Free the Network – Trailer

For the past 6 months my colleague Brian Anderson and I have been making a film about Technology. Part occupy, part open source, and all Motherboard we are finally about finished with it. Master Editor (Chris O’Coin) whipped up this trailer for us to send out.


The film premieres March 22 in NYC.

You can read Brian’s copy here.



Just got back from a full day following OWS madness.

Taji Ameen took some great photos at Canal while I hung around Zuccotti Park to see what would go down between the increasingly sleep-deprived cops, the pushy tourists, and the hyper-aggresive media people. Most of the occupiers had either been thrown in jail or had left the area.

Zuccotti Park- Cleared out

It turned out to be seven hours of chopper noise and humming. There were a few attempts at the now infamous “people’s microphone,” but in all the times I’ve been down there I’ve never heard it so quiet. It was eerie to stand among 100 or so demonstrators and have it still be so subdued. The crowd marched from Foley square, shouting out “Whose streets? Our streets…” but mostly their voices had been broken by sleeping on the ground, 10,000 rolled cigarettes and the fact that it was day 60 of the Occupation.

"Come down and Join Us" OWS'ers act as Rumpelstiltskin

Noise finally erupted when the NYPD allowed protestors back into the park at 7pm with the caveat that “they are not allowed to lie down.” All of the protestors became joyous, smiling and waving their huge American flags around, but part of me remained cynical. Yes, we had won the blow, but had we even won the battle? People were allowed back into the park but with no gear, tents or “occupy” materials of any kind.

How is #OWS to move forward? (Read More)

Also: a subject we’ve been following since Day 3 is AWOL, we assume he was thrown in the clink during the 1am raid last night. We hope to meet up with him on Thursday, which promises to be the biggest turning point yet, they have named it the Day of Action.

Helicopter (Media or NYPD?)

Drive: 80s Hard Boiled Antihero Electro Music Saga

I encountered Drive in a double header at the AMC in Times Square. I had come for The Skin I Live In and stayed for Drive.

There were countless times when the intended B-movie Drive could have turned into a cheesy, cliché film and yet it remained intact. Pulpy, bloody and undeniably moving Drive took me by surprise. It always impresses me when actors can manage to stay silent and let their bodies speak for themselves. Ryan Gosling and Carey Mulligan were perfection at physically manifesting their feelings and inner desires.

Carey Mulligan is not my jam, her body and features represent an infantilization that I think Hollywood has run rampant with. To me, she looks like a 14 year old British boy and yet … she has her moments of brilliance. My favorite scene occurs when there is a welcome home party for her husband, who has recently been freed from jail. She relishes  in watching her son and husband reconnect but in the next scene she is sitting on the floor outside her apartment, balloons already deflating. Her character is drawn to Ryan Gosling even if the present circumstances don’t allow for their relationship. “Under Your Spell” by Desire has been playing in the backround but comes to the foreground as they look at each other. There is something about her, about this song, I can’t help but melt.  The song, in any other context would be completely vapid and circular but in this moment, everything about it works.

“Nightcall” by Kavinsky is the standout track of the ost. I am not an electrogirl but this song makes sense to my brain. It’s almost as if an algorithm has been created for the perfect electro song.

“There is something inside you.
 It’s hard to explain,
 They’re talking about you, boy.
 But you’re still the same.”
Nothing new has been uttered here, mysticism should be a part of every relationship. This song, produced by French House artist Kavinsky is the perfect blend of nostalgia, beats and an indefinable source. This song and film has bewitched me and has shown no sign of letting go.

It's hammer time!

Hot Mics, Cold Sweats

Originally written for

Internally and externally monitoring yourself is something we should all attempt, but rarely do.

I would not describe myself as a paranoid person, especially regarding the internet. I discuss drugs and sex at length on Gchat, have shamelessly used the word “score” in texts to many of my friends and have determinedly scoured the web “researching” amputee prostitutes. I am long past worried if Google knows or cares if I am a deviant.

My fears have been placated because they haven’t physically manifested themselves into my daily life. My “real life” fears typically have to do with: money (or lack thereof), the possibility that a rat is living in my closet and that my autistic roommate drank an entire gallon of my milk in one day. Dude, how is that even possible?

The whole “monitoring oneself” thing came up recently when I was working at a party, and was given a headset to communicate(read: act like a secret service operative). At first I was into it. Who doesn’t like to say “copy,” “roger” and other such jargon associated with radio communication?

But then rationality set in. I quickly realized that each time I thought about saying something I had to censor myself and wonder if anyone was listening.

Part of the worry is unfounded—I had to press a button on the headset to activate the microphone. But weirdly enough, my heart was racing faster and faster with every hour that I wore the device. For every judgment, complaint and backhanded remark I made there was a microphone capable of picking it all up and sending it out to too many people who wouldn’t take kindly to my witticisms.

This all had me realizing how increasingly negative I’d become.

Non-mic’ed complaining, however, has been normalized. Off-the-record communication is acceptable in my generation. We commiserate by complaining. It’s a unifying force. But how did some measly microphone have me so mentally unhinged? All my first-world gadgets and social networks are all distinct microphones in their own right that duly record my every thought, hookup and drug deal. So how was this piece of plastic any different? It shouldn’t haven’t been, and yet it was.

Now, I know I am not alone in my fascination with the “hot mic” phenomenon. Throughout modern history, countless people have ruined their marriages, reputations and careers—hell, their entire lives—by simply forgetting that they were wearing a microphone.

Just ask Michael Duvall. This guy forgot he was mic’d when blabbing on about spanking and sleeping with a female lobbyist, all unbeknownst to his wife and congressional colleagues. He resigned a mere fifteen hours after the story broke.

Or Christian Bale. Remember his venomous on-set effenheimers thrown at the director of photography of Terminator Salvation? The English psycho lost credibility after an audio clip of his fucking explosion went viral.

And what about the Rev. Jesse Jackson? He must’ve been pretty embarrassed after a hot mic had the world knowing that the Civil Rights figure wanted to cut Barack Obama’s balls off.

My favorite mic mishap has got to be President Ronald Reagan addressing his fellow Americans one night at the height of the Cold War: “I’m pleased to tell you today that I’ve signed legislation that will outlaw Russia forever. We begin bombing in five minutes.” His comment was supposed to have been a soundcheck, but accidentally went live.

Do I still judge? Complain? Dish out back-handed remarks? Of course I do. But at least now I think twice about it. Thanks, technology!

Growing a New Eye (With a Little Help From Technology and You) (

Originally written for

When I grew up, I wanted to be like Sarah Connor in Terminator II: leather clad, ass-kicking, and mean as a snake. But my male compatriots yearned to be Arnold: part-man, part-machine. Our society has always nurtured a fascination with the melding of humanity and science. And its origins were often more based in fantasy—see sci-fi favorites such as Darth Vader, Robocop, or Tom Cruise—than reality.

But the melding of metal and flesh begs a few questions. If you put metal parts into an individual do they stop being a human? How much metal can you put into a person before he/she isn’t a person? At what point does the line between humanity and AI bleed into each other? Obviously, this amalgamation provokes a certain amount of conflict, anxiety, and identity crisis.

But what about people who aren’t characters in movies, everyday people who want to fuse the concepts for the betterment of their bodies and minds? Enter Tanya Vlach, a women who lost her eye during a horrific car accident. Before the accident she was a well-known visual artist and performer. Afterwards, she had a frontal lobe minor brain injury and was missing an eye. Despite her subsequent depression, Tanya refused to be victim of her circumstances and sought a fix through technology. What if she could see again, but better? Couldn’t she just put a bionic eye in her socket and move on?

She pitched her idea to Wired founder Kevin Kelly; his curiosity was piqued. He put out a personal call to engineers to help build an implant of a miniature camera inside her prosthetic eye. Hundreds of scientists and engineers responded with their ideas. But such innovations don’t come cheaply; insurance wasn’t going to pay for this, and she didn’t have the money.

In June, Tanya started a Kickstarter campaign. It was quickly picked up by the Internet, and suddenly she was the newest poster child for transhumanism and body modification. Her project, Eye-Camera: an experiment in wearable technology, cybernetics, and perception. The project inspired frequent questions on her website ranging from the laughable (“Are you a Spy”) to the hopeful and suspicious (“are you starting a cyborg revolution?”). One can dream.

Tanya continues to travel and discuss her plight and subsequent plan of action across the United States; on Sunday July 31st she comes to Brooklyn for an eye fundraiser at Brooklyn Winery. Come prepared to discuss cyborgs, eyes, and the art that lies in between.


The things I have gleaned from JUST KIDS, PATTI SMITH

I’m already free.
We ventured out like Maeterlinck’s children seeking the bluebird and were caught in the twisted briars of our new experiences.
Both of us had given ourselves to others. We vacillated and lost everyone, but we had found one another again. we wanted, it seemed what we already has, a lover and a friend to create with, side by side. To be loyal and yet free.
“Patti, no one sees like we do.”
Nureyev and Artaud.
Isadora Duncan.
forlorn souls who had fouled their lives.
Romanticization of excess …. and yet. 
My East of Eden outfit.
Who can know the heart of youth but youth itself.
Magical life-breathe.
Gregory Corso, Allen Ginsberg, and William Burroughs were all…
The Moon had turned blood red.
Natural Gravitation // Gerard Malanga.
He was holding a carton on milk, as if he were about to pour it in the saucers of his eyes.
Memento Mori // Remember we are mortal.
It wasn’t easy for him to sever our physical ties, I knew that.
Extremely Caustic.
Robert felt a part of our equation.
Patti Smith to Janis Joplin
I was working real hard
To show the world what I could do
Oh I guess I never dreamed
I’d have to
World spins some photographs
How I love to laugh when the crowd laughs
While love slips through
A theatre that is full
But oh baby
When the crowd goes home
And I turn in and I realize I’m alone
I can’t believe
I had to sacrifice you
Investing the homosexual with grandeur, masculinity, and enviable nobility. Without affection, he created a presences that was wholly male without sacrificing feminine grace.
To imbue homosexuality with mysticism. As Cocteau said of a Genet poem, “His obscenity is never obscene.”
Marianne Faithfull, Anita Pallenberg, Amelia Earhart, Mary Magdalene.
Les Enfants Terrible.
Indefinable devotion.
Often contradiction is the clearest way to truth.
Others sacrificed themselves to drugs and misadventure.
A Season in Hell. At one point I realized I was crying.
All around me the messages written in chalk were dissolving like tears in the rain.
“It’s intoxicating,” he would say. “The power that you can have. There’s a truck line of guys that all want you, and no matter how repulsive they are, feeling that collective desire for oneself is powerful.”
Unruly and impious performances. > The sounds of a scene emerging.
I dressed in a manner that I thought a boy from Delaware would understand: black ballet flats, pink shantung capris, my kelly green silk raincoat, and a violet parasol.
Catholic Medals torn from shaved throats.
I choose Earth.


JUST KIDS, a love story about youth, rock and roll, what it mean to be an artist, and the trials and tribulations that come along for the ride. It was one of the best and most fulfilling reading experiences I have had in a good long time. The novel is a motivator to push me forward, to get off my television saturated brain and think, think about the present and most importantly my future as an artist and human being.