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 May 6, 1998 In this issue: |
 Post Waste Alien, Baby Poise A Mortal Hand Tranqulity-Based |
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Say, friend! If you're not getting "Postcards From Paradise," you may be
missing some of the sterling, white-knuckle excitement this column offers
every week. If you feel the rhythm in you and refuse to miss even one word
of The Passenger's pop culture gospel, scroll to the bottom of this page and
sign up right now. Then just sit back and watch the rumpus!
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THE NEW DEAL
There are wild rumors - most recently given voice in the latest issue of
World Art - that the august Schwa Corporation isn't a corporation at all, but the
brainchild of some fellow in Reno, Nevada by the name of Bill Barker. If you
want to believe that, then hell, you go right ahead. The rest of us will
enjoy their brilliantly-executed, side scrolling site, smiling complacently
at their brilliantly droll Stickperson art, pawing through our well-worn
copies of the World Operations Manual, making multiple entries in the "Name
our Solar System" contest and restlessly watching the skies for the last
corporate takeover Earth will ever see. |
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GRIST FOR STARDUST
The Passenger first saw Poi Dog Pondering late
one night at a Las Vegas nightclub called Drink. That Mike Tyson fight that
resulted in a mutilated ear had just finished at the MGM Grand Garden Arena
next door and the club was rapidly filling up with people who pay to see
that sort of nonsense as Poi took the stage. The crowd grooved halfheartedly
to the earthy funk of "Sha Zulu Za," did not accord the introspective
"Catacombs" the open-mouthed wonder it demanded and completely failed to
shake their booties to the utterly sublime "Jack Ass Ginger." Despite the
wholesale idiocy surrounding him on all sides, The Passenger was entranced;
never before have I seen a band slide so effortlessly from folk to funk and
make complex arrangements look so easy. The moronic fight night crowd
actually cheered as the band left the stage and the theme from "Grease"
boomed from the PA. In light of the snub Poi received in Vegas, I'd say
Tyson was right about one thing: Most people don't deserve ears. |
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THIS ISLAND CALLED HERE
"On this third planet of the sun / among the signs of bestiality / a clear
conscience is Number One." There is no denying that poet Wislawa Szymborska
has a gift that is given to few artists: the ability to present the truth in
a manner so straightforward and so obvious that the reader's soul almost
literally feels the gentle slap. Poems from the Planet Earth collects dozens
of the 1996 Nobel Prize winner's pieces, some sad, some joyous, some
thoughtful and some merely there, watchful and unblinking. "Maybe All This,"
"The Suicide's Room" and "Advertisement" read themselves into your personal
experiences before you have a chance to do it yourself, but there is no
malice in the intrusion - the sensation is much like a wink, or a kiss. Even
the harsh indictment that begins this review is slyly ironic in its original
context, drawn from a piece entitled "In Praise of Feeling Bad About
Yourself." To Szymborska, there is always a better way of stating the
obvious. |
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WILD IN THE GARDEN The stunningly beautiful grounds of the Huntington Library and Botanical Gardens represent one of the ten reasons The Passenger would hate to see California sink into the Pacific following the looming San Andreas shakedown. (The other nine reasons are the Bay Area, the Palace in Hollywood, Disneyland, five personal friends and family members, and a woman who still owes me a dinner.) Their official site boasts a wealth of riches, including a fascinating online exhibit devoted to the history of women's suffrage, a peek at the library's fabulous art collection and Quicktime VR views of the grounds. This may very well be the closest you'll ever get to heaven in this world. Did I mention the mailing list? See, it's right there! Also take note of the "suggest a site" plea; it's all for the good of humanity. Until next week, citizens!
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