strange radiation: the pool of radiance archive
Adventures with an unreliable narrator.
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Aug 30 03: on location
Greetings from the offices of the Arts and Business Council, the arts-advocacy organization for which Sari tirelessly slogs. Yes, we’re all here on a Saturday night—a Saturday night on a three-day weekend—but that’s not because we have no lives. Although that is also true. Sari is using the paper-cutter here to finish a batch of invitations for her grandmother’s 90th birthday party. Paul is keeping her company. I am using her computer. The teddy borg that I brought Sari from Vegas is staring at me from behind the pencil jar, with a look on its fuzzy grey face that says “wesistance is futiwe.” The little dickens.
Earlier, we had dinner at the ‘forty pounds of sushi for ten bucks’ restaurant not far from our apartment. Not bad, although I could only eat about 35 pounds of it this time. Prior to that, Sari had been at the movies and Paul and I had been couch-shopping at Macy’s. Most of the couches we liked, as it turned out, had upholstery in what they called ‘microfibre’ but which you can call ‘polyester-based pseudo-ultrasuede.’ Paul and I wondered if we’d have problems with conversations trailing off into nowhere as those on the couch became engrossed in drawing little pictures in the upholstery.
I have been taken to task for failing to post regularly since I acquired regular, paying day work. Don’t take it personally, dear reader: I’ve also failed to go to the gym regularly and write in my journal regularly. I had thought that turning 33—which I did on Monday—would magically transform me into a dynamic, proactive, disciplined, fascinating adult. One who also gets enough sleep. No such luck. It appears that if that’s going to happen at all, I’m gonna have to do it the old-fashioned way. Crap.
Aug 21 03: RIP: xrefer.com
Alas, another excellent free web service sublimates before our eyes. Xrefer.com has gone pay-only. It’s a huge search engine for a long list of dictionaries/encyclopedias/thesaurii/et c. published by Oxford University Press. Back in the day, you used to be able to investigate anything with those folks. What the hell do I do now—go to the library?
Referrals to alternative massive-searchable-information-clearinghouses would be welcomed. Why not put your favorite in the comments thread below?
Aug 20 03: ready to pop?
Well, I guess this explains why we haven’t seen Mingwei at practice in the last week or two.
(I’m going to the opening of Lee Mingwei’s show at the MOMA-QNS next month. Most exciting; he has done some interesting stuff in the past. Mingwei is also an uncommonly sweet guy. Paul and I had dinner with him and the charming John several weeks back and it was a lovely evening. Anyway, whether or not he’ll need to hire a babysitter for the evening I’ll let you decide.)
Aug 15 03: in the dark
So NYC is lurching back to life after the Big Blackout. There are still parts of Manhattan that haven’t got power. Thankfully we are not in any of those parts.
At 7:50 AM we had our electricity back. At about 10 AM the telephones all over Hell’s Kitchen all died at once. Nobody has yet explained why. We have Internet connectivity—thank god—but the cable that delivers that connectivity seems to lack its usual complement of television data. I have no idea what’s going on, but at least we can be confused in air-conditioned comfort. It is bloody hot out there. Infrastructure Man, save us!
In case you wondered: yeah, it was fairly neat while it lasted. NYC became a string of block parties: people gathered on stoops, on sidewalks, on rooftops. The bodegas began selling off their ice-cream products at suicidal discounts, just to avoid having to mop them up later. People found high points to stand on to memorize the sight of the spires of Times Square, eerily dark. The Indigo Girls found some generators and played their concert in Central Park anyway. The bars generally made a killing, overflow crowds spilling brazenly out into the streets with drinks in hand. Lots of laughter. When the just-past-full moon rose from somewhere over Queens, people howled.
It wasn’t all ale and Chunky Monkey, of course. From our roof, we counted at least four different helicopters—media? police?—hovering over the neighborhood. We aren’t far from the Lincoln Tunnel, which was a bad way to try to leave town, and the ferry terminal, wich was a better way to leave town. Assuming you didn’t mind queuing up with thousands of other people, and that you knew what you were going to do once you reached the other side of the river. I was grateful not to be among the hundreds-to-thousands sleeping on the streets/in parks/on benches last night, as commuter trains went dark and hotels lost the ability to secure the neato magnetic locks on their doors. A neighbor was walking his dog this morning and saw a homeless man come up to a family of tourists who were forced to sleep rough: “Now you know what it’s like,” he said. Indeed. I hope that there’s a homeless-advocacy organization that’s prepared to use this experience for leverage.
The best thing? For just one night, we could see the stars. Not all of them, not even most of them. But there they were. By ones and twos and tens, the whole city looked up.
Aug 12 03: planet 24
Oh, I know, I should be commenting on the rash of Spontaneous Mob coverage in the media—there goes the neighborhood—or bitching about the weather, but I’d much rather give you all a chance to read something amusing and cool.
Therefore, I am pleased to present “Planet 24”, a 24-hour comic by Phil Foglio. Containing lizards, gods, taxicabs, poker, surfing & some nudity, so look out.
24-hour comics are the brainchild of comics visionary Scott McCloud. The rules are simple: create a 24-page comic, from scratch, in 24 contiguous hours. All writing, pencils, inks, lettering must be done within the allotted time. Many have done so since the birth of the concept, and the results have been wildly varied and often reflect the creeping sleep-deprivation inherent in the process.
Sometimes I consider attempting one of these myself. I mean, I can’t draw, but neither can Neil Gaiman, and he did the very cool “Being an Account of the Life and Death of the Emperor Heliogabolus.” Or he gave it the old college try, at any rate. In the end it was only 14 pages. And the sole scan available online is kind of hard to read. But it’s still cool. He can’t draw, but he can really write, and as a result it’s still compelling reading. Further caveat: it contains a good deal more perversion than Planet 24. Not for the faint of heart. But that’s hardly surprising, considering the life of Heliogabolus. In case you’re wondering, it’s pronounced “He’ll-Leo-GABBLE-us.” Says Neil.
Sorry, where was I? Right. Go read. For my part, I’m going to bed.
Aug 8 03: paging encyclopedia brown…
Oh, man. I had totally forgotten about this article. If you’ve never read it, and you have a minute or three, then may I present to you The Case of the Radioactive Boy Scout.
rain—>pour
Well, the prolonged dry spell is over. Not here in the City; we’re all feeling mildly moldy around these parts, after what seems like three weeks of unrelenting thunderstorms and general sogginess. I speak of the employment factor.
I’ve been re-assimilated by the textbook people I worked with about 5 years ago. They’re alarmingly eager to give me all the temp work I can stand. And the pay’s even good.
It pains me to admit it, but I have mixed feelings about my imminent return to solvency. I mean, sure, it’ll be great to be making enough to pay the rent and put money away for later. But I wonder how long it will take before I get embittered—again—about the edpub game, for one thing. I am sad that it’ll be harder to drop everything and go to the beach for the afternoon. (That part gets remarkably little sympathy from those around me. I don’t get it.) I wonder if have bitten off more than I can chew—my dance card is seriously full for the next month or three.
But most difficult of all is that it marks the end of 15 months (!) of ‘leaving myself time to write.’ The reality is that I didn’t rise to the opportunity I created for myself. I have a half-dozen exciting story ideas rattling around in my head, but something about the way the wide-open days roared in my ears made it impossible to actually do anything with any of them. I spent more time than I’d care to admit staring out the window, hoping that this would be the day that I’d be ready to say something. I’m hoping the busier days will get me creatively juiced in a way that the ‘world enough, and time’ approach didn’t.
If the amount of new blather on this blog is any indication, maybe I’m right. Louise, are you still out there somewhere? Please come home.
lucky number 37
It’s Paul’s birthday! He is 37, but doesn’t seem a day over 45. I’m crazy about him. Happy birthday, sweetie. I wish you a year full of joy. And then as many more after that as you can stand.
jb@j’s p
If you are ever given the opportunity to hear Jonatha Brooke play live, do it. Her songs can make you want to get up and dance or to sit alone in a dark room with a bottle of scotch—and you’ll thank her for it either way.
For that matter, you should go out and buy some of her records too. Last night’s set was a spartan affair: just her and her accoustic guitar, except when she was at her piano. For a few songs, the ones with the gorgeous and dangerously close harmonies, she had a friend of hers join her. On her records she’s played around with various production options, from cellos to electric guitars, solo voice to overdubbed Jonathas to guest work by Neil Finn from Crowded House (remember them?). The results are pretty much always fabulous.
Can you tell I’m kind of a fan? I think the mark of really powerful art, really grab-you-by-the-bones stuff, is that it makes you want to create something of your own. Not because it makes creation look easy, though it often does; but because you recognize art as the most powerful mode of communication we have. Jonatha Brooke makes me want to run out and buy a guitar and learn how to play it and then learn how to write songs. She makes me want to write poems that will leave you speechless. Throughout her show I had some subroutine of my head frantically composing notes for this blog. I forgot nearly all of them long before I got here, alas, but it felt good to know that the gears could still turn behind the woodwork. I think I almost feel like a writer again. It already feels good.
Thanks, J. Damn, what a fun show.
Aug 5 03: NY moment #25,318
So I was on the R train headed downtown earlier this afternoon. I was very near the end of Wodehouse’s Something Fresh, which I have enjoyed very much, and which is why my sentences all keep running to lengths like this these days; and the plot was all resolving itself neatly, if rather abruptly, and with the continued good humor that has made Wodehouse such a pleasure to finally explore. Looking up from the book for a moment, I saw a young Latina girl of seven or eight swinging idly around one of the steel poles intended to steady wobbly commuters. She wore a blue denim skirt and had long curly brown hair and liquid brown eyes that looked out upon the train with that self-possessed air that only seven- or eight-year-old girls can really pull off without seeming rude. Round and round the pole she went; eventually I made out what was on her navy blue t-shirt. It was a traffic sign, an inverted equilateral triangle with a red border. In prim, curly letters it said
Yield
to the
Princess
And it was just such a sublime moment that I laughed my ass off right there on the subway.
No, actually, that’s not quite how it happened: I wanted to laugh my ass off. I got as far as the first bark thereof, and was immediately speared with a steel-edged look of disdain by the tattooed grungette next to me, who, although she was closer to the Princess than I was, clearly did not appreciate the zen perfection of the moment in which she found herself. She was probably a rock journalist, or perhaps a freelance costumers’ assistant for cable television shows. Something like that. Out of respect for her existential angst, I kept my laughter to myself, smiling into the pages of my book and not reading them at all. The Princess spun on. The next stop was mine, and I disembarked; for all I know, she is spinning still.
Aug 3 03: arrrrr!
Sorry, just needed to get the ‘pirate noise’ reference out of the way early. Having done that, I can now report that Pirates of the Caribbean: The Curse of the Black Pearl is fabulous. Loved it, loved it, loved it. It’s the movie that Lara Croft wishes she were in. My swash has been thoroughly buckled.
I mean, how can you go wrong? It’s got cannons and treasure and pirates and ghost ships and powdered wigs and cursed Aztec gold and lovely maidens and heroic blacksmiths and stiff-lipped British colonial naval officers and a parrot and skeletons. It’s even got a guy with a wooden eyeball. Go see it already!
If you need me to be more articulate about it, fine. The cast is great. Worth your eleven bucks all by himself is Johnny Depp as Jack Sparrow—sorry, Captain Jack Sparrow—a demented privateer who seems to be a direct ancestor of Steven Tyler. As the diabolical Captain Barbarrossa, leader of the Pearl’s doomed crew of nasties, Geoffrey Rush gets to chew up at least as much scenery as Depp, and gets all the good speeches besides. There’s also Orlando Bloom, handsome and heroic even sans elf wig and putting his LOTR sword training to good use. Some have complained that his performance is a little flat, but I think that’s mostly the effect of having to play straight man to Depp all the time. I liked him just fine. The Designated Damsel in Distress is Keira Knightley—whom I didn’t even recognize as the Best Friend from Bend it Like Beckham—and even she gets her licks in before the credits roll. She also looks like a cross between Natalie Portman and a young Helena Bonham Carter, which I’m sure didn’t hurt her audition either. (Bigger Star Wars geeks than I may recognize her as Queen Amidala’s ep 1 decoy Sabé.) The minor roles are all well served—see, for instance, that skinny guy from The Office as the Wooden Eyeball Pirate.
The story is all over the map, but you won’t care. It’s funny, it’s exciting, it’s spooky. The horrible-skeleton visuals are superb and totally believable. The art direction in general is great: note the gloomy clouds that waft ‘round the Pearl even on the clearest afternoons.
There is of course already a sequel in the works. They might make money, but I don’t see how they can top what they’ve already got here. On the other hand, I figured this movie would be terrible when I first heard about it. A movie based on a ride at Disneyland? Who were they kidding?
I hereby retract that. Man, what fun. Go see it. Go see it for Depp alone. And whatever you do, don’t skip out before the credits end—and I ain’t saying more than that.
Aug 2 03: son of MOB
The invitation to MOB#6 has gone out. I sent it to a whole bunch of likely suspects. If I skipped you, drop me a line. This one is on August 7.
Which suddenly makes me realize that I won’t be there! Oh no! And I just forwarded the invite and everything. How embarassing. Well, it’s for a good cause.
Paul and I are going to see Jonatha Brooke that night at Joe’s Pub. She’s amazing: a singer-songwriter with smart lyrics and a genius ear for melody and harmony. Paul’s birthday is on Friday, and we love her, so this is my gift to him. Go mob and think of us.
[Meanwhile, the whole mob thing is getting completely out of hand. They’re everywhere! And as always, Cheesebikini? has got its finger on the pulse. He suggests that this can’t last; he’s probably right. In the mean time, it will be interesting to watch it do whatever it’s going to do. I wonder how the mysterious Bill feels about this. Bill, are you out there?]