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Troy Swain: Black Box Miasma
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| Weekend Picture Post: Goffs, Ca. |
[Apr. 19th, 2009|07:29 pm] |
Goffs! Until a few days ago, I've been in Needles, and not Goffs. Needles is were I went to school; Goffs is where I grew up. Needles has about 5,000 people and Goffs has about 23. Needles and Goffs are super redneck-y, but Democrat-lovin' as well. God, guns, family, and Democrats. Oh, and crystal meth, beer, fighting, and motocross. I grew up around scorpions, tarantulas, snakes, jackrabbits and coyotes. In Needles, I go for a walk every day (as long as it's not hotter than 90 degrees) but I've only seen a few jackrabbits, a bunch of lizards, a few quail, but no snakes or scorpions or coyotes (but I hear the coyotes at night). One thing I was looking forward to: stars. I seriously miss the stars. Needles still has too much light pollution, so I couldn't wait to get to Goffs, AND it's a new moon. Still, even in Goffs, the light from Las Vegas (two and half hours away) obscures the northern horizon as if the sun is coming. I worked with my mom, who got a temp job as an "enumerator" for the US census. She drives around the surrounding environ with a GPS and "tags" houses for the Fed. (She looks up what info the GPS thing has and makes sure it's correct.) I hadn't talked to my dad, since his number no longer worked and he's sort of an "off the grid" sort of guy. So I had my mom drive me to Goffs and I left a whole bunch of Post-It notes all over his doors. In Needles, I watch endless cable TV, and eat endless junk food. Not working on my comic, watching bad TV, eating peanut butter wafers, watching news channels, eating Ranch flavored Doritos, Yoo Hoos, and eating and watching whatever crap my step-siblings want to eat or want to watch. When I get back to NYC, I'll have to hide out for a month just to get back in shape. I walk through the desert about an hour or so a day (because I like to) but that doesn't do a damn thing when I'm shoving gallons of high fructose corn syrup down my throat. ( Tons and tons of pics... ) Me holding a little chick. ( Tons and tons of pics... ) |
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| The Omnivore's Dilemma and growing up killing animals |
[Mar. 14th, 2007|03:59 pm] |
Growing up killing, planting, and shoveling shit The Omnivore's Dilemma is giving me flashbacks of my childhood. As I've said before, the book traces the origins of four meals: one from McDonalds, one prepared with ingredients from Whole Foods, one made from ingredients grown on a small scale organic farm, and one where the author gathers, grows and hunts his own meal. But that's not what this is about. I grew up in Goffs, Ca., a tiny town of about 23 people in the middle of the Mojave Desert. My mother and father ran Goffs General Store, but at home we had a large grove of trees (apples, pears, oranges, limes, pomegranates, etc.), a large garden, and many chickens, rabbits and a few turkeys. My grandparents also had pigs, goats and peacocks. I was a squeamish kid and I hated all of it.  Our garden was huge, and the tomato plants were the worst. We had to keep all the plants free from insects. We used ladybugs and aphids, and a little bit of pesticide, but often we went in with our hands. And when I say "we" I really mean "me." Tomatos were the worst because their predators were the worst. They were fat and fuzzy lime-green worms who tightly held onto the tomato stock with oodles of legs. We had to pull them off, but sometimes they would burst in my hand, leaving sticky goop everywhere. All of it was a  pain in the ass and a lot of work. Every year my dad and I would haul heavy bags of fertilizer into the gated garden and spread it over everything. We'd also shovel mounds of dried chicken and rabbit shit out of the coop and throw it onto the garden. I was really happy when my dad finally saved enough to buy a rototiller, before that it was even more work. And I hated all of it  As a kid, I didn't give a shit about vegetables and really didn't care about fruits. I wanted McDonalds, Fruity Pebbles and Count Chocula - all things that my parents would never give me. I hated our eggs because they didn't look like the eggs I briefly saw at the supermarket. When we'd get our eggs from the chickens, they were covered in dirt and shit. The shells were speckled and different colors, not the uniform white or brown I saw in the nice clean cartons in the supermarket. When we cracked our eggs open, they sometimes had little blood viens and they were richer colors - more red, more orange, more white - and stronger tasting. To me, that was utterly unappealing compared to the clean and bland stuff I saw at the supermarket. Vegetables? Yuck. Fruit? It was ok, but it was never as good as a Ding Dong. In retroscpect, I've never had pomegranates as good as the ones we grew. The outer shell was red and leathery and weird, but the inside, the gooey kernels... they were sweet and tart and each one popped like a grape. That said, I never really tasted an apple until I went apple picking upstate. I suppose the desert soil wasn't well-suited for apples. As a kid, I thought our chickens were disgusting. They were dumb and noisy, scared of everything and constantly shitting. They were shit machines that made all the other animals look constipated. I hated giving them their daily grain. I hated chores in general. (My dad was authoritarian and believed in the slave labor model of childhood. I wanted an allowance for my work, so I could save up to buy a ColecoVision.) Attached to the chicken coup was the rabbit coup, which was eight wooden boxes with steel mesh and wood slats. Each box contained a bunny, a water system, and a place for food. Their floor was slats and mesh, which I always thought was weird. They peed and shat a lot (but not as much as the chickens) and it all splashed and dropped through the hollow floor and onto the wood chips underneath. Eventually, it was used as fertilizer.  The worst was killing time. Again, I was a squeamish child. I was bookish and didn't particularly like the desert. I also didn't like killing. We'd grab the rabbits by the hind legs. You had to be quick, or they'd kick you, and they had strong legs. They would scream - a high pitched whine that still freaks me out when I hear it. We'd pull them out and flip them over and swiftly club them behind the neck. You had to do it just right. If you did, they'd immediately flop around, spastically, and for a long time. If you did it wrong, they'd scream and kick and it was horrible. We'd put them on hooks, upside down, and after they were all dead, my dad would gut them. He always tried to make me gut them, but I hated it and would deliberately fuck up and cut the gallbladder. The gallbladder is poison and cutting it open means that you have to wash out the meat after you pull out the guts. It's time consuming, but it meant that I no longer had to cut things open, and could take my time cleaning out a single rabbit corpse. The Omnivore's Dilemma brought all of this back. The author had to go through the same thing, but with chickens. (I never had to kill the chickens. It was more work then the rabbits and I think my dad knew I would resist. We also had to kill the chickens on a block and it was very bloody and very messy, and chickens without heads really do run around.) The author thought the guts were very beautiful, but I don't remember thinking that. I remember liking the variety of colors, but I never noticed. Funny how that works. |
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| An introduction, with illustration |
[Feb. 22nd, 2007|02:19 am] |
A Quick Introduction: I grew up in a trailer in a town in the middle of the Mojave desert. The town was Goffs, Ca. (population 23). My parents owned Goffs General Store, a general store, gas station, bar, restaurant, and square dance hall, populated by cowboys, truckers and miners. I hated it. My respite was the weekly book mobile, which would park near our gas pumps, and whose only customers were me and the Old Hippie Artist Guy. Old Hippie Artist Guy was an outcast, even in a town of outcasts, but he was my Obi-Wan Kenobi. He told me about his bizarre dreams, and then gave me thier Jungian analysis. He introduced me to Heavy Metal magazine, books on drawing anatomy, and books on the paranormal. I devored it all voraciously, and ended up spending hours recording my weird dreams, drawing warrior princesses in metal bikinis, and glaring at spoons trying to manifest my hidden telekinetic talent. Now I've figured out that I'm a City Kid, so I live in New York City. I rarely record my dreams, couldn't care less about the paranormal, and have given up on any latent telekenetic ability. I still draw, but I rarely draw warrior princesses in metal bikinis... but I occassionally look at Heavy Metal magazine. What I Look Like Now: |
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| Sunday Weirdness comic; Goffs gift; Glamor Industries |
[Jul. 27th, 2005|11:20 am] |
Sunday Weirdness
Goffs and the coolest gift | We had a BBQ yesterday and Aaron came over and gave me the photo above - one of the coolest gifts I've ever received. His friend Cynthia Connolly is a infamous photographer who, at one point, went around taking pictures of rural ice boxes. She happened to take a photo of an ice box in Goffs, Ca., which is my home town (population 23) and which was the ice box from my parent's old general store/gas station/resturaunt/bar. |
Glamor Industries
and Freakonomics
I'm re-reading Freakonomics, in part to learn what his data has to say. When I first read it, I read it fast, and was mainly amazed by the shock of the bold findings. Now I'm paying attention to the data so I can explain to other people what his finding do, and do not, say.
One part that struck me was his off-handed comments on glamor industries (in the section on drug dealers). But first, lets talk about drug dealers. Levitt wondered why so many dealers seemed to live with their moms. He met another researcher who had lived with a Chicago crack gang for a decade and had acquired the gang's financial data. They went over the gang's financial data and found out that the gang worked a lot like most of corporate America: the people on the top made a lot of money (around $200,000/year) while the people on the bottom made nothing at all (around $3.13/hour). On top of that, people had a one in four chance of being killed.
One in four!
Why did they stay with drug dealing and not flip burgers at McDonalds? Because drug dealing is a glamor industry. Like sports or fashion or movies or the art world, drug dealing gave a local visual incentive of an access to immense power, wealth, and fame.
Glamor industries are insanely competitive, the stakes are ridiculously high, and the failure rate is near total, but the rewards are immense if you happen to be one of the very few who succeed the tournament of struggle.
It made me think about the art world. The odds of success are minuscule. I personally think you have three shots to 'make it' in the art world. (This isn't scientific at all, just based on personal observation.) The first, and the most important shot is given to a select few in graduate school. Unless you're rich, school is one of the few times you'll have access to a large studio and lots of equipment, and have the time to utilize them. By the time you finish grad school, you should have a large body of work - if it's mature, you should be ready to show in a commercial gallery or an institutional space.
Only a lucky few get that chance. I was one of the lucky few, but I blew my chance out of stupidity and carelessness.
Once you're out of school, and if you're not rich, it will be a massive struggle to keep a studio, but supplies, and have the time to make work. But if you plug away, you'll get your second chance in your 30s. You'll only get this chance if you've been consistently showing since grad school. You'll only get this chance if you constantly plug away and make yourself known. If you get this chance, the odds of you becoming an art star are very slim. The more likely scenario is that you will make a decent living.
I'm hoping I get this chance, and I'm hoping I don't fuck it up.
The last chance is when you're in your 40s. By this time, everyone knows you. By this time, you've been living like a pauper for 20 years, and have been showing here and there for relatively no money. By this time, the odds are completely against you becoming an art star, and the chance of you making a decent living are shaky at best. By this time, you'll slide into a teaching career, or some other alternative.
In college I met a few people in the their late 30s who were incredibly disappointed at their lot in the art world. They knew they were good, but for whatever reason, their career never took off. Now, all of them are doing really well. They're not stars, but they're making a decent living making art and teaching. |
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| Learning to socialize; Music for today: Gureilla Maab |
[May. 10th, 2005|03:35 am] |
When I was in third grade, we moved to Goffs, a tiny town in the Mojave Desert with a population of around 23. I was the only kid. I was a bookish little kid. I was a shy little kid. And there were no other kids around.
The first year I was in Goffs, I went to a one room schoolhouse. It was 15 miles away, in a town called Essex. I don't remember much. It was unpleasant and I got into a lot of fights (I lost most of them). A lot of the kids were semi-retarded farm kids. I ended up doing the other student's work our of boredom (there was no homework - they didn't allow any of the children to take school materials off campus - perhaps the yokels would use the textbooks for kindling or toilet paper). In the middle of the school year, my mom pulled me out and sent me to school in Needles, a town of 4,000 30 miles away. The shock of two consecutive moves and constant fights made me withdrawal further into myself. My only opportunity to deal with other kids was during recess. I forgot any meager socialization skills I had before Goffs.
By junior high I was friendless. Only one kid picked on me - most just left me alone.
I didn't understand anything. I didn't understand the dress codes. I didn't understand small talk. I didn't understand any type of social interaction.
When I was new to Junior High, one of the Hot Girls approached me while I was in the lunch line. "Hey," she said, "You're cute. What's your name?"
I stopped and looked at her. Then I looked behind me to see who she was talking to. I turned around and pointed to myself. She nodded.
I ran away.
I ran out of the cafeteria, across the school yard, and over to the place where I played by myself.
That same year, the King of the School, Brian, nudged me while we were in line. "Troy," he said, "Check it out." He showed me a unbroken egg, cradled in his hand, hidden by his jacket. We walked into the classroom, Brian looked at me and grinned, and he threw the egg against the blackboard. I was shocked. Broadbeck was an alocholic who no longer had control of his classroom and the kids were out of control, so the thrown egg didn't surprise me - but who threw it... that was shocking. All the teachers considered Brian to be a good kid. I considered Brian to be a good kid.
Mr. Broadbeck screamed "Goddamn babies!" (He screamed that every time anyone did anything bad, which was often.) Brian acted quickly. He went to Mr. Broadbeck and said, "This is horrible Mr. Broadbeck, let me help you out."
"Brian," Broadbeck said, "You're a good kid."
Brian wasn't a "good kid" - he just got away with everything.
I wanted to get away with everything. I also wanted to be able to talk to Hot Girl (I wish I remembered her name). So began my long period of learning sociability. Gestation. Watching. Compiling. Attempting new techniques. Learning what works and what doesn't. A long haul of studying that still continues.
In short, I learned the importance and corporeal benefits of non-verbal and verbal interpersonal interaction (what is commonly known as surface) and the limitations of an insular intelligence and imagination (what is commonly known as depth).
I wanted to be the insider. I wanted to be just like everyone else. Everyone else pretended to want to be different, but I was different and it sucked. What everyone REALLY wanted was a difference within narrowly confined parameters, and more specifically, a difference that would win the respect and admiration of their peers. If I could learn the parameters, I could fit in.
Now I no longer care. I've learned my lessons. I see the parameters. I know when I'm breaking them - I may not know why I break things, but I know when it happens, and today, if I want to be a chameleon, I can.
Z-Ro is a rapper to watch. He's prolific as fuck, and his crew Guerilla Maab (Z-Ro along with his brother Dougie D & his cousin Trae) are a fucking tight act. Z-Ro is poised to become a household name - he has fantastic flow and his rapid fire rhymes are complex and furious. Z-Ro is one of the most accessible Houston acts I've heard (even more than Devin the Dude or Chamillionaire) and it'll be a shame if his jams aren't pumping out of every shitty white SUV jammin' to Hot 97. I had a hard time picking one track - there's about five perfect gems, so I just went with the first track, which is a slammin' jam.
 Guerilla Maab's "Keep Watching Me" (1999) |
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| Goffs adventures! |
[Jan. 21st, 2005|12:15 am] |
 When I was in Goffs for the first day, I went out with my cousin. I guess I used to torment him when I was little, but I don't remember any of that. I remember liking him a lot.
Anyway, he has grown up to be a BIG MAN who works as a prison warden. He looks the part, as you will soon see.
We went out into the desert because he found a couple of mine shafts. I don't remember them, but my memory sucks. I also didn't remember that my cousin, whose name is Robert, is a You're Going to Laugh so Hard That You'll be Doubled Over in Pain type of guy. He's a practical joker who has a very dry sense of humor. The jokes come fast and furious but always with his deadpan delivery.
Anyway, this picture is the exterior of one of the mine shafts. The woman peering over the top is Robert's wife Amanda. Amanda speaks like a New Yorker: her words tumble out of her mouth at a machine gun pace. She's also fearless and was the first one in all of the mineshafts. Next to her, and taking a picture behind her, are her kids - girls who are as fearless as she is. |
( Warning: There's a lot of pics... ) |
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| My grandfather died today. |
[Jan. 12th, 2005|02:05 am] |
My grandfather died today.
I haven't seen him in years.
We were never really close, but the last time I visited I was very impressed. He lived in a tiny town, the town where I grew up –Goffs, Ca.- population of around 23. I remember him as deeply authoritative – the type typical of the "Greatest Generation." He was thrifty and inventive and had created a White Trash Estate. He metamorphosed a single-wide trailer into a grand house. His creation surrounded the initial trailer like the concentric layers of calcium that turn a snail's back into a snail's home.
He had acres of trees with carefully tended fruits of every rainbow hue. His garden was expansive and easily kept him abreast in seasonal vegetables. When he made enough money, he would rent a backhoe and tear through his land, digging pits for automatic watering systems, septic tanks, basements for new sheds, a garage pit and, eventually, an underground oil tank connected to a hand crank gas pump from the 1940s. Each month the gas supplier would drive their semi-truck up my grandfather's dirt road and fill his underground gas tank for his personal gas station.
His acres were littered with carefully placed junk. A pile of metal debris over here; a row of 1930s cars over here; a stack of wood over there. Over there was an Air Stream trailer for guests - it was also rigged into something bigger and grander than its original commercial debut. His land was a good place for a kid - lots of dangerous stuff to explore; lots of places to hide and let imagination take flight.
When I visited last, my grandfather was over 70. He was working on removing an engine from his 1970s van. His van was also more than what was intended: it had emerged into a tricked out RV – all made by him – complete with sink, bathroom, sofa/bed/table, a TV, and a kerosene kitchen. All in a bubbletop van. When I was there, the engine needed to be overhauled but none of the local mechanics would touch it. So my grandfather decided to do it himself. "I'm too old for this," he told me. The van's engine didn't come out of the hood so he couldn't wrench it out with his equipment. He also couldn't work on the van's engine from below, so his mechanic's pit was useless. The van engine comes out of the side door, so my grandfather welded together a lever that would attach itself to the engine and swing it over to his work station.
I was amazed.
That night my dad, my granddad, my grandma, and my aunt sat around the table surrounded by the desert stars and we talked. It was probably the first real conversation I've ever had with my grandfather. In his eyes I was now a man. I explained the Internet to them – they are sheltered people so they were worried about the "dangers of the internet." I told them about the real dangers and about the fake ones. He listened and quickly realized that he could sell his old cars on "that trading thing."
"Yeah. Ebay."
"You need to show me how to do that."
[I never did.]
I shut up when they talked about god and listened closely when they talked about politics. My grandfather's political opinion was fairly astute – he didn't like either party, but liked the economic policies that the Democrats used to believe in, and the Christian values the Republicans claimed to believe in.
He was a hard man, but impressive despite his flaws.
That night was the last time I've seen any of them. Now both my grandparents are dead.
I wish I could feel more, but I'm so far away.
But I'm buying a ticket today.
After years, I'm going to land where I was raised.
I don't know how I feel. All I feel is scared. |
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| My Home Town: Goffs, California |
[Jun. 29th, 2004|12:22 pm] |
I was sending a snarky response to ![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif) hotlavamonster and looking for a google link to my home town, Goffs, California (poulation: under 23). To my surprise I found a shitload of sites! And lots of pictures! |
Here are pictures of my home town,
Goffs, California.
Goffs General Store
It was a general store/gas station/bar/restaurant/square dance hall. My dad and my grandfather built this from the ground up. We sold it when my parents divorced and right before I joined the Army. The new owners built the second story facade. I hated this place with a passion, but it looks supercool to me now.
Even I can't believe that THIS is where I grew up. It looks surreal to me now. A faded (and not very pleasant dream).
http://
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| Growing up on a White Trash Estate: |
[Jun. 16th, 2004|12:09 am] |
I grew up on a White Trash Estate.
My father was a jack-of-all-trades (or a 'bricoleur' for you fancy-pants).
My family was one of the few downwardly mobile families in the 70s.
My father grew up in the desert, joined the Army, met his wife, got a child (me!), and desperately wanted to move back to his home, so we moved back to Goffs, California, when I was very small.
This is a photo of my Grandparents' front 'yard' (for lack of a better term). It used to be filled with a lot more crap when I was little.
Goffs had a population of around 23. It's straddles the borders of California, Nevada and Arizona. It is in the middle of the Mojave desert, and it gets VERY hot in the summer. It used to be a railroad town. The trains would stop, get their water, and continue on.
My grandparents owned the general store/gas station/restaurant/bar/square dance hall, and we took it over when we arrived... Actually, let me re-phrase that: My mom took it over. My mom was very social and she soon had the place hopping with truckers, ranchers, miners and the neighbors. She got my dad to refurbish the place. We eventually got a pool table and we always had a juke box (an old Wurlitzer that my grandparents owned).
( Life in the desert of the real... ) |
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