket and chicken) heaven behind a greasy windowed lunch counter. Glorious slabs, pulchritudinous chunks, glistening carcasses lay out luxuriously as if a “rat‐lookin’ thing all ate up”. We queue while espying the menu above our plastic‐shower‐capped‐under‐a‐baseball‐cap hosts selling the individual animal flesh strictly by the pound and agree on family style for maximum sampling. Dunda goes first and orders a pound of brisket which he supplements with a mini pecan pie for dessert. I follow with a whole succulent chicken. Jozwiak at first asks for a pound of ribs but when the server cuts off only five individual bones quickly doubles the amount.

Then finally we sat us down with our sweet iced tea and selected side of cole slaw on an indoor picnic table to properly apportion and chow down. Each of us divvied up our paper plate with three fall‐off‐the‐bone ribs, three slices or so of brisket and preferred section of white or dark meat bird slathered in a tangy orangy sauce so finger‐licking good that Jozwiak committed the rookie error of buying a bottle of— forgetting the 3‐1‐1 travel liquid rule.

That first collective bite sounded obscene, if not outright pornographic with the three of us cooing, moaning and groaning in orgiastic harmony. Every bite after, the same salacious tune. As Hawk Harrelson would have said, “MMMMMMMmmmmm, boy! Good eating! Some just as good, none better.” Or imagine Snuffles the Dog from the Quick Draw McGraw cartoon pointing to his mouth for a snack going “AH, ah, ah, ah, ah!”. And he would wolf it down and fly into the air going "MMMMM!, MMMMM!!, MMMMMMM!!!” while holding his fat tummy and then float down like a feather going “AAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!” 

That described the three of us exactly.

Serving man

Bookend sentinel,
lost in space

you come hither
but in peace
offering soylent green

blue faced, rose-colored

spectacles wearing white

polyester bell bottoms stretched 

over long greenly laced legs

of interwoven veined spirographs, 

supernovae radiantly out-of-control

to eat me alive.

So an aperitif first,
ultramarine liquid, blurring faculty, 

cleansing palate, warping 

space/time continuum

before pursed lips blow a naked kiss 

concussive enough 

obliterating skin-tight spacesuit to 

bare skin

And for the main entree,

nawa shibari

arms bound, legs tied, mouth 

gagged, whole body 

suspended in anime

floating zero gravity

no one can hear you scream 

for ecstasy deafens
swirling into time tunnels, 

completely harnessed

And still I succumb.

Of the birds and the bees

Gravy spills while the beans on the grill begin to burn.

"Surely you joust," retorted the not-so-famous thirteenth century Greek philosopher when pressed for his secret ingredients during the ad hoc bra mitzvah under the Manhattan Bridge.

Yet wearing a codpiece outside your pants is so medieval, all in attendance concur. So why did the plastic chicken cross the country road? Any average-sized thumb could answer that simple riddle.

The bartender nods and points at the helicopter below the belt, rotor blades out of synch coughing. But an uninvited Tracy Emin already beats him to the sucker punch, unequal parts banana and two ripe melons with a dash of bitters on their rocks.

Just say no, just say no, both implore in stereo as the mixed-up conversation suddenly melts, causing him to suddenly sweat.

Who can tell for sure whether the bastard is suffering from total yellow fever though his wife did text for emergency evacuation.

The octopus in the room decides right then to rise and head to the bathroom. Coming to grips with tentacles is often much sexier than any fetish.

LHOOQ goes the pun.

(Another) Cut

Daddy, the amateur knife thrower, needs a new pair of shoes

and so blindfolded, rears back his left arm, taking aim at her stripped body rotating crazily between seven to eight revolutions per minute on the life-sized roulette wheel in concert for the contestant playing along at home on the phone.

Their prize if he pins the tail on the proverbial donkey on his first try will be that all time goes backwards wiping out everything she fought for until then, a desperate measure for a lost cause.

Behind him, a cloaked archer curiously in a judo outfit but holding a bow with arrow nevertheless and an eye-patched urban cowboy awkwardly twirling his vintage six-shooters exchange strategic notes, awaiting their turn.

Squinting under the lone spotlight shone directly on cue, she blinks a secret message that the teleprompter pauses and rewinds in slow motion.

It must be folly, probably of youth, to face her accusers so what was she thinking? And how did things get so out of hand?

No one, least of all her, now cares.

To agree so compliantly feels like surrender but what of promises made that now appear only to be bad hindsight.

Luck sometimes be a whore later.

Fashion by design

In the waning hours of haute couture, an empty nest cantilevered above a stony lintel begs for amnesty when she retreats, red-breasted just after night falls.

Shadows pretending to be silhouettes haggle market price in antebellum terms, but all for naught as no sale, not even for the trunkful passing by Joseph Cornell jettisoned and preserved through the looking-glass.

Barefoot, our contessa lays away the straight-laced boots on display, and her long polished fingernails without thinking reposes her floppy Napoleonic bonnet at a jauntier tilt so that the upswept brim, though black, smiles back widely, a harbinger of summertime.

Late June but her gait, ever so relaxed, stirs hope eternal. For Audrey Hepburn is jealous and the neighborhood hipsters lounge about the full blue moon. Robins are rich and their daddies often love sugared iced tea. Now hush, little shopkeeper, no need to bawl. Only a few more weeks before his flight back home.

So thank heavens that the bus stop headed home is only across the noisier-than-usual street, down a long city block.

Nevertheless the price to pay can be too vogue.

Redemption out of nowhere

It gnawed through the inner casing like strawberry flavored Twizzlers, exposing raw, hot wire.

Instinct said to let it go as nothing good ever comes from live electricity except an obvious painful jolt. So homilies aside, imagine the shock or lack thereof when the expected fireworks never materialized. Save for a last minute reminder as a courtesy out of curiosity or maybe in spite really to recoup a lost vestige of dignity did another chance resuscitate previously dashed hopes, a primaveral spud ready to spout.

Who could predict such a change of heart then to befall the sanctioned pomp and circumstance, to be cut off without reprieve, a persona non grata of your own free will.

"Silly rabbit, pink is for kids! 

Or at least dumb chinchillas clueless about how to color me beautiful...," yelled the giant leprechaun into the realm of the senses before disrobing to eat his annual bowl of sugary cereal. 

His warning went unheeded, though as a barely audible peep momentarily broke the imposed radio silence, forcing time to move on possibly. But fools do dive in headfirst.

And again, once... twice... three times the sucker, a hard-candied outer shell easily and irresistibly crunched to reach the fractured soft caramel core. Thus the mortar-boarded and bespectacled owl who actually gave a hoot said to no one in particular.

Why not just continue to let the saliva melt down the reactor because even Joe Q. Public knows shopping cures all.

Notes from booze and bacon

A bad see-through pun loops while suspended in the corner on a black arm adjacent a few onlookers slowly peering at the commotion two so-called chefs pretend to stir up. No one can really hear what both are jabbering about since the porcine tributes hung in salon style on surrounding walls deflect and scatter their empty banter before it could gain any momentum.

Yesterday permitted to roam freely about, opens the front door to escape the hot air which ironically blasts in past the guarded porthole on a three-hour tour to rescue the seven passengers stranded on the kitchen isle. As usual, Elijah Craig is standing blindly by his former professor serving a homemade dandelion concoction the younger Gilligan winces at in distaste, proclaiming how "I hate huckleberries" though, four out of our beloved five millionaires believed contrary.

The only thing missing now, it seems, is pink sauce.

So to sweeten the boiling but not melting pot, our gracious host summons his ninja princess who descends commando, forsaking all modesty for a lighter airiness from the blueless clouds, an Amazonian decision apparently premeditated toward disenthrallment rather than fashion. The gauzy tunic she wears then billows like a seven year itch, an accidental parachute slowing her down enough to stick the three-point crash landing atop a broken concrete slab.

Those outside where cooler bodies prevail feel a glow beginning to glimmer from underneath her loosely fit robe, growing warmer then suddenly hot enough to spontaneously combust the thin fabric. She now stands nude but softly mouths a secret incantation that stirs an invisible fluttering enough to stiffen the crowd. Even so, it is hard for them not to stare lustfully.

Her tightly bound top knot becomes edited later, lost history scrubbed from public record.

Last Days of Pompeii

Another long day's journey into the night and the Northwest Dallas Forty Express, usually a long-winding, nonstop caravan, sat still, hemmed in by inchoate rush hour en route home from the cement pond while the traffic of her dizzying conversation sped along at one hundred twenty miles an hour, too fast for any highway patrol radar gun to clock, pull over and appropriately ticket.

Along the way, the weak chose seppuku rather than endure such protracted torture but not him, not our stone-faced Roman, for centurions never ever give in that easily.

Eyes forward behind mirrored sunglasses as his wont, Del Piombo's descendent seven times removed was trapped as well, himself engaged in a stereophonic debate with Ennio Morricone about which glittery fedora one ought to wear when in the company of cornhuskers as she rattled forth.

Kao Sifu should beat all of them there but not if he could help it, they knew, exhorting his lookalike below deck for full steam ahead.

Besides according to his brand new shiny watch, a bejeweled sundial of a family heirloom from his buddies Martini and Rossi, all signs pointed toward little Britain where grilled marsupial stuffed with roasted kangaroo testicles and crushed garlic awaited as apt reward for listening to her verbally demonstrate endless quick moves in combination to solve consecutive Rubrik's Cubes conjured in mid-air.

Nothing save an eight year old Hapkido white belt breaking his toe or a fever of stingrays or getting thrown under the Greyhound could break his concentration. Then faster than a rerun of Cannonball Run II, our mecca the Anatole appeared on the golden horizon. 

Later at the gossip bar, all found it hard to believe that just the week before, the three would-be amigos stood under a huge sign advertising a Gentlemen's Club with membership cards proudly displayed and actually passed the time discussing the finer points of toilet etiquette.

"Make sure to sit down when you take a piss..." 

Such was inscribed, lest we forgot, in the ladie's room above the urinal.

Notes because Shin Yu Pai said so

6) Mother recollecting how she and her friends interrupted their weekly mah jong game to investigate the ruckus stirred in the other room from their preschool to kindergarten children (about six of us) seriously whopping each other on the skull with old-fashioned glass Coke bottles but laughing hysterically enough for them to leave us alone...something to the effect of no harm, no foul.

47) Nothing but elbows and ass running away from Margate Park when a kid aptly nicknamed Beaver dove and slid across a huge pile of dogshit attempting a shoestring catch during a fast-pitch game.

62) Elevator races at the old Goldblatt's Department store on Broadway with Mo.

3) Twilight doubleheaders at old Comiskey Park in the upper deck with Dad watching the knuckleballer Wilbur Wood in red pinstripes before he tore up his knee.

17) Explaining to disbelieving Chicago Police officers summoned by neighbors at three in the morning that the so-called disturbing the peace out on the front porch was indeed a nuanced albeit loud vocal demonstration of the cacaphony of traditional Cantonese Opera for my drunken buddies in appreciative audience.

4) Crisp autumn evenings running fly pattern after stop and go under the streetlamps on the asphalt-covered playground of Pierce Elementary School as the Biggest Guy I Know heaved long bombs philosophizing, "Hell, if you run that far, you might as well catch the damn ball".

20) Replying "Yes" over and over again when the exasperated waitress at the greasy spoon Paul's Restaurant on Clark Street continually asked "Soup or Salad?" thinking she was saying "SUPER SALAD?" until corrected by my Steverino Friend shaking his head.

112) On garage rooftops laying low during all-block, whole neighborhood no-holds-barred free-for-all games of hide-and-seek in Andersonville.

23044) Waking up, boiling three to four Oscar Meyer all-beef weiners for breakfast and lodging two Andes Chocolate Mints between my cheek and gums to melt as I fell asleep...pure manna.

23044a) Mom worked for Andes Chocolate Mint Factory; Grandmother for a local fortune cookie plant; Dad was head barbeque chef (of the whole pig with an apple in its mouth) at Trader Vic's in the Palmer House Hilton; and Grandfather cooked for Ming Choy, a combination chop suey house/pizza parlor/hamburger joint.

98) GUARANTEED 120 bowling average (minimum three games).

120) Three Pariser Specials (open-face burger topped with a sunny-side up egg slathered in brown gravy and a mound of fried potato cubes), three guys, total bill: $8.31 plus tip...like Hawk Harrelson says, "Some just as good, none better."

3.14) Eating among other things cigarette ashes and mothballs when a preschooler which really explains quite a bit.

11) Being eleven years old and bragging about my first job bussing tables for my Third Uncle Chi at the Holiday Inn in Greektown for pocket change.

818) Nearly breaking my neck flying over the handlebars headfirst from suddenly slamming both handbrakes of my Gitano ten-speed bicycle while peddling on a slight downhill in the alley going about twenty-five miles per hour just out of scientific curiosity to see what would happen.

72) Smelt fishing with uncles at Montrose Harbor after dark in early April bundled up for the frigid night temperatures off Lake Michigan trying to keep warm by the fire lit in a city trash can.

1439) Getting sent home by the elementary school nurse for losing consciousness on three separate occasions:

a) banging my head into the unpadded tiled gym wall attempting a layup but slipping from lack of traction on the waxed linoleum floor instantaneously knocking myself out;

b) slipping on ice outside in the playground being chased in a game of tag and impaling my temple on a jagged point of an iron wrought fence causing much bloodspurting; and

c) total lights out from having the air squeezed out of me being on the bottom of a large pile of maybe ten other boys while playing Johnny Tackle.

55) Simply said, pork egg foo young on top of white rice smothered in brown gravy.

XIII) Swigging lukewarm Budweiser straight out of the can to wash down stir-fried snails in garlic and black bean sauce laboriously dug out of their shells with soggy toothpicks still up around two in the morning after Dad comes home from his late shift.

19) Hong Kong Restaurant, 1155 Edisto Drive, Highway 301 South, Orangeburg, South Carolina

874) Right ear fleshy protusion birth defect all but forgotten except maybe as fingerprint.

0) Being accused of shoplifting when hands full of assorted candies at the local drugstore, I suffered a brain cramp and actually placed an oversized Sweet Tart in my coat pocket so as to reach for money in my pants pocket.

Waiting for pictures

Two in toto required pulling teeth, a concession rather than a present but eleven months and counting in between is nevertheless root canal surgery on public aid in comparison. For it intimates a laissez faire attitude that eschews any formal gratitude. The proverbial dangling of a carrot just to string along the mule. And to further mangle the saying, while looking at the gift horse in the mouth.

Which begs the question of why so recalcitrant to a straightforward enough request, though the moral dilemma it entails does seem to demoralize, awaiting for something ephemeral albeit amatory to happen.

And that probably explains her hesitation, if not outright balking simply to comply. Sure, the pat excuse about aesthetics, of not measuring up to prevailing standards or cultural ideals of marketed beauty she cites avails. Enough then to fit a narcissistic micromanagement of self-image though what does absolutely titillate is her charming modesty masked as insecurity. Control how one is perceived by limiting supply over demand.

Because such a refusal really bespeaks to succumbing to earlier urges, of then unaffiliated moments except that opportunity since knocked much too late and those coquettish exchanges before have become a guilty pleasure to be cleansed and wiped away.

But what about the cliche of having my cake and eating it, too as is the case for sugar daddies go. Even if the terms of the nonnegotiable contract are non-binding, a price must be selfishly exacted since the privilege is paid for. So money for nothing is just dire straits for how innocuous formal experiments are meant to objectively tease.

Besides, the real crime of passion would be to withhold her true allure from being frozen in time.

Notes on the precipice

Five times around the block except at right angles going counterclockwise certainly defies a certain gravity even of a certain age.

Especially since what should have been smooth sailing is now only imaginary, interrupted by ill-placed ottomans rising above the mowed lawns many a fledging Dick Van Dyck trips over. No dexterous glissade so effortless and graceful as seen on television. But a manly pas de deux involving old-fashioned jiujitsu, a self-inflicted hip toss or open field tackle pancaking egos, suit of armor disheveled, knees grass-stained.

Only it happened before when the flowers arrived too soon or how maybe a king and queen faraway consented instead to their double or where an arm braced itself in comfort unaware of context or why
all the preceding became a punch in the gut that felt like another slap in the face because it is apparently a sign of weakness to play the hand dealt.

How many times, though, seem endlessly comical. And after the brief courtship of their favorite Martian, Lolita always gets what Lola wanted.

But dancing on the ceiling is still illegal in most states of disrepair and no matter where you are, better to hold off and stay back.

The game remains afoot.

Notes loud and clear from another island

On front of a penny, the reluctant picture bride protests, her usually complaisant voice high-pitched to offset the sailor moon being clouded by so many knockoff Akari lampshades cheaply made in distant Occidental sweatshops.

The rage beneath her schoolgirl uniform, though, swells her bosoms into two engorged cannonballs, fuses lit as enemy sheep wearing men's clothing begin to bleat, ready to pounce.

A mild-mannered manga balloon lady transformed into orange high top Pumas now ascend above the giant robot standing at her ready. And the forty nine tars who gather delirious from yellow fever are driven back by three old and wise ronin wielding long-needled syringes containing the proper dosage of cloroquine and doxyocycline.

Relieved, she, too, bahs like a lost lamb before calmly stripping off every stitch of clothing to draw numerous lines in ink, acrylic, oil on primed canvas in the arid quicksand. Now spinning her metaphorical wheels or an actual industrial lathe, beautifully striped spoons appear along with simultaneously contrasted polka dots which inflate and fill the time-based space, castrating all phallic shapes with double vision.

Yet swarms upon swarms of mosquito nanoids still penetrate the easily torn rice paper screens meant to shield the rows upon rows, floors atop floors of hentai from prying alien tentacles. Her mentor from beyond the valley of the dolls reaches out to grab her hand but it slips by. One hundred thousand miracles cannot repair the damage, though.

Looking into the three-sided full-length mirror, she enjoys being a girl.

Thankfully Kusama finally awakens in time and shoves the old pervert Araki off her tatami mat for getting too frisky.

Three Little Pigs Redux

In the cave where three little pigs live is an upside-down four-legged pup tent inflated by deep snores.

A little cub crawls under and fumbles along the wall, feeling for a make-believe light switch. His untrimmed nails scrape over the unpainted surface like a steel rake across chalkboard. He hesitates, unsure of his bearings until further down the dusky corridor, an old Coleman lamp shines weakly above a straw door, beckoning him to go toward.

Thick air whistling through the creaky outer stick frame carries the sound of music being played from the hills above, tiny children's voices humming in chorus; so curious, he rings the bell impatiently twice.

How strange that no one answers right away as the melody continues. Because what lies on the other side could be someone being held captive against their will, calling out for help.

Without warning, contorted fingers suddenly cast shadows that huff and puff yet bend like a reed in the wind unlike the werewolf disguised as Mister Haney atop the headboard who leaps into the void, a boiling cauldron of shrimp dumpling noodle soup made from pork stock since early morning.

Startled, the cub burns his tongue slurping the piping hot broth and trips backward off the rickety stool, knocking loose two front baby teeth. His eyes aswirl, he sandwiches the Oriental rug over his furry body as a deep slumber falls upon him like a crumbling brick wall.

Overnight, the tooth fairy now an obvious favorite leaves a five dollar bill in recompense for his lower incisor---fair market value that certain Okinawans of Basque descent decry.

What a shame he swallowed the other.

Cleavage

A furtive note slightly pixelated
obscures her breasts

from the bright red
laser beam, glaring
in contrapposto.

No one sees him
smirk, though,
unable to contain

two commas, mirrored
as if cursive sweet nothings
playing hide-and-go-seek,

abbreviated scribbles
amid willowy tapestry panels
hung below sea level
partly drawn

now silver-tipped
but soft-edged

another Barnett Newman
stripped bare of bachelors

in vertical conversation
between pink, tumid lips
and her strong jaw.

So what did she convey
to make him so abstract?

Perhaps something
representational,
a fleshy gesture
of how incarcerated
desires wander

uninhibited by affairs
governing mores
which beckons

other agape bodies
of blurred thought,
double-barreled shotgun
half-cocked.

No more than five hours of sleep

A not-so-tiny weight rests bone-hard and perpendicular on the thigh pillow; his breaths, though even measured, finally enter into silent mode.

The ensuing quiet is strangely cold for the first day of June, but three hundred and twenty two minutes later, Tweety Bird begins singing an operatic though barely recognizable Looney Tune much earlier than Sylvester, still groggy from the night before, expects.

Where did that song come from?

Out of the colder blue, smoother gams resuscitate another jingle, short shorts which awaken from sweet dreams nicely. So nice, in fact, that he unknowingly hums along

Her lovely Matisse-drawn curves.

Notes on a paler shade of yellow

Ten years ago in the future is supposed to be a better tomorrow. But it somehow feels the same...

Like when Sifu was yellow but not green. And launched many an orb skyward, way over eighty-six inches tall. Or the time as a grasshopper who escaped, incognito, from past transgressions in violation of the laws of gravity. So that invisible nations licking their wounds rose up to avenge the myriad wrongs. Fists of fury that spoke Zarathustra flying in mid-air

Yet, those were halcyon times.

They looked up and saw a brave new world spinning crazily off its axis. Sooner than later, someone would rescue them. A hero, perhaps, who can transcend the ordinary to play against death in a winner-take-all game. The world then needed hope as it does now.

So head East, young masters and go far.

Notes on iced tea

Three stainless steel towers stored sideways in memory of sweeter times...

When a mountain brewed by the sun and naked of fructose refreshes nevertheless which explains the condensation underneath the plastic rim. And outside, green leafy vines intertwine the saggy vinyl clothesline hung to approximate a football field upside down. Your sunburnt back is peeling off fuzzy winter melons.

Yet jasmine and rock candy can be frozen into a compress to alleviate soiled linen napkins. Though simple syrup, a boiled concoction of water and refined sugar, on each of the other hands, always says hello in polite company. Good manners breed better taste especially in citric circles.

Or so the British but not the Chinese would like to believe.

Notes on ten years of mediocrity

To recount a decade fixated by the numbers in concert with fancies of time lost in space can be marked, if not often punctuated, by an affliction to that which is currently of sporting event. But sepia tones do brown around the edges as nostalgia weeps the weepy tear. And you ask why and receive a penance beyond reproach through a Congressional hearing under perjury...

So what, pray tell, is in a name?

Hurtus Maximus!
SonofaMiltonBradley!
Manny more to come!
ARoids Forever!
Kobe's Beefs
Que Syringe Syringe
¡Viva Canseco!
Sons of World B Free
Oh My Favrian Tears!
Human Growth Hormone
Anabolically Yours
Artificial Turfs
Dribbly
Knee High Tube Socks
Balco Incorporated
Up the Middle
Topical Ephredra Rub
Ephedra Injections
A little dribbly...
Klang! Klang! Klang!
MEN huddled together
Chico's Bail Bonds
considerably smaller
Dick Taters
Ghosts of 1969
Full of Cork
one brick at a time
Between the legs
Cloud of Dust
A Swift Boat
*fling* fling*
A Good Piece of Ash
Ephedra Cocktails
Golden Triangles
Really Tight Shorts
The Moving Pick
A Bag of Chips
Sonjas Heinie
Mister Bouncy Balls
Missus My Balls
a bag of chips
John Goldfarb Inc.
Tiananmen Squares
The Divine Wind
Men's Hair Club
United Hair Lines
H.O.V.A.
On Leong Association
The Would-Be Tacklers
Nation of Islam
Kuomintang

Such is pure conceit. Or at the very least, chic silk-screened tee shirts.

Memory Into Flesh: A Tribute to the Performance and Activism of Anida Yoeu Ali

Once upon a biased time, the intolerant world Anida Yoeu Ali lived in revolved around performance poetry. Or poetry performed by a young but powerful Asian American female voice. Of brash words, rightly so, that when spoken cajole, accuse, incite or inspire, revere, love, to say the least or rather the most really about a plethora of social and political woes. And there she was, a portrait of a Cambodian Muslim refugee as a spoken word artist if you will fighting a verbal war against the racist neoconservative times when paradoxically rap rhythms abounded and hip-hop attitudes held sway. Even her audience back then knew Anida under a collective identity, another surname.

Fast forward to now. And the many untold stories told by words that move and shape a body of work, literally her body from another time, displaced by not one, but often many tongues spoken in defense of an undying faith in community poetically remain.

Anida Yoeu Ali as performance artist and activist remembers. Carrying an onerous weight from which she cries out, her oppressed voice still flings words in outrage. To affect change, to right wrongs, to make the world itself an equitable and magnanimous place to live for all is what she believes as Khmer Rouge survivor who becomes a Woman Warrior.

This, of course, is her natural calling. To use so many words, that is. But deep down, she knew or rather came to realize how text whether spoken or written becomes fragile. It is after all internalized, a hermetic record that resides on paper as line, something two-dimensional or within time as sound faded.

So why does she then sacrifice these words? True to her artistic instincts, Anida sought another direction from or through action to reinvent another language of her physical self that gave body to text as static and moving image beyond calligraphic or ideographic form. She understood the contextual nature of how wielding words on stage related to time-based movement in terms of performance and sculpture as methodology.

Now Anida Yoeu Ali continues to speak not only in volume, but mass and space as well as time. For her, the three-dimensionality of her body gives her text another structure, a living surface that follows many varied and generalized functions, all of which reference specific issues concerning gender, sexuality and identity that also broadly reflect the politics of representation. Which then also allows her the conceptual framework to incorporate a larger history that connects who she is to specific memories associated with self and place healing her mind, body and soul. In a way her work transcends into a deeper body politic investigating surface (flesh), space (figure) and time (memory) as exterior and interior material in addition to performative object in response to the past, present and future that shapes her political and spiritual being.

In other words, Anida Yoeu Ali is willing to change the world beginning with herself. Such courage is always to be admired, applauded and cherished. Because to remember is not to forget.

Laura Kina: A Many-Splendored Thing

Glance quickly at a Laura Kina painting and what comes to mind at first is Hello Kitty goes to Bollywood in Pearl Harbor by a Coca Cola sign. Or surely Pop gone haywire as the resultant byproduct the artist creates deftly fuses these loaded icons into a NeoPop Orientalism or less ironical Post Japonisme of East morphing West and vice versa not just Americanized but transnationalized.

Yet to label her oeuvre strictly as such is an injustice because what you also see ostensibly hybridizes the anecdotal and historical, family and society, private and public conflated through collage of art imitating, or drawing from, life, particularly her life as a mixed Asian "hapa haole" alternately fascinated, bemused and obsessed with being in-between.

Which is why upon a closer look describing her artistic process akin to “Love is a Many-Splendored Thing” is so apt. Picture, if you recall, Jennifer Jones as a forlorn Eurasian doctor atop a hill overlooking Kowloon Bay in Hong Kong pining for her lover, a married journalist returned to America played by William Holden and come to understand why Kina’s version of her floating world so much resembles the movie itself. Indeed, both “colorfully” depict mixed race representations beyond accepted cultural norms except that Hollywood in this maudlin adaptation based on true events really does exoticize the subject matter as taboo whereas Kina selectively reinvents the nonfictional into the fictive Asian American mainstream. Not commercially slick as something pejorative but professionally crafted by her ability to wield a brush with facility, precision and grace to be part artifice, partly romantic. So not only is it dramatization but autobiography beyond pop culture in collision with Pop Art.

And that is her genius: Kina circumvents the so-called “multicultural” melodrama instead preferring a more straightforward approach celebrating the sameness of difference that in doing so resists the role of victim inherent to the book, movie or song with a good-natured smile, bright colors and an even sunnier disposition as it were. But this is not to say that her overall work is apolitical. Nothing could be further from the truth as she constantly confronts the status quo not in search of but to challenge identity as a given. In fact, her practice seems centered on the question about how such multiplicities that constitutes the Asian American Diaspora become seamlessly perceived if not understood as in her series of life-sized portraits dealing with the famous Loving vs. Virginia Supreme Court case.

By this then, “many” to Kina is not so much an adjective as it functions as a conceptual directive. Bringing many things together, occupying many places at once belies the generalization of how she combines and recontextualizes the multitude of bits and pieces into layered, oftentimes multiple paneled compositions full of the recognizably everyday versus the intimately arcane. A swatch of fabric belonging to her maternal grandmother, floral patterns from kimonos, a snippet from a favorite Brady Bunch episode, an old black and white family photograph, these very personal images never appear detached as if truncated or worse amputated but rather beautiful because Laura loves to share a glimpse of her past. So true to form, she bends time, dovetails related events and mixes mass media which, of course, compels the viewer to acknowledge and advocate "ikigai" or the Japanese belief of "a sense of life worth living."

The work on display covering almost the last fifteen years reflects this attitude of a world we are very much curious about and a vital part of. Just be happy to see the way Laura Kina lightens the gravity by which everyone walks through it nimbly and sprightly.