In this edition of Writers on the Storm, Thunderdome podcast member Daniel Page fills in for Derek Harber, and makes not inappropriate comparisons between Serge Ibaka and all-time great big men.

Bill Russell. Wilt Chamberlain. Larry Bird. Kareem Abdul-Jabbar. Robert Parish. Jerry West. Paul Pierce. Magic Johnson. Are you feeling the hairs on the back of your neck stand? Do you feel the wind rising electric, as the names of the Gods of Basketball are being invoked, echoing across time through the hallowed history of the NBA? Do you feel this paragraph getting more and more purple and overwritten?

Sorry about that. It’s easy to get carried away thinking about the Celtics and the Lakers, the two most storied franchises in NBA history, especially when they’re coming to Oklahoma to play the Thunder on back-to-back nights. While neither the Lakers or the Celtics are playing at the dizzying level they have in the past this season, the occasion of them coming downtown tonight and tomorrow still rings with a palpable importance, and makes a fantastic statement: the Oklahoma City Thunder have arrived.

We’re sitting at a 25-7 record, we have two All-Stars (and should realistically have three), and we have a player who is leading the league in blocks in Serge Ibaka. In fact, Ibaka could very well be the defensive story of the season when all is said and done; he’s averaging a staggering 3.3 blocks per game, almost a whole block higher  than JaVale McGee of the Wizards in 2nd place (at 2.75 BPG). Hakeem the Dream averaged 3.7 and 3.4 blocks per game in his back-to-back championship seasons in 1994-95, and Shaq averaged under 3 BPG during all three of his championships with the Lakers (to be fair, Shaq averaged 31-16 in points and rebounds in the playoffs during his threepeat). Needless to say, Serge is in good company.

The Thunder go into tonight’s game against the aging Celtics (who are saddled with a surprising 15-16 losing record) with an OKC team who was firing on all cylinders Monday night against the Hornets, despite missing key bench players Nick Collison and James Harden ( A.K.A. Future 6th Man of the Year). The Lakers, at a slightly more impressive 19-13 record, will play Oklahoma City tomorrow night amid trade rumors about superstar Pau Gasol, and with the always temperamental Kobe seemingly at odds with the Lakers front office over the possible trade.

Three seasons ago (Hell, two seasons ago), going toe-to-toe with Boston and L.A. on consecutive nights seemed like nothing more than an occasion to automatically add two more losses to the Thunder’s record. But this year, we have something new: hope. And with Scott Brooks and Sam Presti at the helm of a team including Durant, Westbrook, Ibaka, Harden, and Perkins, that’s change I can believe in.

Text conversation with Mom:

Mom: Got my tax refund so if you need more help let me know

Me: No, I actually think I’m gonna be ok.  Save some to come visit me please!

Mom: Do not worry white man, I will have money now

Me: hahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha

***

As soon as I walk into Café Gratitude, I know I’m too sarcastic for this place. I’m only here because it’s across the street from the Melrose Gallery, where I work, and my boss sent me to pick up lunch.  I peruse the vegan menu, knowing that it doesn’t matter what I order.  It’s not going to be what I really want – a hot pile of meat. [Insert generic dick joke here.]

On the Café Gratitude menu, all the food items are listed as self-affirming sentences.  Some of the choices are a breakfast dish called “I am great”, a porridge called “I am bright-eyed,” and a dessert called “I am mystical.”  I can’t decide what’s more annoying – the affirmations themselves, or the fact that they’re not grammatically consistent.  Some end in adjectives (“I am extraordinary”), some end in nouns (“I am joy”), and some end in verbs (“I am honoring”).

What kind of asshole needs this type of validation when ordering lunch?

I look around to make sure I’m in a real place, and I didn’t wander into some sort of sketch comedy set background.  I’m having one of those crisis moments when I feel like reality is a parody of itself, and everyone around me is an actor.

“Can I help you?” the cashier asks.

“Sure,” I say.  “I’ll have the ‘I am dazzling.’”  I giggle.  “And the ‘I am magical,’ please.”  Then I crack up laughing, and the girl just stares at me, obviously unaware of how hilarious her life is.

***

Facebook message sent from Amanda Webb:

Between approximately 4am and 5:30am CST lots of love and positivity went your way…I just figure you’ve got stuff too, and you don’t even know when people are saying good things about you, or thinking them, or when something you wrote or said one time makes me feel better about myself, or the world. I wanted you to know, in case you needed to know.

***

Back in August, just a month after moving to Los Angeles, I lived in the same apartment building as my friend Doug.  He did stand-up for a bit after he arrived in L.A. in 2005, but he had stopped for some years before starting up again when I moved into town.  One Saturday morning, he dropped by to check in on me.

“How was the hotel last night?” he asked, meaning the open mic at the Hollywood Hotel.

“It was dead,” I said.  “I always feel like it’s dead in the late show.  I guess I did okay.  There were a couple people yelling shit at me.”

“Yeah,” he said.  “But good comics know how to adjust to the atmosphere.”

“True.  Sometimes the crowd’s just dead, though.  I mean, I’ve seen some really good comics have bad sets.”

“I guess,” he said.  “But we’d be able to handle if we had more experience.”

Experience? Who’s this fool talking to?

He pointed at me, then at himself.  “We’re not good yet.”

I take a slow breath.  “I don’t like that you said that.”

“Well, it’s true,” he laughed.  “We’re not good.  I’m just being humble.”

After he left, I sat and mulled over the conversation, letting it fester and run through me like a cancer.  About an hour later, I stomped upstairs and pounded on his door.

“Oh, hey,” he said when he opened the door.

“I got something to say to you.”  I stepped into his apartment.  “I’m a good fuckin’ comic.  And you’re not allowed to tell me that I’m not.  I’m not saying I’m the best, and I’m not saying I can’t get better, but I’m good at what I do.”

“Geez, calm down,” he said.  “I was talking about myself, too.”

“You can think whatever you want about your act,” I said.  “But don’t bring me into your negative bullshit.  I really don’t need that right now.”

“Okay, God.  I was just kidding.  Sorry.”

“Yeah, well, try to remember, I left my whole life to move here and do this.”

***

Comment left on my blog post by Erin Baird:

I believe in you, and I will never forget where you’re from, where I’m from. It never leaves you. It resonates. You may find yourself waitressing at a shitty Mexican food restaurant, wondering if you have the strength to muddle through another day in hopes that someone will take you and your talents seriously (this is currently my life to a T by the way), but I believe that someday it will all be worth it, because we are strong, talented women who DON’T TAKE SHIT FROM NOBODY.

And I’m done with my feminist Oklahoma rant. It’s just that all day I’ve been thinking “I just feel like no one understands.” And then I read this, and it made my day. Cheers, Leah, I want nothing but the best for you.

***

I’m running errands on a Saturday morning when my phone rings.  It’s one of my best friends, Angie.  She and a bunch of our crew are in Memphis this weekend to celebrate her 30^th birthday, but I couldn’t make it due to lack of funds, or, in layman terms, I’m a broke-ass motherfucker.  “Hey Lady!” I say when I answer.  “Happy birthday!”

“Thanks!” Angie yells.  She’s on the phone with me for all of two seconds before another friend of ours, Amber, snatches the phone away from her.

“Why didn’t you tell me you got a job?” Amber asks.  “I gotta read about you getting a job on Facebook?”

“Are you being serious right now?”

“Yeah,” she says.  “You’re supposed to be one of my best friends.”

I roll my eyes the way you do when you’re arguing with a nagging aunt that didn’t get your thank you card in the mail.  “I didn’t tell anybody,” I say.  “I mean, I called my mom, and I texted Rockey.  That’s it.”

“Exactly! I don’t even get a text?  You can’t add my name to the send line?  How hard is it to add a few more people?”

“Honestly, I can’t tell if you’re fucking with me or really mad at me right now.”

“Uh, I’m being serious,” she says.

“Well, then I’m sorry,” I say.  “I didn’t think it would bother you.  And I really, really wish I could be there with you guys right now.”

“Me too,” Amber says.  “Have you noticed I’ve been checking you in with us on Facebook?”

I laugh.  Right now, according to Facebook, I’m at on Beale Street in Memphis.  “I wish.  So how’s the weekend?”

While she talks, I park my car by the curb and grab a few shopping bags from the back seat.  My eye catches an orange object nestled by my back tire.

It’s a bouncy ball.

I reach down to grab it and less than a second after I scoop it up, a stream of gutter water runs down the curb.  A moment later, and it would’ve been gone.

This is no accident.

***

Text from Oklahoma Comic BradChad Porter:

At Bison Witches with Lizardman and Amanda Webb.  We all agree you’re an idiot.  I love you.  I miss you right now.

***

“I found a bouncy ball today,” I say after I jump into the passenger’s seat of Fernando Sosa’s car.  We’re carpooling to an open mic in Pasadena.

He shrugs.  “Is that a thing?”

“Yeah, it’s a really big deal.  I never told you about the bouncy balls?”

“Well, I know you write your initials on them and leave them places.  Wait, did you find one with your initials on it?”

“No,” I say.  “But that would be so cool.”

He nods.  “That would be amazing.”

“Well, it was cool to find this one, too.  I find them all the time, but this is the first one I’ve found in L.A.  It means I’m supposed to be here.”

He gives me a skeptical look.

“What?” I ask.  “Okay, it’s weird, I know.  But it’s not an accident.  I was talking on the phone, and I grabbed it right before a bunch of water washed it away.”

“Who were you talking to on the phone when you found it?”

“My friends.  They’re all in Memphis, and they called to say they miss me.”

“Okay, you’re right.  That’s pretty cool,” Fernando says.  “Man, you have really good friends.”

“I know,” I say.  “I’m really lucky.”

***

Facebook comment from my best friend, Rockey, after I told him to stop “liking” all my status updates:

You don’t own me or my FB account! Also, stop writing things that I like. Btw, I like your shit b/c I feel bad for you. It’s usually pics of you doing stand up to an empty room. I sometimes think that you built a stage in your own garage, and you have your roommates take pics of you to make you seem like you’re cool.

***

It’s Thursday, two days after Valentine’s Day, and I’m driving nine hours to Winnemucca, Nevada to do 30 minutes in Winners Casino.  I get a speeding ticket near Hawthorne, putting my net profit from the gig at negative 50 bucks.  I got this booking because a friend of mine is headlining the show, so he hooked me up with a sort of “audition” for the booker.  It’s not a practical move, but I know this going in.

To be honest, I’ll drive for three days if it means there are people ready to laugh on the other end.

The crowd’s relatively small, but they want to laugh, so they laugh easy.  I’m doing a solid job.  A little tough at first, but I don’t think that’s entirely my fault.  The host brings me up after giving announcements, which he does by asking the crowd, “You guys have anything you think I should announce?”  He apparently forgot the first and only rule of announcements: know what the announcements are.

Twenty minutes into my 30-minute set, I decide to play around with some new material.  I tell a joke I’ve been working on in L.A.  I can’t get it to hit in front of the crowds of L.A. comics, probably because it’s a simple set-up, a silly punchline, but here in Winnemucca, Nevada, my instincts kick in and say, “Tell it.”

And those instincts were right, because the joke kills.  It’s moments like these that I think of when someone tries to make me feel like I don’t know what I’m doing.

After my set, I head over to the casino café to cash in my free meal voucher.  While I sip on some tea and wait for my burger, Brian, the cashier, chats with me.

“I saw a little bit of the show,” Brian says.  “I was in the back.  I only got to see you for a minute, but from what I saw, you’re funny.”

“Hey, thanks, man,” I say.  “That really means a lot.”

“Yeah, I had to come back here to work, though.  You didn’t make fun of me after I left, did you?”

“What?  No.  Why would I make fun of you?”

He shrugs.  “That’s what the comedians normally do.  I mean, look at me.  I’m a walking joke.”

I look in his eyes.  “No, you’re not,” I say.  “Don’t say that about yourself.”

***

Facebook message from Colin Newman, my editor, after I sent in one of my posts:

Fucking awesome and heartbreaking…I’ve had one of those “hopelessly declaring your love to someone” kind of moments…well, I’ve probably had a couple, but I’ve only had one where I really really meant it. Her response: “You don’t mean that, you’re just a romantic. Ease up on the vodka.” I did mean it. I wasn’t drunk. Fuuuuuuccckkkk…still breaks my heart just thinking about it.

Thanks for that – and for the record, I have no doubt that in 10 years you’ll be driving around in your imported luxury conversion van with a vanity plate that says “DUES_PD”.

***

When I first started doing stand-up, all my friends came to watch me at an open mic, and they laughed at unfunny things because they just couldn’t let me die up there.  I’m hard enough on myself and smart enough to know that I didn’t earn their laughter.

The last time my friends all came to see me was over Christmas, when I went home to visit.  They sat front and center in the middle of a room full of people, and I made them laugh for real.  I’ve been doing this long enough to know the difference.

Stand-up isn’t an easy thing to learn.  There’s no road map of lesson plans, no syllabus, no one guiding you, save a few old headliners who give you snippets of advice if they like you.  The only way to get better at it is to do it, and you have to learn as you go.  And you have to learn to be your own teacher.

It’s a system of checks and balances, a delicate back and forth between one person and an audience, and the way you interpret that interaction dictates your next one.  It means that I fail sometimes, and I succeed sometimes, but either way, I am the only one responsible.  There’s no one else to blame.  There’s no one else to credit.

I’m not an old comic, by any means, and I’m still not quite a professional, but I’m not a rookie, either.   I’m learning my own hard-earned lessons, one at a time, and I’ve racked up more than five years of them.  Whether or not you think I’m funny, my experience means something.

And I’ve done the road enough to know that this is how comedy works: if you’ve been doing it for less time than I have, I demand exactly five years worth of your respect.

It’s rough starting stand-up in L.A.  I get that.  If I had moved to L.A. alone years ago with no experience, my entire self worth might have hinged on whether or not a bunch of other comics at any given open mic deemed my jokes funny enough to laugh at.

But I didn’t, so it doesn’t.

I’ve had an unbreakable support system behind me from the very beginning, but I no longer need other people to remind me that I’m funny when I have a bad set.  I gauge my own laughs.  I fix my own fuck-ups.  I trust my own instincts.

I validate myself.

***

Facebook message from Mindie Dieu:

Hey Leah-
Saw your post on passing up a job you needed bc it interferes with comedy.

Something will come up. It will. You can do this. I really admire you for pursuing this dream. And I’m proud of you for sticking to it.

Take care,
Mindie

***

As I wait for Café Gratitude to prepare whatever the fuck I just ordered, I realize I forgot to order my boss’s iced coffee.  I step back in line behind two men who are looking over the menu.  One of them turns to me.  “If you know what you want, go ahead,” he says.  “We’re still deciding.”

It’s Jason Schwartzman.  I’m pretty sure he knows the exact moment that I realize it’s him because it’s the moment I stop acting like a normal person and just stare into his eyes.

Now, I like Jason Schwartzman, and if I weren’t the type of person who goes completely retarded upon meeting famous people, I probably would’ve been able to tell him that.  But because I’m me, I just stare at him for way too long, walk past him, and then creepily whisper, “Thank you, Jason Schwartzman.”

It’s weird, though – during the moment we spent staring at each other, I swear it seemed like he was searching for something, waiting for some kind of recognition.

Huh, I think.  Maybe even Jason Schwartzman needs to feel validated every now and then.

It’s at that moment that Jason Schwartzman leans in behind me, places the menu back on the counter, and walks out without ordering a goddamn thing.

I smile.  Maybe not.

My old friend, Generic Vegan Hipster Cashier, stares at me from behind the cash register.

“Can I get an iced coffee with cream and sugar?” I ask.

She nods.  “Absolutely.  We have a goat’s milk or an almond milk – which would you like?”

“Uh, I guess almond?  Whatever.”

“Okay, and for sweetener, we have an agave guava, a honey infused—”

“You know what?  Just give me whatever most equals sugar,” I say.

She traipses off to make the coffee, and I look back over the menu while I wait.  I notice that, of all the self-affirming menu items, there isn’t a food item called, “I am funny.”  I guess even the people at Café Gratitude know that the only judge of funny is the laugh.

When my order is ready, I can’t get out of there fast enough.  For one thing, the internet’s not working on my phone, and I need to tweet about seeing Jason Schwartzman.  On top of that, though, this place just feels icky.  I don’t need a café menu to tell me why my life is interesting and magical, and I definitely don’t need a pretentious vegan café to remind me what I’m grateful for.

***

Thank you, Friends, for the good thoughts, prayers, chants, karma, sacrifices to Satan, meditations, Facebook messages, blog comments, random texts, and the stories.  Thank you for the money, Mom.  Thank you for checking me in, Amber.  Thank you for all the rides, Sosa.  Thank you for the bouncy ball, Universe.

Thank you for reading this. Thank you for believing that I know what I’m doing.

Thank you for everything.

"Robert Glasper Experiment's forthcoming album Black Radio draws from jazz, hip hop, R+B and rock, but refuses to be pinned down by any one tag." - Image courtesy of the Robert Glasper Experiment.

Artist: Robert Glasper Experiment

Album: Black Radio

Label: Blue Note

Release Date: Feb. 28th

Rating: 5/5 (Disclaimer: I must admit that I have a bias for socially conscious rap and experimental jazz.)

My musical interests vary. From The Gaslamp Killer to Cocorosie, I really do enjoy listening to a coalescence of sound that changes the way I think about music and forces me to stop and consider how its creator meant for it to be experienced. Be it experimental, abstract, or an old jazz standard, if it has that intangible quality of ‘flow’, I’m down for giving it a listen.

With a handful of covers in its track listing, Black Radio is one of those albums not easily absorbed in just one listen. The premise seems simple enough. What remains of a ravaged musical landscape is the substantive essence of music, the soul, that transcends time. In essence, it is reaching out to the sublime; it achieves that enduring artistic quality that touches people no matter the place, no matter the time. Within the context of the album, the sublime takes the form of a black box. Yep. Just like the ones recovered from plane crashes. The jam session embarked upon at the beginning of the album starts out with a mic check that introduces you, like a flight attendant instructing passengers on the proper way to buckle up, how to listen to what you are about to hear.

“Now as we prepare for our lift off, you need only two things to direct your course: your ears and your soul. I bring to you the Robert Glasper Experiment. Experimentation for meditation.”

All said, the album ends with a somewhat eerily improvisatory version of Smells Like Teen Spirit. It must be said, the last track is fairly haunting for an album that deftly weaves interweaves themes of love (Ah Yeah, Consequence of Jealousy, Letter to Hermione) in and out of others themes, such as social justice (Always Shine, Black Radio), music appreciation (Gonna Be Alright (FTB)), and a general sense of camaraderie (Cherish the Day, Why Do We Try) between the artists that collaborate on this album. Despite the initially surprising last track, though, Smells Like Teen Spirit is an appropriate end note for a concept that necessitates a crash of sorts to make its point.

I enjoyed the entire album, especially the covers. Glasper has a predilection for Herbie Hancock covers, but there aren’t any on Black Radio. Rather, there’s a fleshed out version of Afro Blue, in which Erykah Badu brings to life Mongo Santamaria’s original instrumental track. There’s Bowie’s Letter to Hermione, from Space Oddity, which creates a pleasantly smooth progression towards the grand finale in Smells Like Teen Spirit, an odd juxtaposition of automated and distorted vocals and a funky groove that drips with warm. What really ties this track together is the pervading sense that the band is playing in some kind of strange otherworldly pocket*. It just sounds so effortlessly woven together and yet it is really disconcerting at the same time.

I swear from James Mercer’s September to Robert Glasper Experiment’s Ah Yeah, the videos for love songs featuring primarily words and little else are going to do me in this spring if the trend keeps up.

Click here to view the video on YouTube.

Click here to view the video on YouTube.

Listen to Black Radio in its entirety at NPR.org.

It is perhaps too strong to say that I was not stoked to attend the body positive feminist art and poetry show last night. I at least knew that there would be cupcakes, which is an immediate and obvious improvement over the hummus and pita platters that characterized the living room poetry of the mid-1990s.

I miss the 1990s. I never thought that would be the case at the time, but the whole period seems like something of a golden age to me now. I suppose all rapidly aging people feel this way about the years of their youth, but there was something about the naive, ironic detachment of that time which is utterly charming to me.  This was a decade when we were so innocent that we could afford to be cynics. I remember fondly the afternoon I spent burning 99 CDs for my neighbor, who was participating in some sort of “rock against rape” benefit at the local lesbian coffee shop. I was the only person she knew with a CD burner. 1996 for the win.

I had a 1990s flashback last night at the Mariposa fundraiser at The Parish in The Plaza District benefiting the YWCA. If nothing else, the 1990s counterculture in Oklahoma can best be characterized as poetry rich. There weren’t many of us lefty weirdos in the metro, but we were all at open mics of one kind or another; either performing or having been dragged there as moral support.

The difference – and it is a significant one- was one of quality. The poetry was good. The food was good as it was catered by the likes of Cuppies and Joes, and Republic. The turn out was impressive. Clearly, something has happened in OKC to take us from the days of 6 people in a living room in the far northwest reading eye-roll inducing free verse poetry to the 100+ people in The Plaza last night (a neighborhood that scarcely existed back in the day) listening to poetry that actually – I kinda liked.

I swore off poetry after I hit 20. It seemed trite to me.  A silly pursuit for teenage girls and pretentious assholes. Something you grow out of. Even though I kept my volumes by Rumi and Neruda and Plath, I still felt like it was time to move on.

And so when Morgan Coleman got on stage to read some poetry, I readied my eye-rolling muscles like the dick I am.

She fucking blew me away. Her poetry was immediate, personal, violent – not like a kick, but like a birth- and it was substantive.

Najah Hylton immediately repeated the feat. My social justice muscles are pretty well developed, having been a liberal arts major and all, but if Najah had declared her candidacy for president after her set, I would have volunteered to knock on doors, cold call Republicans, whatever.  I literally would do whatever she wanted me to do. Seriously, email me. I’m in love with you.

I felt like a complete ass. That’s how I know that I have seen real art. Anything that can dissolve my preconceptions is worth my attention, and worth yours, because my preconceptions are usually right on the money.

…

Speaking of money, give these people money. They deserve it. The YWCA is awesome.

Half of the Orders of Magnitude team conducts an interview with Dr. Cody Sheik about the wonderful world of microbiology and the cruises he gets to go on.

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In this episode, D and D debate Linsanity, posit the hypothetical situation of the Thunder playing in Seattle, and wax rhapsodic over how Vince Carter used to rule.

Subscribe to us via iTunes or our Tumblr, danielandderek.tumblr.com!

For all the fans of boxing, Mayweather v. Pacquaio is the fight they have been dreaming about.  Long gone are the days of the charismatic heavyweights who carried this sport on their broad shoulders; long gone are the super-fighters of Ali, Frazier, Liston, or even Tyson.  The influx of Eastern European champions has caused American interest in boxing to dwindle.  Now, boxing is back on the radar from the mere possibility of this super-fight.

Floyd and Manny have a combined twelve title belts.  Pacquaio hasn’t lost a fight since 2005.  Mayweather hasn’t lost a fight ever.  They are the two greatest boxers we have seen in a long time.  However, in the wake of this fight’s repeated failed attempts to happen, what boxing fans have long drooled over has a growing sour taste.

The hype originally behind this fight was that it matched the two most skilled fighters in the world.  But since then, that hype has been replaced by the ongoing saga of Floyd Mayweather’s image self-destruction.

In 2010, we had what would be our last chance to see the fight between two of boxing’s titans.  Due to the two sides being unable to agree to drug testing procedures, the fight fell through.  While the disagreement was technically from Pacquaio, Mayweather’s excessive demands made it seem he was not very eager to make this fight happen.  Such was the beginning Floyd’s downhill spiral.

With the Pacquaio fight off, Mayweather instead wound up fighting Victor Ortiz.  The ending was nothing short of a disaster for Mayweather’s image.  Ortiz head butts him, get docked a point, and as they are both touching to acknowledge Ortiz’s apology, Mayweather seizes the opportunity to attack a defenseless Ortiz, resulting in a KO.  During the post-fight interview with Larry Merchant, Floyd cursed repeatedly at the octogenarian, spurring the already booing crowd to grow even louder.

As if he hadn’t locked down the role of villain, during re-negotiations with the Pacquaio camp, Mayweather all of sudden demanded a 60-40 revenue split in his favor, something he knew would probably stop the fight from happening.  All the while, Manny, the beloved Philippine statesmen who can never be seen without smiling, is watching the entire world rally behind him to knock out the hated Mayweather.

Not that his image could get worse, Mayweather has just recently said the “Lin-sanity” happening in the NBA is entirely due to race.  It has nothing to do with a storied NBA franchise in the biggest market finally winning some games and looking like they can actually compete.  It’s apparently all due to Lin being Chinese, and not because his performance spurred a long absent roar to rock the Garden against the Lakers.  Before this ugly race-related incident, it seemed hard to believe that one could think less of Mayweather at this point.  Lo and behold, Mr. Mayweather came through and further damaged his image.

Instead of focusing on the legendary skills of two fighters, Mayweather v. Pacquaio has become the much more mundane match up of a fan-favorite against an arrogant opponent. To be fair, the build-up to Mayweather v. Pacquaio has been a record-setting, sensationalist spectacle, just not the spectacle we were hoping to see.

Photo by Kurt Markus. Image courtesy of the Oklahoma Arts Institute Collection.

Where: [Artspace] at Untitled

When: March 1 / 6:30 p.m. – 9:30 p.m.

What: In-Focus lecture

Untitled’s first scheduled speaker in their In-Focus lecture series is photographer Kurt Markus. Markus will talk about his work as an international assignment photographer for major magazines such as Rolling Stone, Vanity Fair, and GQ. Untitled will also screen a film Markus and his son Ian Markus collaborated on entitled It’s About You. This documentary on rock musician John Mellencamp will also premier during the film festival portion of  SXSW this year. So if you are not making the trek to Austin, this lecture will be the perfect chance to get a sneak peek at the film and a chance to speak with the director.

Markus is primarily a photographer, but has been asked to make music videos for musicians such as Jewel, Tori Amos, and John Mellencamp. Using his Beaulieu Super8, a few cartridges of color negative film, someone to push “play” on a boom box, and the artist, Markus makes what might be considered experimental music videos. He does not consider himself a cinematographer by profession, but respects the medium and those who have spent years becoming craftsman within the field.

His photographs are in the collections of several museums. And his work is on display galleries in New York, Milan, and Berlin. He is widely published, both in monographs and anthologies. Learn about his approach to aesthetics and his subjects at this lecture. He’s photographed celebrities to ordinary people doing ordinary jobs. A portion of his lecture will focus on bringing out the qualities of each subject from portraits that capture the personality of the people he photographs to less animate objects like landscapes.