Even when it's old people pop culture.
I read that Paul Simon's next album is to be produced by Brian Eno.
And I don't know what that means. I know Eno is someone I'm supposed to be familiar with, I know he's some sort of legend or something. But that's about all.
Somebody, please, enlighten me.
Tuesday, February 08, 2005
Monday, January 24, 2005
Johnny Carson....
What else is there to say that hasn't already been said, and said by more eloquent folks than I?
Oddly, one of my more persistent Tonight Show memories involves death. I remember hearing that Jim Henson had died, tragically, from what was called "walking pneumonia." And I was upset — as if I'd lost a friend. Because I'd seen Jim and Kermit and Piggy and the whole gang on The Tonight Show not three weeks before. The fact that Henson was now dead was somehow incomprehensible to me; I'd just seen him, and he was fine. He was on Johnny's show.
But so it goes. And now, Mr. Carson has joined Mr. Henson. And we're all just a little bit less classy, a little less funny, with a little less heart and soul and wit than we had the day before yesterday.
Some of my favorite moments:
George C. Scott, reciting a monologue from Christopher Fry's The Lady's Not for Burning.
Richard Harris, telling stories about Peter O'Toole; one of those ended with the immortal line, "It's O'Toole here to see you sir, and he's dressed like a nun." Also telling stories about being in Camelot and about the night he royally screwed the king, a great British actor, when Harris was playing the physician in Macbeth. "How goes the queen?" Harris was supposed to say, "the queen, my Lord, is dead," but instead replied, "oh she's fine, she'll be out in about fifteen minutes."
Johnny in that great Reagan skit.
Buddy Hackett being Buddy Hackett.
Johnny, Robin Williams, and Jonathan Winters.
Johnny talking to a professional football player, one of the guys from back before protective headgear, shoulder pads, and the like. This guy was a legend, but he was also crass and intemperate. He said, "and then we took the G--D----- ball, and we ran it down the field into the G--D------ endzone." Johnny said, "that's a technical term, right?"
And so many other things.
Letterman got it right yesterday, in his statement. All of us who come after Johnny are pretenders. We will not see his like again.
I do find myself wondering what Robin Williams has to say, not having heard.
Oddly, one of my more persistent Tonight Show memories involves death. I remember hearing that Jim Henson had died, tragically, from what was called "walking pneumonia." And I was upset — as if I'd lost a friend. Because I'd seen Jim and Kermit and Piggy and the whole gang on The Tonight Show not three weeks before. The fact that Henson was now dead was somehow incomprehensible to me; I'd just seen him, and he was fine. He was on Johnny's show.
But so it goes. And now, Mr. Carson has joined Mr. Henson. And we're all just a little bit less classy, a little less funny, with a little less heart and soul and wit than we had the day before yesterday.
Some of my favorite moments:
George C. Scott, reciting a monologue from Christopher Fry's The Lady's Not for Burning.
You bubble-mouthing, fog-blathering,
Chin-chuntering, chap-flapping, liturgical,
Turgidical, base old man! What about my murders?
And what goes round in your head,
What funny little murders and fornications
Chatting up and down in three-four time
Afraid to come out? What bliss to sin by proxy
And do penance by way of someone else!
But we'll not talk about you. It will make the outlook
So dark. Neither about this exquisitely
Mad young woman. Nor about this congenital
Generator, your nephew there;
Nor about anyone but me. I'm due
To be hanged. Good Lord, aren't two murders enough
To win half the medals of damnation? Must I put
Half a dozen children on a spit
And toast them at the flame that comes out of my mouth?
You let the fairies fox you while the devil
Does you. Concentrate on me.
Richard Harris, telling stories about Peter O'Toole; one of those ended with the immortal line, "It's O'Toole here to see you sir, and he's dressed like a nun." Also telling stories about being in Camelot and about the night he royally screwed the king, a great British actor, when Harris was playing the physician in Macbeth. "How goes the queen?" Harris was supposed to say, "the queen, my Lord, is dead," but instead replied, "oh she's fine, she'll be out in about fifteen minutes."
Johnny in that great Reagan skit.
Buddy Hackett being Buddy Hackett.
Johnny, Robin Williams, and Jonathan Winters.
Johnny talking to a professional football player, one of the guys from back before protective headgear, shoulder pads, and the like. This guy was a legend, but he was also crass and intemperate. He said, "and then we took the G--D----- ball, and we ran it down the field into the G--D------ endzone." Johnny said, "that's a technical term, right?"
And so many other things.
Letterman got it right yesterday, in his statement. All of us who come after Johnny are pretenders. We will not see his like again.
I do find myself wondering what Robin Williams has to say, not having heard.
Sunday, January 23, 2005
Wednesday, January 19, 2005
My Email Pal
My long-term email pal and her husband are off on vacation to Mexico this weekend.
That means no email confessionals until Sunday.
It's strange how attached one can become to technology; I remember a time when there was no email, but I don't know how I'd really get along without it now. Blogs are somewhat the same — a new development that's changing the landscape without our even noticing.
Well, until the year of the Blogger, we didn't notice.
I have reservations about email, sometimes. I have reservations about blogging, too. Both allow for some sort of vaguely permanent and vaguely public record of whatever the blogger/emailer chooses to mention. Email's at least nominally private, but blogs aren't. And they're not meant to be.
Both raise issues of privacy. Because both can be like what would once have been a journal. Except that practically anyone can read them.
I once thought I'd keep all my email, because it would provide a record of the mundane. And that it would be a great resource for some biographer some day after I was both famous and dead.
I'm not famous yet, so there's no need. But I've also, since making that decision, lost a number of computer hard drives. And changed jobs a few times. And all that email just vanishes.
Looking back, though, my email tends toward the mundane. And the obsessive.
But there sure is a lot of it. I don't know exactly how prolific I could have been if I'd spent half the time that I've spent wrapped up in my own little email world writing something...useful and productive. I'll wager I could write a novel in a year or less — with that time alone.
It's not that email is bad; my email pal and I have communicated exclusively via email for about the past five years or so, and in many ways we're closer friends now than we ever were before email arrived. But it's definitely a strange relationship. Because it exists entirely in the words of our emails and in the gaps between sending one and getting the next.
And, for me, it's certainly cheaper than therapy.
The issue with the blog is bigger, I guess, because the blogger is blogging for the masses. Or would like to think he is. And that online trick applies, too. Anonymity allows for the creation of an entire personality. If the blogger wishes to adopt a different personality, all he has to do is adapt.
I remember reading Umberto Eco's comments in Wired a long time ago. To the best of my recollection, he said that the problem with the Internet is that we don't yet know the signs and symbols of it — as a form of discourse. So we can't tell what's reliable and credible and what isn't.
But of course, the problem with that analysis is that there are as many different signs, symbols, tropes, and variations as there are among people. I don't know how we'll ever make sense of it, really. Because the blog is limited only by the blogger's imagination and his willingness to take chances. And that means, over time, anything's possible.
If Eco was implying that there'd be a way to know whether a piece of information could be trusted or whether an e-commerce site was safe for consumers, then I suspect the Internet has been around long enough for us to have some ideas of how it works. With respect to the big sites, anyway, those things are obvious.
But with respect to how you know — from reading an individual blog — whether that's the "real" person, or whether the facts recounted are accurate, well now....
That's a much thornier issue.
And even that debate shies away from the issue of what one can or should say about others — people one knows in the real world — on the blog.
I'd begun this entry thinking I'd perhaps post about a phone conversation I had with another friend tonight, given the absence of my email confidante. But that conversation was between the two of us and wasn't meant for consumption by the general public. Whether I use names or don't.
I'm occasionally worried that reluctance on my part to post personal stories negatively impacts my blog. The conclusion I've come to for now is that friendship is more important than whether or not my blog fascinates other people. And that blogs are meant for posting about things, not people.
For instance: I bought a huge external drive the other day, and I'm going to rip all my CDs to iTunes so that my long-neglected pop collection will possibly get some playtime on the a/v system. And besides, it's just cool.
Saying that affects nobody. Except the guy who is thinking of breaking into my house and stealing that stuff.
But hopefully, he's not reading my blog.
My point is: there's always a risk, because he could be.
As someone said, the fact that you're paranoid doesn't mean someone's not after you.
And these are the things I think about when nobody's around.
That means no email confessionals until Sunday.
It's strange how attached one can become to technology; I remember a time when there was no email, but I don't know how I'd really get along without it now. Blogs are somewhat the same — a new development that's changing the landscape without our even noticing.
Well, until the year of the Blogger, we didn't notice.
I have reservations about email, sometimes. I have reservations about blogging, too. Both allow for some sort of vaguely permanent and vaguely public record of whatever the blogger/emailer chooses to mention. Email's at least nominally private, but blogs aren't. And they're not meant to be.
Both raise issues of privacy. Because both can be like what would once have been a journal. Except that practically anyone can read them.
I once thought I'd keep all my email, because it would provide a record of the mundane. And that it would be a great resource for some biographer some day after I was both famous and dead.
I'm not famous yet, so there's no need. But I've also, since making that decision, lost a number of computer hard drives. And changed jobs a few times. And all that email just vanishes.
Looking back, though, my email tends toward the mundane. And the obsessive.
But there sure is a lot of it. I don't know exactly how prolific I could have been if I'd spent half the time that I've spent wrapped up in my own little email world writing something...useful and productive. I'll wager I could write a novel in a year or less — with that time alone.
It's not that email is bad; my email pal and I have communicated exclusively via email for about the past five years or so, and in many ways we're closer friends now than we ever were before email arrived. But it's definitely a strange relationship. Because it exists entirely in the words of our emails and in the gaps between sending one and getting the next.
And, for me, it's certainly cheaper than therapy.
The issue with the blog is bigger, I guess, because the blogger is blogging for the masses. Or would like to think he is. And that online trick applies, too. Anonymity allows for the creation of an entire personality. If the blogger wishes to adopt a different personality, all he has to do is adapt.
I remember reading Umberto Eco's comments in Wired a long time ago. To the best of my recollection, he said that the problem with the Internet is that we don't yet know the signs and symbols of it — as a form of discourse. So we can't tell what's reliable and credible and what isn't.
But of course, the problem with that analysis is that there are as many different signs, symbols, tropes, and variations as there are among people. I don't know how we'll ever make sense of it, really. Because the blog is limited only by the blogger's imagination and his willingness to take chances. And that means, over time, anything's possible.
If Eco was implying that there'd be a way to know whether a piece of information could be trusted or whether an e-commerce site was safe for consumers, then I suspect the Internet has been around long enough for us to have some ideas of how it works. With respect to the big sites, anyway, those things are obvious.
But with respect to how you know — from reading an individual blog — whether that's the "real" person, or whether the facts recounted are accurate, well now....
That's a much thornier issue.
And even that debate shies away from the issue of what one can or should say about others — people one knows in the real world — on the blog.
I'd begun this entry thinking I'd perhaps post about a phone conversation I had with another friend tonight, given the absence of my email confidante. But that conversation was between the two of us and wasn't meant for consumption by the general public. Whether I use names or don't.
I'm occasionally worried that reluctance on my part to post personal stories negatively impacts my blog. The conclusion I've come to for now is that friendship is more important than whether or not my blog fascinates other people. And that blogs are meant for posting about things, not people.
For instance: I bought a huge external drive the other day, and I'm going to rip all my CDs to iTunes so that my long-neglected pop collection will possibly get some playtime on the a/v system. And besides, it's just cool.
Saying that affects nobody. Except the guy who is thinking of breaking into my house and stealing that stuff.
But hopefully, he's not reading my blog.
My point is: there's always a risk, because he could be.
As someone said, the fact that you're paranoid doesn't mean someone's not after you.
And these are the things I think about when nobody's around.
Wednesday, January 12, 2005
Million Dollar Baby
When, oh when, will this movie open in my city?
I've already seen The Aviator — stunning film with stunning performances by DiCaprio et al. Am afraid I'm going to miss Sideways due to local theater chain's ineptitude at scheduling the flick at a convenient time for me to see it. And well, that leave's Clint's flick.
My prediction: Scorsese, overlooked too many times, wins directing Oscar for this one. It's a body-of-work award in his case. Eastwood already has one on his mantle.
Best picture — I'm picking The Aviator as well — at least right now. Hollywood picture (somewhat in subject), by a great American director dealing with a great American subject.
I've already seen The Aviator — stunning film with stunning performances by DiCaprio et al. Am afraid I'm going to miss Sideways due to local theater chain's ineptitude at scheduling the flick at a convenient time for me to see it. And well, that leave's Clint's flick.
My prediction: Scorsese, overlooked too many times, wins directing Oscar for this one. It's a body-of-work award in his case. Eastwood already has one on his mantle.
Best picture — I'm picking The Aviator as well — at least right now. Hollywood picture (somewhat in subject), by a great American director dealing with a great American subject.
Tuesday, January 04, 2005
Monday, December 27, 2004
Save The Wire
I'm concerned that the best show on television is about to be canceled. It may not be everybody's cup of tea, but The Wire deserves another season. HBO ought to renew it. If you haven't seen The Wire, check it out — even of cop shows aren't your thing. The first season is available on DVD now, and the second will be out in January. The third just concluded its run.
Tuesday, December 07, 2004
Thirty-Four
Yesterday, December 6, The M celebrated his thirty-fourth birthday. It was a quiet celebration with the parents, following a somewhat restrained party on Saturday night. Saturday night's affair was supposed to be bigger, but one of the participants fell off his bed and broke his arm, so owing to swelling and the big ol' arm splint, the crowd convened at the Hub of Western Civilization, where there were drinks and food a-plenty.
N----- R----- was in attendance. She mentioned that last year at The M's birthday bash, she'd had a bit too much to drink and joked (loudly and insistently, enough so that someone else in the bar — a total stranger — yelled from across the room, "Play it cool, M! You're a'right.") about marrying The M and bearing his children. M replied, incredulously, "you were joking??"
She also said she needed to have some food, because she'd need to eat something before she started drinking "or else I'll be spending the night here."
"We've just run out of food."
But seriously.
Turning thirty-four has brought about a reflective mood, and so I'm compelled to write here some of the things I've learned and observed to this point.
Apart from God, friends and family are it. Nothing else matters, nothing else is as important.
Long-time readers will know that this year saw the tragic and untimely death of the husband of a friend of mine. An old and dear friend of mine, but one who I'd lost touch with after her wedding. It had been ten years (almost to the day; terrible and tragic don't even begin to describe it, but I won't be detailed in this forum) since we'd spoken, but in some ways it was like we'd never stopped talking. Except that she's grown, matured, and changed — like the blossoming of a flower. And except that I'd forgotten little tics and mannerisms of hers that are indeed endearing.
The rekindling of that friendship is simply an unqualified good; the circumstances surrounding it were horrible, but it's been beneficial to me, and I am thankful for it. Not least because she's been through terrible adversity, and she still laughs. It's inspiring, uplifting, and amazing. Just to watch her going through the day-by-dayness of it all.
Which leads to two other observations: The first is that you can't plan anything, not really. Because you never know what the future holds. The corollary of that, I guess, is the by-now hackneyed "live for today," because today is all we have.
The second concerns her and her faith. She is a Christian, by all accounts a good one. Her character has always been informed by that fact. But now it strikes me as different than before. It's a thing of beauty to behold.
I have been — and still am — struggling with the role of Christianity in my own life. Watching her, well...I'm moved by it. In an intellectual way, I suppose I understand it, but the experience of it is something else again.
Which, I guess, leads to the nice and tidy conclusion — again, a thing I understand intellectually but struggle with emotionally — that nothing is permanent, nothing should be taken for granted. The only thing that's permanent is God.
I know that. I'm not sure I believe it yet.
And even if I do, I'm not sure that I like the consequences. It's tough, getting rid of your own ego.
N----- R----- was in attendance. She mentioned that last year at The M's birthday bash, she'd had a bit too much to drink and joked (loudly and insistently, enough so that someone else in the bar — a total stranger — yelled from across the room, "Play it cool, M! You're a'right.") about marrying The M and bearing his children. M replied, incredulously, "you were joking??"
She also said she needed to have some food, because she'd need to eat something before she started drinking "or else I'll be spending the night here."
"We've just run out of food."
But seriously.
Turning thirty-four has brought about a reflective mood, and so I'm compelled to write here some of the things I've learned and observed to this point.
Apart from God, friends and family are it. Nothing else matters, nothing else is as important.
Long-time readers will know that this year saw the tragic and untimely death of the husband of a friend of mine. An old and dear friend of mine, but one who I'd lost touch with after her wedding. It had been ten years (almost to the day; terrible and tragic don't even begin to describe it, but I won't be detailed in this forum) since we'd spoken, but in some ways it was like we'd never stopped talking. Except that she's grown, matured, and changed — like the blossoming of a flower. And except that I'd forgotten little tics and mannerisms of hers that are indeed endearing.
The rekindling of that friendship is simply an unqualified good; the circumstances surrounding it were horrible, but it's been beneficial to me, and I am thankful for it. Not least because she's been through terrible adversity, and she still laughs. It's inspiring, uplifting, and amazing. Just to watch her going through the day-by-dayness of it all.
Which leads to two other observations: The first is that you can't plan anything, not really. Because you never know what the future holds. The corollary of that, I guess, is the by-now hackneyed "live for today," because today is all we have.
The second concerns her and her faith. She is a Christian, by all accounts a good one. Her character has always been informed by that fact. But now it strikes me as different than before. It's a thing of beauty to behold.
I have been — and still am — struggling with the role of Christianity in my own life. Watching her, well...I'm moved by it. In an intellectual way, I suppose I understand it, but the experience of it is something else again.
Which, I guess, leads to the nice and tidy conclusion — again, a thing I understand intellectually but struggle with emotionally — that nothing is permanent, nothing should be taken for granted. The only thing that's permanent is God.
I know that. I'm not sure I believe it yet.
And even if I do, I'm not sure that I like the consequences. It's tough, getting rid of your own ego.
Before I Lose It, An Anti-Derrida Comment
An interesting article, here. I'm not sure I agree with or understand it, totally. But I have an intense dislike for Derrida; it's a pleasure to read, "This isn't an insight, it's a tautology. Necessarily, every X excludes not-X, else it would not be X."
Or my favorite:
My problem with Derrida is that he, so far as I can see, destroyed the act of reading for its own sake. While I'm not sure that's exactly technically correct — it's my story, and I'm sticking to it.
Or my favorite:
[S]kepticism about the existence of truth and/or absolute value, and our knowledge of either, has been a staple of Western philosophy in one form or another, from the Sophists to Hume to Michael Dummett. The problem with Derrida is that, unlike these other important philosophers, Derrida has no arguments that are both good and original; his case for skepticism is the stuff of bad sophomore-year philosophy papers.
My problem with Derrida is that he, so far as I can see, destroyed the act of reading for its own sake. While I'm not sure that's exactly technically correct — it's my story, and I'm sticking to it.
Friday, November 26, 2004
Proofreading, Typesetting, &c
Does it bother anyone but me that people seem to have utterly forgotten the art of proofreading and -- the subject of today's post -- typesetting?
Ever see a sentence like this:
"You're crazy as hell", she said.
Everyone knows -- or at least, The M thinks everyone ought to know -- that the comma after the quotation marks should actually be inside the quote, like this:
"I am not," he replied, more calmly that she had any right to expect.
The comma outside the quotes looks as though it's about to kill itself because it's so freakin' lonely.
I know, I know. Dude, get a life. Don't you have better things to worry about?
Yes, I do.
But none of those things seem so pressing at the moment as the problem of the improperly placed comma in a quotation. Especially since that flaw appears everywhere in the otherwise brilliant novel I'm still reading.
What happened to standards?
I mean, of course, pre-Clinton standards. After that guy, there's really no point in having a discussion about standards.
Ever see a sentence like this:
"You're crazy as hell", she said.
Everyone knows -- or at least, The M thinks everyone ought to know -- that the comma after the quotation marks should actually be inside the quote, like this:
"I am not," he replied, more calmly that she had any right to expect.
The comma outside the quotes looks as though it's about to kill itself because it's so freakin' lonely.
I know, I know. Dude, get a life. Don't you have better things to worry about?
Yes, I do.
But none of those things seem so pressing at the moment as the problem of the improperly placed comma in a quotation. Especially since that flaw appears everywhere in the otherwise brilliant novel I'm still reading.
What happened to standards?
I mean, of course, pre-Clinton standards. After that guy, there's really no point in having a discussion about standards.
Thursday, November 18, 2004
Offensive, Bigoted, etc.
This cartoon is one of the most reprehensible things I've seen in a long, long time.
Which party's the racist one again?
Which party's the racist one again?
Sunday, November 07, 2004
Belated Election Post &c
Wow. I can't believe I haven't posted anything to the Blog since before I left for Knoxville.
The Conference was great. All the papers were good, the food was good, the company pleasant, and the Webmaster's award ( a plaque and a signed Cormac McCarthy book) was a complete suprise.
The Marty Party went off well, too. Lots of folks, lots of food, lots of fun, and a late ending. It's always a good party when the last guests leave at 5 a.m.
I'm still not used to non-daylight savings time. It's gettin' dark way too early here.
I'm also happy that W. won the election. No surprise there, for anyone who's read more than a couple posts here.
I don't much like it that the "referendum on Iraq and the War," once W. won it, became "the moral values election."
And — as to the influence of the fundamentalist/evangelical vote — some of the people looking down their noses at the inbred evangelicals ought to occasionally attend churches; they're public places, after all. I suspect that most of the talking heads who are paid to have opinions haven't ever even been to church in a red state. Some evangelicals are nuts, but most that I've known aren't.
The Conference was great. All the papers were good, the food was good, the company pleasant, and the Webmaster's award ( a plaque and a signed Cormac McCarthy book) was a complete suprise.
The Marty Party went off well, too. Lots of folks, lots of food, lots of fun, and a late ending. It's always a good party when the last guests leave at 5 a.m.
I'm still not used to non-daylight savings time. It's gettin' dark way too early here.
I'm also happy that W. won the election. No surprise there, for anyone who's read more than a couple posts here.
I don't much like it that the "referendum on Iraq and the War," once W. won it, became "the moral values election."
And — as to the influence of the fundamentalist/evangelical vote — some of the people looking down their noses at the inbred evangelicals ought to occasionally attend churches; they're public places, after all. I suspect that most of the talking heads who are paid to have opinions haven't ever even been to church in a red state. Some evangelicals are nuts, but most that I've known aren't.
Wednesday, October 13, 2004
Off to Knoxville
Well, in the morning, I'm off to Knoxville, Tennessee, for the annual Cormac McCarthy Conference. I'll not be presenting a paper this time, but I will be documenting the affair with the new camera. As one of my bosses put it, some folks are curious about what kind of people would attend a Cormac McCarthy Conference.
Here's hoping that the weather will be good and that the fall foliage will be nice. Back on Sunday.
Here's hoping that the weather will be good and that the fall foliage will be nice. Back on Sunday.
Meet Miss Quentin
This is the first picture I've taken with my digital camera. Well, the first one I'm willing to share, anyway. Say hello to Miss Quentin.
Sunday, October 10, 2004
Nineteen Hours.....
That's how long I was at work Thursday. From 9 a.m. to 3:45 in the morning on Friday.
And back again at 10 a.m. Friday. But I did leave at 2 -- nice short day for the M, who was delirious from lack of sleep. One of my bosses said, "the last time I pulled an all nighter, I was drunk."
Well, I wasn't, so I remember it all too well.
I'm still recovering.
And back again at 10 a.m. Friday. But I did leave at 2 -- nice short day for the M, who was delirious from lack of sleep. One of my bosses said, "the last time I pulled an all nighter, I was drunk."
Well, I wasn't, so I remember it all too well.
I'm still recovering.
Thursday, October 07, 2004
The Mainstreaming of Porn
While I'm still working like crazy this week, this article is worth reading. It's old now, but I think it's probably more relevant now than it was when it was written since its notions, even just a few years out, seem almost quaint.
Tuesday, October 05, 2004
Not Dead Yet
For those of you who may be following this particular blog, I'm not dead yet. Lots of work at work, together with a month-long succession of parties, has contributed mightily to my not posting here more regularly.
In tech news, I did finally break down and order my first Mac.
In other news, Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell continues to be a great book, though I've not had the time I'd like to devote to it.
And one of my very good friends has just up and moved to Nashville.
I finally saw the Robin WIlliams episode of Inside the Actors' Studio. That's made me reconsider going into acting as a profession. Though I believe myself to be a writer at heart.
Bush's lackluster performance in the debate the other night was a little depressing. He's still gonna win the election, though. About a year ago, maybe longer, I told a friend of mine that Bush would get 60% of the popular vote. I stand by that prediction; I just don't see any sort of real groundswell for Kerry between now and the election.
In tech news, I did finally break down and order my first Mac.
In other news, Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell continues to be a great book, though I've not had the time I'd like to devote to it.
And one of my very good friends has just up and moved to Nashville.
I finally saw the Robin WIlliams episode of Inside the Actors' Studio. That's made me reconsider going into acting as a profession. Though I believe myself to be a writer at heart.
Bush's lackluster performance in the debate the other night was a little depressing. He's still gonna win the election, though. About a year ago, maybe longer, I told a friend of mine that Bush would get 60% of the popular vote. I stand by that prediction; I just don't see any sort of real groundswell for Kerry between now and the election.
Wednesday, September 15, 2004
Wrapped in Plastic
After reading several reviews, I went to the local bookstore yesterday to buy a book. This particular book, which runs to about 800 pages, is by a first-time author named Susannah Clarke. It's called Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell. I'm very early into the reading of this one, but it's clever, and I'm enjoying it a great deal so far.
It's no doubt going to be a publishing sensation, so remember that you heard it here first.
BUT...despite the apparent goodness of the book, I'm miffed about it. And I'm feeling sort of like I just sinned. Because the book was not browsable at the bookstore. It was sealed, tightly, in clear plastic shrink wrap. Perhaps this was done to protect the white dust jackets, but it's hard to say. I think this is one of those books that will come with either a white or black jacket, so protection from scuffing during shipping may very well be the issue.
In any case, going to a bookstore to buy a book, even one you know you're going to buy, is usually a very tactile experience. The pleasure of browsing through a book, reading its jacket copy, and sampling at random from the (in this case) novel shouldn't be difficult or impossible. You should be able to hold the book in your hands, to thumb through it, look at the copyright page (if you're a collecting sort and interested in editions and the like). You should be able to feel the type on the pages and smell that new-book smell wafting up at you when you leaf through the pages.
None of that was present in this case, because the book was wrapped in plastic, sealed up as if it contained vulgar or prurient material, as if the publishers didn't really want anyone to actually read the book.
I could have removed the plastic wrap, I'm sure. But part of me rebels at the notion of opening something I haven't yet purchased. Besides, what is one then to do with the small wad of thick crinkled plastic?
The book as commodity. What's the point of going to a bookstore if you can't look at a book before you buy it?
Books. Wrapped in plastic. Harumph.
It's no doubt going to be a publishing sensation, so remember that you heard it here first.
BUT...despite the apparent goodness of the book, I'm miffed about it. And I'm feeling sort of like I just sinned. Because the book was not browsable at the bookstore. It was sealed, tightly, in clear plastic shrink wrap. Perhaps this was done to protect the white dust jackets, but it's hard to say. I think this is one of those books that will come with either a white or black jacket, so protection from scuffing during shipping may very well be the issue.
In any case, going to a bookstore to buy a book, even one you know you're going to buy, is usually a very tactile experience. The pleasure of browsing through a book, reading its jacket copy, and sampling at random from the (in this case) novel shouldn't be difficult or impossible. You should be able to hold the book in your hands, to thumb through it, look at the copyright page (if you're a collecting sort and interested in editions and the like). You should be able to feel the type on the pages and smell that new-book smell wafting up at you when you leaf through the pages.
None of that was present in this case, because the book was wrapped in plastic, sealed up as if it contained vulgar or prurient material, as if the publishers didn't really want anyone to actually read the book.
I could have removed the plastic wrap, I'm sure. But part of me rebels at the notion of opening something I haven't yet purchased. Besides, what is one then to do with the small wad of thick crinkled plastic?
The book as commodity. What's the point of going to a bookstore if you can't look at a book before you buy it?
Books. Wrapped in plastic. Harumph.
Saturday, August 28, 2004
President's Remarks to the Unity Journalists of Color Convention
President's Remarks to the Unity Journalists of Color Convention:
I post the above because SadPunk has re-opened the subject of "sensitive" war. I looked for the speech he mentioned, and I believe it's this one — and I believe it's this quote.
Now in terms of the balance between running down intelligence and bringing people to justice obviously is — we need to be very sensitive on that. Lackawanna, for example, was a — there was a cell there. And it created a lot of nervousness in the community, because the FBI skillfully ferreted out intelligence that indicated that these people were in communication with terrorist networks. And I thought they handled the case very well, but at the time there was a lot of nervousness. People said, well, I may be next — but they weren't next, because it was just a focused, targeted investigation. And, by the way, some were then incarcerated and told their stories, and it turned out the intelligence was accurate intelligence.
I post the above because SadPunk has re-opened the subject of "sensitive" war. I looked for the speech he mentioned, and I believe it's this one — and I believe it's this quote.
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