what would’ve been north korea’s first-ever rock & roll show, the rock for peace concert, has been cancelled with a hugely confusing, emphatic, and emotionally nervy statement. i probably would’ve wept if it didn’t make the mystery even thicker: who was mr. kim working with? how were the meetings? austere? little richard? what had he really intended? what did he think would happen?

i can’t say that i’m not disappointed–i’d corresponded with mr. kim and he was actually trying to help me make passage–but i also can’t really say that i was expecting it to come off without a hitch. so we huddle around the table and, hush hush, next year in pyongyang.

the soccer son scenario has re-consumed me lately. let me explain the soccer son scenario:

i value art more than i value sports and i’m over six feet tall. these are not choices. i have two hypothetical sons: one is a fantastic soccer player and one paints pictures. the soccer player’s room is full of trophies. he has the grace of water and the humility of bark. the painter son ekes out brilliance at times but doesn’t have consistency; he doesn’t reek of quality and achievement in the same way soccer son does. and yet, i find myself valuing him more. (it’s perverse, i know; i’m sure this metaphor will disgust me by the time i’m a father.)

this is basically to say that, after a lot of critical catholicism and attempts to love everything, i’m finding myself back in the seat of accepting ambition over achievement, of weighing a great idea over its execution.

because, well, movies this weekend: guillermo del toro’s new hot dark verdant fantasia pan’s labyrinth and last year’s brick, a film noir played out in a high school. brick, which i’d first seen in august, is an imperfect movie, no doubt. some of the lines are loose, made all the more obvious by the concision needed to really pull off noir, where each line lands like a dart. the story, for all its ever-unravelling mystery, doesn’t really thrill. it’s a little mum. pan’s labyrinth is iced-out perfect, totally well-trained. no mess. and i felt nothing. brick tried something wildly different and, comparatively, failed. painter kid wins.

also, i don’t really know where to start with the dj drama and don cannon controversy, but i think it has something to do with finding out who owns lil’ wayne’s brain. i mean, it’s clear that the only reason the blind eye of the riaa and labels has miraculously regained sight is that people are actually making money off mixtapes. right? but the one dark corner that seems really crucial to illuminate would be, beats aside, who owns the rights to the work rappers are doing on mixtapes? i’m guessing that most of these guys have exclusive contracts and that recording a dj drama session would breach them, regardless of whether or not the artists “endorse” it or not. also: be sure to read jonathan lethem in this month’s harper’s for more good times in the grey area of appropriation.