warm leatherette

my masked altern 8 rave reverie was shattered. a beast straight out of the detroit history books had run the lights, an unfortunate chevy pushed violently into the sitio i regularly use. a crowd was already gathered- fortunately the owners of both beast and chevy were unhurt and already calling their respective insurance companies- and so i strolled on, thinking once again of mr ballard's work- this time crash- and feeling an urgent need to listen to warm leatherette. the normal's original, perhaps a little harsh on this sunny afternoon? grace jones would do just fine then, i guessed. if i was going to listen to a song about a car crashing- and i clearly was- then today i'd take it with a dash of sly and robbie. as i was making my next musical move, i- quite literally- almost bumped into miranda, an old friend of mine. she's working for o.m.r, a cutting-edge contemporary art gallery, situated on the corner of plaza rio de janeiro, in a splendid mansion that somehow reminds me of a sinking galleon. o.m.r had just stolen the show at maco and she asked me if i cared for a tour of the gallery- or rather galleries- as o.m.r have just opened the house next door as a space- this one a mexican modernist jewel. away from the masked masses, passing eero saarinen's tulip pedestal chairs, i encountered works by rafael lozano-hemmer, melanie smith and pablo vargas lugo. returning home, paradise island awaited and the sound of taxi, crashing.

full on... mask hysteria

well, at least if you follow the international media, you'd think that. in fact, it's strangely calm here in the d.f. at the moment. the bars are cerrado, the traffic's light, the weather glorious. those out walking the roma are masked like extras from an altern 8 shoot, old skool '90. strange days indeed and as i wander in the sunshine- listening to activ-8 over and over, 808s kicking, opening, rather than closing my eyes and being there, i wish that j.g.ballard- who died april 19th- was still with us. i'll never forget taking off for barca, just after cocaine nights was published, all of us reading it, racing to finish, not wanting it to end. tuesday, strange sensation as a light shake gently sways me in my department here in the roma. high-rise hospital is evacuated and everyone's out on the street, masked. those sartorially-elegant waiters at the condesa d.f. are playing it cool as ever, colour-coordinating their masks with the interior decor over breakfast. masked, fedora-wearing fashionistas brave it for the maco art show, as others customise their masks with smiling faces. a group touring maco, ponder an exhibit of a mutant creature supporting a painted glass panel, poised like surgeons. i'm staying in tonight, re-reading super-cannes, wondering if altern 8 are available to play to those of us who remain in the d.f.