By caballero on Fri, Jul 3, 2009 5:40 pm
I wish I could say I saw a couple more cities on my way to Rothbury, Michigan. We—Spencer, Mills, Maysa, Keith and myself—drove from Allston to Michigan in about 17 hours, passing through Cleveland, Detroit, Lansing and a couple other places along the way. After making it through a 20-hour bus ride in Argentina a few years ago, I've learned to appreciate all the things you see along the way during a road trip that you miss on a plane.
But needless to say I missed Detroit, Cleveland and most of Michigan. I did get a chance, however, to see the parking lot of a rest stop in southwest New York state, when Spencer and I, in true team spirit, managed to lock the keys in the car after we stopped to take a bathroom break. The rest of it I missed, as I was crumpled up in a twisted heap of flesh and half-sobriety in the back seat of an green Chrysler Town and Country called Shrek. By trip's end, I was reduced to sitting in Buddah-like meditation, trying best to keep hold of a modicum of sanity in the back seat (my new spot after being usurped from the passenger side front chair by eight or so 30 racks of Keystone Light).
So upon arrival in Rothbury, Michigan, from where I'm writing this in the confines of the well-stocked (i.e. open bar) media area behind the Sherwood Court stage, anything from then on was going to be good. The 2nd edition of the four day festival is a fascinating clash between progressive ecological ideas and rampant fuck-all consumerism, if you look a the subtext. If not, it's a music festival/shit show of epic proportions. I've only been hear for roughly 24 hours, but I've seen both up close so far.
I've seen the Cool Kids rock a big crowd better than I thought (and maybe they thought) they had any right to. I've seen myself pay for a $10 burrito in which, after some slack-jawed yokel lazily throws some food in there, I have to roll up myself, because said yokel explicitly tells me he doesn't know how. I've seen a guy peddling vials of Tang while swearing it was top-drawer blow. It's only been a day, but I feel like I've seen a lot, perhaps foreshadowing a long weekend.
Maybe I should step back a moment. For those who don't know, the Rothbury Music Festival is like Bonnaroo or Red Rocks or any other one of those massive hippie fests/drug parties out in the middle of nowhere in which everything costs an absurdly high price in the name of the environment and thus and so. It's a bloated beast of a festival, spreading itself out over a couple hundred acres of rural country in central Michigan. It's still on the up-and-up in terms of competing with Bonnaroo and some of the other big festivals (this is only it's second go-round), but there's nothing to suggest it won't be up there soon. This year's line up includes Bob Dylan, Willie Nelson, Disco Biscuits, Damian Marley & Nas, STS9, The Dead, The Black Crowes, Guster, Girl Talk, Chromeo, Broken Social Scene, Les Claypool, Pretty Lights and the String Cheese Incident, among others.
Anyone who knows me knows that unshowered in a field full of hippies isn't probably the first place you'd find me. Thus, I'm writing from the open bar.
Let's start with the basics. Walking around the campsite was like being let loose in West Baltimore, except everyone's real friendly. Any drug you could possibly need—from ginseng to weed to every kind of pill and powder, real or fake—is on sale, and a quick stroll down the aisles of cars and tents is how you window shop. Imagine if the irritatingly over-eager people who work at the Apple Store shoved down a fistful of downers before coming into work and you'll get an idea of the caliber of dealers plying their trade at Rothbury. There's a lot of mumbling, stuttering giggles and a general sense of disappointed parents somewhere. Thinking myself a cultured and refined man I'd thought I knew every possible selection on the menu, but the amount of bizarre merchandise available surprised even me. Chalk this one up to inexperience at huge multi-day music festivals, but I didn't think anyone was really into snorting heroin anymore. One more thing I need to learn.
The first show of the first day was Toubab Krewe, which was a huge disappointment. Not because they were bad, but because I spent the majority of the afternoon believing I was about to see 2 Live Crew work their magic on a crowd a couple thousand deep. Give Luther Campbell those odds and watch how many titties jump out to catch some fresh country air. “Big Booty Hoes” from the Friday Soundtrack was one of the first hip-hop records I knew by name and lyrics and probably had irreversible effects on all my future relationships with women. With the storm clouds of flesh and lecherous drunk behavior gathering, the forecast called for an epic shit show.
Imagine my surprise when instead of a creepy uncle flocked by upper-echelon hood rats I see a bunch of white guys from Asheville, North Carolina banging out on percussion, trying to play Malian music (as in from MALI. Get it). This dedicated, talented group of musicians infuriated me with their lengthy instrumental jam sessions, if only because they weren't 2 LIVE CREW. Once I got over this, I tried to appreciate this pleasant, non-skank music on it's own merits. Namely, the collaboration between the rotating three-man percussion section and kamenlengoni (I looked it up), an African instrument that looks and sounds like a gene-spliced cousin of a guitar and cello. Some songs had structure, others seemed like they were the guys just showing off, but as often happens with a band like this, it didn't really matter either way. They cut into a mean version of “Billie Jean” and that was that.
The rest of the night was a bit hazier. There was a $5 slice of pizza, a Disco Biscuits show and the disappointment of having lightsabers confiscated mixed in there somewhere, but I can't really say how or in what order. Having slept and eaten a bit, today's looking like a more conscious day, but I don't make any promises for tonight.
By nleonard3 on Fri, Jul 3, 2009 5:07 pm
Sonic Arts @ GASP proudly presents:
Saturday, July 11, 2009 at 8 PM
Freek2Geeks IV (Transatlantic Edition)
Beat de-constructions, circuit bent sound alterations and algorithmically generated video by wizards of the Music Synthesis Department at Berklee College of Music with special guest David Clark. In collaboration with BEE Records.
Pierce Warnecke, Edward Loveall, Aaron Cherof, Andrew Johanson, David Clark, Neil Leonard
GASP Gallery
362-4 Boylston St., Brookline, MA 02445
galleryinfo@g-a-s-p.net
617.418.4308
$10 suggested donation, $6 with a student ID
GASP is one block from the Brookline Hills stop on the MBTA ‘D’ Riverside line.
Directions/Info:
http://www397.pair.com/gasp1/
http://gaspsound.blogspot.com/
http://www.myspace.com/sonicartsatgasp
Links:
http://www.myspace.com/piercewarnecke
http://www.myspace.com/nthsynthesis
http://www.edwardloveall.com/
http://www.myspace.com/starbs
http://www.myspace.com/aardvarkchekhov
http://www.berklee.edu/faculty/detail/david-clark
http://neilleonard.com
http://neilleonardevents.blogspot.com
Bios:
PIERCE WARNECKE is a musician, programmer and visual artist whose focus is split between interrelated media (work) and electronic music and video (play).
He works as a multimedia programmer, creating unique solutions for interactive mulitmedia installations. His work focuses on the audio-video relationship, intra/interactivity and data recycling. Past projects have dealt with video analysis software, alternate controllers, multi-point sound diffusion, machine/lighting control or modulation routing systems for artists such as Groupe Dunes (www.groupedunes.net) and XLR project (www.xlrproject.net).
Pierce releases music and video on BEE records in Lyon with duo Nth Synthesis, and alone under his own name. His audio/video/installation projects have been a part of international festivals, including Sguardi Sonori 2008 (Italy), Boston CyberArts Festival (US), American Composers Forum, Sonic Circuits (US), Optica (ES), Nuits Blanches (FR), Ososphere (FR), IMAF Osnabrueck (GER), and Mal au Pixel (FR).
DAVID CLARK grew up playing music in the rich musical environment of Philadelphia. He studied with classical with Henry Scott of the Philadelphia Orchestra, and Jazz with Richard Davis, Rufus Reid, Michael Moore, and Eddie Gomez. He finished out the decade as the resident Jazz instructor at the International School for the Double Bass in Cincinnati during which time he was twice recipient of the National Endowment for the Arts Jazz Study Grant.
He has appeared with Mose Allison, Nat Adderly, John Abercrombie, George Adams, Gary Bartz, Lois Bellson, George Benson, Jerry Bergonzie, Joanne Brackeen, Randy Brecker, Donald Brown, Gary Burton, Cyrus Chestnut, Sonny Fortune, Slide Hampton, Donald Harrison, Billy Hart, Jimmy Heath, Lee Konitz, Howard Levy, Dave Liebman, Clark Terry, Shiela Jordan, Bill Pierce, John Scofield, Gunther Schuller, Bennie Wallace, Claudio Roditi, Danilo Perez, Mick Goodrick, Ellis Marsalis, Lyle Mays, Danny Richmond, Rosemary Clooney, James Williams, the Boston Pops under both John Williams and Keith Lockhart, The American Jazz Philharmonic, The British Rock and Roll Symphony, Emily Remmler, Orange then Blue, Strange but Trio, Tierney Sutton, Phil Woods, Atilla Zoller and many others.
Clark is a Professor at the Berklee College of Music where he teaches bass and Jazz Improvisation and travels internationally for the school as a clinician and a performer with the Berklee All-Stars.
NEIL LEONARD works as a sound artist, composer and saxophonist. His ensemble has featured Marshall Allen, Bruce Barth, Don Byron, Robin Eubanks, Uri Caine and Jamaaladeen Tacuma. Leonard performed and recorded with Boston Ballet, Bill Frisell, Vijay Iyer, Orlando ‘Cachaito’ Lopez, John Medeski, Butch Morris, Phill Niblock, Dave Samuels, Marvin "Smitty" Smith, Steve Swallow, Evan Ziporyn.
Leonard’s Dreaming of an Island, (for orchestra, electronics and live-video) was premiered by Kirk Trevor and the Indianapolis Chamber Orchestra. Leonard's composition Totems was premiered at Carnegie Hall by Byron and Caine. His Echoes and Footsteps was featured by the Tel Aviv Biennial for New Music, Issue Project Room (NYC) and the Auditorium di Roma. Leonard's collaborative work with visual artist Maria Magdalena Campos-Pons was featured by the 49th Venice Biennial, Museum of Modern Art (NYC). Leonard composed the music for Relatives, by Tony Oursler and Constance DeJong featured by the Whitney Biennial. Leonard compositions were featured by festivals in Canada, Cuba, Dominican Republic, France, Germany, Greece, Israel, Italy, Japan, Mexico, Norway, Panama, Poland, Puerto Rico, Russia, Senegal, Spain, Sweden.
Leonard is co-owner of Gallery Artist Studio Project in Boston. Leonard is a Professor at Berklee College of Music in Boston. He taught sound installation at the University of Padova and the C. Pollini Conservatory, Italy.
GASP:
Gasp attempts to create a space for artistic exchange where artists will explore and propose new possibilities for contemporary practices, a site for collaboration between disciplines and fields in the contemporary cultural landscape.
The Sonic Arts at GASP performance/installation series has featured: Phill Niblock, Pamela Z, Amnon Wolman, Ron Kuivila, io casino, Stephen Lehman, Jessica Feldman, Erdem Helvacioglu, Callithumpian Consort, Interensemble, Allan Chase/Bruno Raberg, Gary Chang, Richard Boulanger, Anthony Baldino, Pierce Warnecke, DREV, Mem1, Bruxism (Anne Rhodes/Carl Testa), Landon Rose, Jonathan Chen, Julia Campbell, Joe Sexton, the Jitter class @ Berklee (Joe Branciforte, Daniel Patterson, Zachary Kramer, Ben 'Encanti' Cantil, Carson Whitley, Alex Molina), Max Ables, members of the Wesleyan University graduate composition seminar ... and many more.
By Johnny Transistor on Wed, Jul 1, 2009 9:21 am
LAGUNA SUMMER
1/2 - 1 ounce of New Amsterdam No. 485 gin, no substitutions
12 ounces of ice cold Heineken, mild substitutions permitted
juice of 1/8 of a fresh lime, more or less, discard the rind
Splash 1/2 to 1 ounce of No. 485 gin into a clear hi-ball glass, then gently introduce it to 12 ounces of ice cold Heineken brew, mild substitutions permitted. Squeeze in the juice of 1/8 of a lime, more or less. Discard the rind. Next, savor its very essence. Finally taste, then drink. You will find that it beats the hell out of smelling a wine cork at Denny's, under the watchful eye of an ex-cabbie in a rented tux, and the scrutiny he conveys as you handle and taste his first pour. The wine he so shrewdly chose, the first sip quickly shrink wrapping the inside of your mouth, leaving you with a permanently puckered look on your face. LAGUNA SUMMER sounds pretty damn good compared to that, and it is. But it tastes even better. It tastes like freedom. Remember.............when you didn't give a flying fuck about anything. It has that whole California beach scene, surf vibe thing going for it, while at the same time fitting in nicely at black tie events, gallery openings and pool parties thrown by the elegantly hip. LAGUNA SUMMER is as smooth as silk and as simple as life itself. Life can be complicated or it can be simply sophisticated. You choose.
Johnny Transistor,
July 1, 2009
Copyright 2009 Johnny Transistor All Rights Reserved
By Johnny Transistor on Tue, Jun 30, 2009 11:28 am
Summer is supposed to hang out in the still of shadowless heat, a still as calm as the still of bloodless hung meat. Meat hung to cure, having the sun devour its rotting stench in one bite, the hungry bastard that it is, before engines seize, dropping NYC dead in the stench sweating tracks of its own sight. The NYC coroner having to give his cause of death statement to a freaked press via cell phone, from a speeding car on his way outta town, driving stop-only for gas, a piss, a Coke and Doritos to Manhattan Beach. As those left standing sweat tomorrows sweat with every step. That stinking hot. I mean so fucking hot that rats die, trapped in molten asphalt while crossing the streets at night. But what do I get? This............
I was walking through the Village the other day in the pissing rain, without an umbrella. For one thing, I don't like umbrella's and for another, getting wet usually doesn't bother me. I was expecting summer to come knocking any time soon. Bringing with it its power, the still of the hunted down and the heat that comes with it. Summer still.......that shot in the head at close range, then hoisted to a desert cactus to hang the dead man, summer still. The sheriff and his deputy too dry to spit before reloading and heading out to hunt the fucker's partner, their dust being the only words said on behalf the deceased. That still. With that kind of power too............. justice, which tells all in the territory they are safe while at the same time describing in rotting detail what becomes of rapists and child killers. That is the kind of summer I have been expecting, a summer equal in brutality to the harshest winter in (75 year) recent memory but more relentless. I mean one long hot summer night summer. Has Al Gore been bullshitting us? Planting fear in the hearts of every sucker from here to Environmental Hell and back just so he can hop scotch around the world in a private jet to deliver his plagiarized global warming treatise to an over paying audience in awe of his self proclaimed grandeur. His wife Tipper flying on ahead in her own private jet, just to make sure that their $25,000 a night hotel suite has matching his and her towels in each of its 7 bathrooms and each kitchen is stocked with only the finest cuts of aged NYC beef. Probably, because so far this summer is making a mockery of winter. But nothing sells like bullshit, especially when fear is involved, which should make insurance Al's next big crusade once his environmental bender has run its course. Unless of course, he decides to call himself Noah and starts selling time shares on the Arc he has his designers working on, its raining that much. He and Tipper should get at least another 10 years of good flying time out of that one before it falls apart like South Florida's condo market and they have to move. They can retire to California and their French vineyards, to pass off the fermented run off from raisins, water and yeast as Merlot from France's Bordeaux region to the tune of wine greats singing psalms, praising the pair's vintages and genius. Collectively deciding,they so overcome with awe, there being no words to describe the most sacred wine's unique bouquet. When all along any kid could tell them that there is only one word which could adequately describe what the wine scribes were smelling and that one word is bullshit. And right under their whiney noses to boot. Therefore, officially making this summer's song "Bullshit Makes the Grass Grow Green" by The Ex Tipper.
Johnny Transistor,
June 27,2009
Copyright 2009 Johnny Transistor All Rights Reserved
By some.nerd on Sun, Jun 28, 2009 10:31 pm
The last week or so has been a rough one for the entertainment industry. With the losses of Ed McMahon, Farrah Fawcett, and Michael Jackson still fresh in our minds, we were dealt another blow. Today at 7:45 AM, famous TV pitchman Billy Mays was found dead in his home.
After the initial disbelief I dealt with upon hearing the news, I paused for a moment and remembered what people say— death comes in threes. While every web site and media outlet from— as Fergie would say—two thousand and LATE were coming up with tributes, I got to thinking.
Note how the last batch went down: Pitchman, Movie Star, and musician/pop icon/clusterfuck of human disaster. A PATTERN,
We've got our next pitchman. Who's the hollywood star/starlet and the pop culture icon going to be? It's still anybody's guess at this point... Do I have any guesses? Hmm... Movie star, Steve Martin (random guess, nothing against him except those Pink Panther movies). Train wreck/musician, Courtney Love (I mean honestly, how IS she still alive?). Anybody want to speculate?
By JStanton on Fri, Jun 26, 2009 1:48 pm
The guy could dance, hooked up with a couple of good producers, diddled little kids (allegedly, yeah right), and is now dead. Good riddance.
By Dargus on Thu, Jun 25, 2009 3:13 pm
When apologizing publically to your wife and constituents, here's a rough list of things you should probably avoid mentioning:
1. Your experience, even that which falls within your college years, of working across national borders without a work visa. This goes double for high-ranking, GOP president-hopefuls.
2. That you were exhausted by your own efforts to turn down federal stimulus money.
3. That you lied to a reporter by omission. A reporter with the wherewithal to stake-out Atlanta's airport waiting for your sorry-ass admission, which was only an infinitesimal part of the story.
4. Letting your family down. A public apology just doesn't cut it. Ever. You entered a tryst, chose to end it over Father's Day weekend. Say it to their faces, Pops, and keep the political "save face" limited to your now-limited political career.
5. The press and essentially blaming them for the timeline in which you were forced to apologize. It's not our fucking fault, Governor. It's your fucking that is at fault.
6. That you let you staff down, when what you did in fact do was not just let them down, but make a public mockery of their office and credibility.
7. Good friends who may or may not have slept in your kids' dinosaur sheets. And, whether or not it may have occurred to you in your downward spiral, few people want to be associated with your good name at the moment. Best leave 'em and your kiddies' sheets out of it.
8. Your in-laws. They're disappointed in you too, move along.
9. God, or his laws that you blatantly disregarded, you future hell-dwelling sinner, you.
10. People of faith, across South Carolina and the US of A. There are only Ten Commandments, man. You lost your way around No. 7, as many have before you. But as a lapsed Episcopalian, I sure as hell take offense to your dragging me into this.
11. That it all began very innocently. You first betrayed your wife by emotionally cheating over such exchanges with a dear woman friend in Argentina. Then, then, you cheated in the most Biblical of senses. Do not qualify your actions here, sir.
12. A third, maybe fourth mention of your friend, Tom Davis. Throw him a lifeline, by omitting your association with him. At this moment, you're extending a noose.
13. That all you can do is apologize. No. You could have done many things, said many things. But you did not. The only thing you can do now is keep your penis to yourself, keep your damn trap shut and wrap this up quickly. Oh, we're not yet halfway through ...
14. A request for a "zone of privacy." Do define, cuckolding minister of poorly-crafted lies, do define.
15. The press, again, and their willingness to broadcast your moronic ne'er-do-well behavior across headlines. I'm going to give you the advice that if you'd like the press to stay out of your business, that your business end not fly into Buenos Aires three weeks after you display nationally a general wealth of silliness regarding your own state's matters.
16. A need to "clear out more time" in your schedule for reconciliation. Dude, you already took a week off ...
And in the Q&A sesh:
1. C-Street, the Christian congressional watchdog group that you at one time participated in and learned NOTHING from.
2. The fact that you're going to divulge the in and outs of your affair with "way more detail than [we'll] ever want."
3. That this all was eight years in the making.
4. "Sparking" as a euphemism for doing it.
5. That you spent the last five days "crying in Argentina." Man up, or whatever it is your conservative cronies would tell you. You know what, no. Just man up in general.
By Johnny Transistor on Wed, Jun 24, 2009 9:32 am
Ex-Life with a Voyeur
If your psychiatrist is your best friend, you are fucked. If your psychiatrist is your only friend, then you are totally fucked. Sure, it's great lying on the Doc's $25,000 Siberian elephant leather couch recounting your hole in the head life, starting with that train wreck of a childhood of yours and culminating with today's water cooler event, which ended when the last of your marbles finally fell out of your skull and onto the floor. Something your co-workers had anxiously anticipated, having had a pool on the exact date of your implosion, it being that obvious. But no one guessed it would be today.......... the day you closed your bank account and turned in the keys to your empty apartment, then headed to work on foot with the last of your belongings in a grocery bag and your life savings in a change purse. Your co-workers ignorant of the expense and the lengths to which you had crawled to actually lie on a garage sale Ikea leather couch. Having to sell everything........ your car, your furnishings and 97% of your cloths just to feel an empty ounce of acceptance. Not forgetting that your life savings included the rare stamp, coin and butterfly collections your grandfather left you. All of it, just so you could feel that someone at least, cared about you, if only for an hour a week. Christ, a hooker would have been cheaper and a lot more therapeutic. Some co-workers.They wanted to tell you about the couch yet couldn't, the pool's predicted time outcome, but mainly the vulgar water cooler banter and violent texting it generated, being just too plain attractive for the pseudo-intellectual in each of them to resist, the weak bastards that they are.
So now, there you are.......after the episode, after work and rushing, lying in the stench of your own melted life listening to the Doc, who now goes by his trademarked celebrity Dr. Ask Me, say that you are out. And your 259 previous sessions? Well sir, they have accumulated absolutely no points with him, adding up to Absolute Zero no matter how much money you have fed his meter. He concluding with "No tickie...No laundry", which you understand to be an unintentional metaphor, seeing now he is simply too stupid for an intelligent quip, appropriate or not. Besides he hates Asians. Christ, Vegas would have at the very least comped you a broad and a room full of booze to put her in, after a run like you'd just had pal. And yah, yah, yah........the recorded sessions are your life, belonging to Dr. Ask Me and always have. But who gives a fuck, because in that unfolding instant of sudden realization you understood.....that makes it your ex-life. Sure, with the help of a scribe he has churned your sessions into a book and is taking your ex-life to the top of the New York Best Seller List, marked #1 with a bullet. Copyright 2009 Dr. Ask Me. All Rights Reserved. Which leaves you thinking, so fucken what he can have it, as your back bleeds lead for the bastard.
You feel release not panic as you lie there, the couch having lost its allure, smelling exactly like sweating fear cured leather blended with the hint of an occasional female and a dab of day old pizza sauce. Wondering if he was treating some poor ex-Siberian detainee and fucking her on the side or whether he was just plane Jane fucking her, thinking, fuck the treatment this is all she is worth anyway, as he gives her one more for the team and sends her packing with 3 pieces of unwanted cold pizza lounging in the oily cardboard box it was delivered in.That, and seconds before the receptionist was booking your hour with some clipper, even before the Doc closed his office door behind you. Your time going to a guy with another run of the mill hard luck story but with a bank account Tuning out the unusually talkative Doc's endless drivel, you realize for the first time that you, yes you, were merely his interactive television to play with. A television he could control with a premeditated movement or cough directed at your subconscious or if the Doc was feeling exceptionally energetic and charitable, with a question. Seeing that he is nothing short of a voyeur who gets his jollies by listening to a patient's poor excuse for a life or hearing about the sexual escapades of the bold, as he imagines himself a viral participant on the receiving end. As you lie there, surrounded by a room clinging to the stench of stale fear, you feel your own life for the very first time and leave as if on cue. Ask Me too lazy to notice as he focused on the sound of his own voice practicing his spiel for your slot's replacement. The same spiel you heard the first time you hit the couch and now again, as you leave, but this time hearing it as his graduation gift to you.
Johnny Transistor,
June 21, 2009
Copyright 2009 Johnny Transistor All Rights Reserved
By jwalovit on Tue, Jun 23, 2009 11:35 am
MySpace is cutting two thirds of its international staff and closing
four offices. They are expected to lose close to $85 million in revenue
and its competitor Facebook is continuing in growth.
MySpace
is losing ad revenue and this is far from surprising. Everyone knows
that MySpace is a cesspool of pedophiles, creeps and aspiring musicians
where the occasional young teenager or tween hangs out. But now that
anyone can join Facebook the younger kids are switching to the friendlier and
cleaner Facebook.
Facebook originally started off as a social
networking site exclusively for Harvard students, eventually opening up
the site to all colleges and universities. Now anyone from a sixth grader to your mom can create an account if they have access to
the internet. However, there are several security
preferences that users can manipulate to prevent stalkers and potential
employers in search of dirty secrets.
But now as MySpace fades away it
is hard not to see that Facebook is slowly morphing into what MySpace
was/still is. A place where hairy 48 year old overweight men can pose
as 18 year olds hoping to land a couple prepubescent girls.
By MikeC on Fri, Jun 19, 2009 6:49 pm
Wacky Massachusetts Republicans Push For Marijuana Re-criminalization
Excerpt from link:
Voters' marijuana decriminalization law is under attack
Last
November, 65% of Massachusetts voters removed the possibility of jail
for simple marijuana possession, making adults' possession of an ounce
or less a civil infraction punishable only by a $100 fine.
Despite this overwhelming mandate from voters, several bills have been introduced that would undermine the new law. I
