about Jesse Vogel
The Paleolithic French— that’s pre-Chunnel, pre-Sarkozy— could draw a damn bear. In the cave of Teyjat in Dordogne what appears to be Ursus Arctos lumbers across the cave wall, across the Milky Way, La Voie Lactée.
Here in Southern California, we’ve stuck the bear on our flag yet plugged the caves; too risky going underground where the superego gets poor reception.
You won’t hear Jesse Vogel talk about cubicles being the new caves, the new meeting place for bowless hunters and orienteering flunkies. Jesse won’t tell you that the mouse on your PC is hunting you, has hunted you and jabbed a ring through your nose for tamer, timelier trips to the river.
Jesse knows our now-prey: the victorious Superman gloating over a trophy ankle; toys vanquished and destroyed by beasts truer to themselves than we’ll ever be; man and beast alike bending to the hard-wired trio of crave-zones in the brain (the hippocampus, insula, and caudate) by making amateur porn with an American Apparel vertically integrated shadow ‘Tweener.
You’re not witnessing the regressive glee of a Luddite saboteur, rather an indictment of desire thwarted and an acknowledgment, a genuflection, of darkest thoughts growing ever darker while we grow ever younger in our pre-teen senility.
Jesse Vogel may wish you luck and happy hunting but don’t expect to know what he means when he tells you in groggy, assured tones, “You can’t drive on the same freeway twice and you can’t step back in the cave, man.”
- B. Redgrave, April 16, 2009