Kablammo!

Two weeks ago I felt happy to be alive, at peace with the world, and generally more content—with life in general, but also with myself—than I had in a long time. The proximate cause for this, of course, was reading Jailbird and God Bless You, Mr Rosewater back-to-back and essentially uninterrupted. In other words, I had Kurt Vonnegut to thank, and I was quite appreciative.

So it was that, a few days later, I decided not to mourn his death.

Was it sad? Of course. The death of an inspiration, a hero, an artist cannot but be a sad occasion. But Vonnegut’s is a legacy to be celebrated and, after all, he is up in heaven now.

As it is, I was lucky enough to be left with the following:

Love may fail, but courtesy will prevail.

and

God damn it, you’ve got to be kind.

I think he wouldn’t have had it any other way.

So while I wasn’t upset to learn of his death, what did upset me was finding out he spent the last few weeks of his life suffering from severe and fatal head trauma.

Sometimes I daydream about what I’ll do when (not if, obviously) I become wealthy enough to retire early and don’t have to do anything anymore. My fantasy of choice involves starting a business, specifically a bar. I know I’m not alone there; opening a bar seems to a fairly common pipe-dream for middle-class white males, if sitcoms are anything to go by.

But there’s more to my harebrained scheme than just some ordinary bar, or some ordinary theme bar, or some ordinary dive bar, or some ordinary bar with shitty loud music and overpriced drinks. No, my bar will be a little special (I think): a combination bar and lending library. I can see it now: walls lined with bookshelves, a bar lined with all sorts of whiskey and whisky, and a shitload of lamps and leather armchairs. Come in for a drink, and feel free to pick up a book and start reading. And if you’re a member, you can even check out a book and take it home with you when you leave.

The biggest complication I can think of[1] is that I’m not a big fan of James Joyce.[3] Since my target audience, one would think, would be “literate drunks”—which, I assume, means a lot of demand for, and discussion of, Hemingway and Joyce. Hemingway I’m fine with, but Joyce not as much.

So that’s my plan. It occurred to me ther other day that there are already a number of businesses following this exact business model. Not places like Busboys and Poets, where the drinks and the books are segregated pretty completely, and there isn’t even a reading room, as I recall. No, I’m talking about Borders and Barnes & Noble. Every one of their stores I’ve been to in the past few years has, to a great extent, felt like a Starbucks[5] with a huge magazine rack and even huger assortment of books for people to read while they sip their coffee. (A café-cum-reading-room isn’t precisely the same thing as a bar-cum-lending-library, but I think they’re still pretty close.)

As it turns out, this might not be the most sustainable business model. Obviously there are huge differences between a 50,000 square-foot retail space and a bar, in terms of staffing, inventory, and I don’t know how many other factors. But, since this is a fantasy after all, I’m perfectly happy with it being a money-losing venture.

* * *

[1] Of course, I’m only thinking of bullshit complications that presuppose I’ll be able to get everything off the ground in the first place. Practical considerations like money, location, taxes, getting a liquor license, employees,[2] and so on are entirely beside the point. This is a damn fantasy, after all.

[2] Having recently been to Church Key in San Francisco, I’ve had my eyes opened to what a bar can be when it’s operated by someone who’s doing it purely for the pleasure. The ability to pick the music that plays and the drinks that are served, and the freedom to close up early when you feel like going home, quite honestly seem really nice.

[3] To be fair, it’s been over ten years since I gave Joyce a chance—since I was a high school senior taking AP British Literature.[4] I gave Joyce a chance then, but it wasn’t exactly a fair chance, because I couldn’t stand my teacher, and I was happy to spite Thomas Hardy, Jane Austen, James Joyce, and Shakespeare if it also meant spiting her. Time having passed, I’ve forgotten most of my grievances against her, except for one: she didn’t say “probably,” she said “parably.” (“Parably,” of course, isn’t a word.)

[4] I’ve been out of high school ten years? Apparently I’m getting old. In other news, either nobody arranged a ten-year reunion, or they did and nobody told me. So it goes.

[5] Barnes and Noble stores feature Starbucks, while Borders features “Seattle’s Best Coffee”. But of course, Starbucks owns SBC, so it amounts to the same thing.Идея за подаръкикониикониПравославни иконииконописikoniподаръци

The past month has been the longest and hardest to endure that I can remember. That said, my lungs are busy ventilating and exchanging gases; my heart is busy circulating blood; and my GI tract is, as usual, uncomplainingly going about its business. I am enduring; I will endure. I have it pretty good. My limbic system doesn’t always agree, but so it goes. I’m not here to write about that right now.

What I am here to do is issue my obligatory periodic apology for neglecting this space again, make a good-faith effort to un-neglect this space a little, show off some pictures, and put off applying tung oil to the raw parts of my desk—my desk, which has prominently featured raw pine for over a year now, and which it only recently occurred to me to apply any kind of finishing treatment to. When I finally cleared it off, so I could transport it half a mile down the road, I noticed some discoloration in parts. So, after procrastinating some other tasks by reading about wood, I decided on tung oil. After further procrastination in the form of further reading, I decided on actual tung oil, rather than one of the easy-to-find “tung oil finishes” that contain about as much tung oil as lemon-lime Gatorade contains actual lemon or lime juice. So, after tracking down a local store that actually carried tung oil, a task in itself, I stopped by only to discover that they were fresh out and their weekly merchandise shipment was delayed by the Labor Day holiday. I’ve since been back, and acquired some tung oil, as well as some thinner with which to thin the first couple of coats.[1] Now that I have all my equipment assembled, the next course of action was, obviously, to take my car in for an oil change, then sip coffee in a bookstore all afternoon while reading, and subsequently purchasing, a couple of books I’ve been intending to read for a while.[2] The desk can wait.

Last night, in a welcome diversion, was movie night at a friend’s apartment.[3] One of the movies I’d seen before (The Maltese Falcon); and one I hadn’t, though I’d seen a few very similar films (Blade Runner)[4]. Both are classics, based on equally classic books. Seeing the movies back-to-back, and wanting to procrastinate today, inspired me to finally get the books. Not that I’ve read either one of them through yet, but here are some of my early impressions.

The Maltese Falcon. Two things I know for sure. One, Dashiell Hammett can write. I really should’ve checked out his work sooner. And two, Humphrey Bogart sure as shit isn’t a barrel-chested six-foot blond with a body “like a shaved bear’s”. Yet I can’t stop picturing him as Sam Spade. Obviously my judgment is clouded by the fact that I’ve seen the movie half a dozen times and have come to associate Bogart with Spade, but so far I really do feel that Spade works better as a short guy with a lisp than as some kind of gleaming god of masculinity.

Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep? I’ve just been reading and rereading the first chapter. Not only is it great to have an actual context for Deckard’s character, but (as has been pointed out to me) it’s a fantastic example of how to do sci-fi right: the futuristic aspects that Philip K. Dick explores are introduced intelligibly and painlessly—and with a sense of humor to boot. It’s the polar opposite of Frank Herbert, for example, who drowns you in deadly-serious gibberish before you can even turn the page. (And, I have to say, the line “My schedule for today lists a six-hour self-accusatory depression” is pure brilliance.)

* * *

[1] Having to thin the oil for the first few coats, and indeed having to apply several coats in the first place, are only a few of the benefits of using 100% pure tung oil.

[2] I fucking swear, I’m not going to buy myself any more books until I read at least, say, six of the ones I’ve already acquired with the honest but yet-unrealized intention of reading. Goddamnit.

[3] If there’s one thing I learned yesterday, it’s that it’s good to have a friend with Blu-Ray player and a 1080p projector pointed at a wall that happens to be roughly 16:9. Very good.

[4] I’ve actually seen three or four different films named Blade Runner over the years, none of them more than once. There are enough different cuts of the movie out there that this is pretty easy to do, and they’re generally different enough from one another that they really do seem like completely different movies. For what it’s worth, the version I saw last night was probably my favorite so far—it told the most coherent story, without having to rely on voiceover narration, and without tacking on an unnecessary, shitty happy ending.

All things considered, my life is going extremely well. And I’m lucky enough that I don’t even know how lucky I am. I will try to allow myself to enjoy it.

…

And I’ll try to focus on how good I have it, even though I’ve screwed myself over again at work. So it goes.

• The other day I was walking down the sidewalk, and a guy was coming the other way with his 3-or-4-year-old perched on his shoulders. As we passed each other, I overheard a brief snippet of their conversation. The father told the child, “…then you say ‘I’ll beat you up!’,” and the child dutifully repeated “Ah be chu up!”
  Did I mention this took place at around 11pm?
• I should marry the AFI Silver cinematheque, since I seem to love it so much, or at least become a member so each film becomes slightly less expensive. I’ve seen four movies there in the past three weeks, and probably at least a dozen this year, all of them very good.
• As it happened, I got in to work early yesterday, and thus got out early as well—early enough to hightail it over to the abovementioned cinema in time (or nearly in time) for a 4:30 matinée showing of And Justice For All. I’ve always enjoyed going to the movies by myself, and it turns out that what’s even better than that is being the only person in the room, and having what amounts to a completely private screening on a full-size screen. (And what’s even better than that is getting a pint of NELSON from the concession stand before your private screening.)
  I was enjoying the act of enjoying the movie so much, I almost forgot to enjoy the movie.
• In other news, I’ve reached a new level of complacency and consumer-whoredom. Not only am I not spending this week in a tent in the woods, but I also recently acquired a half-stake in an LCD HDTV. So it goes.

None of these quite made it as its own post.

• Setting the scene: a few weeks ago I began reading Nineteen Eighty-Four, and soon after, I finished reading it. (I quite enjoyed it, incidentally, though at times it seemed distressingly prescient, as though some people had treated it as an instruction manual rather than a cautionary example.) I mentioned reading it to an acquaintance, and he recommended that I read Homage to Catalonia and Down and Out in Paris and London next, saying they were his favorite Orwell books.

  As it happens, last week I found myself unable to get Lodger‘s “I Love Death” out of my head. (This will become more important later on.)

  Also last week, I discovered that AFI Silver would be playing 七人の侍 (Seven Samurai), and the page about it also mentioned a film called Wild Strawberries, saying: “Ingmar Bergman’s masterpiece is to cinema what Marcel Proust’s Remembrance of Things Past is to the novel: the definitive ‘memory piece’ of the art form.” This caught my eye, since memory is something I find fascinating, so I had it in the back of my mind as I made my way to go see Samurai.

  I was humming Lodger to myself the whole way to the movie theatre, and after buying my ticket I had some time to kill before the screening actually began, so I figured I’d go to the Borders around the corner on the off-chance they’d be carrying an album by a Finnish indie-rock band. And maybe while I was there, I’d be able to expand my Orwell collection. Once I entered the store, I strode purposefully towards the music section, confident that I wouldn’t find the album I was looking for, and already consoling myself with the knowledge that my taste in music was hip enough that a faceless conglomerate with a brick-and-mortar presence couldn’t possibly satisfy me. Alas, they had exactly what I wanted, and I had to settle for being thrilled with my purchase. I vaguely browsed the music section a bit more, hovering over a best-of Country Joe and the Fish compilation before deciding against it, when I started looking for Bobby Bare Jr. As it turned out, this time I did in fact stump the record store, but since they did have some Bobby Bare [Sr.], I picked up an album of his that had a particularly glowing cover blurb: “Good-time outlaw country — One of the greatest live recordings ever!”

  Music in hand, I made my way to the “Literature” section of the store, confident that a chain of bookstores that stocked eclectic Finnish CDs would have Orwell’s novels. They did have about eight copies each of 1984 and Animal Farm, but no Catalonia or Down and Out to be found, other than as excerpts in a compilation. Fuck that. Disappointed, I decided to look for that Proust memory thing I read about earlier. I found the Proust section quick enough (“Or” and “Pr” aren’t too far apart) and started looking at the spines of the books. I had a dim recollection of hearing about Proust as a writer of short stories, so I paid more attention to the slender books on the shelf and ignored the enormous tomes. After a fruitless search, I finally looked at the huge books in the Proust section and realized that this Remembrance thing was waaaay the fuck longer than I’d been expecting. Oh well, so it goes.

  There have been a lot of times when I’ve wondered about the threshold of incongruity required for a cashier to comment on a purchase. Apparently this time I crossed it, since as he rang everything up, the guy exclaimed, “Country music and Proust!?“

• This Tuesday I discovered that my login for the timekeeping/payroll system at work had been deactivated. My supervisor got it straightened out in a few minutes, but it was still mildly disconcerting.
• I think I’ve crossed a Rubicon of sorts: I got a haircut today, without even being at the point where I’d been needing a haircut for weeks or months already.

Over the course of a rather enjoyable evening[1] last night, I managed to get in a conversation about Vonnegut. Naturally, once I made my way home[2] I had a tremendous urge to read some Vonnegut, since it had been quite a while since I’d read anything of his. (In the past two or three years, other than a few articles and such, all I’d read was Welcome to the Monkey House (yet again) and Mother Night.) Upon looking at my bookshelf, though, I was suddenly reminded that during the heady days of my near-obsessive Vonnegut mania and evangelism, I’d managed to lend out the bulk of the books that I owned, and I had only a vague recollection of who the recipients might have been.[3]

So it goes.

Anyway, I settled into reading Jailbird (that and Rosewater were my only choices, and Jailbird won the coin toss), and immediately remembered why I love Vonnegut’s writing so much. I also immediately remembered the fan letter I’d once started writing to him, the one that will probably never be written or mailed, though the sentiments it was intended to articulate were and still are entirely sincere.

So it goes.

Anyway, upon reaching Chapter 1 of Jailbird I was thrilled to discover that this was the one with the guy who would sit quietly and periodically clap his hands three times. So my initial disappointment at not having Breakfast of Champions at hand was immediately replaced with delight that I was able to read the book I’d subconsciously wanted to read even more.

Anyway, I just wanted to cite a couple of excerpts that seem particularly apropos or something:

The tragedy of the planet was that its scientists found ways to extract time from topsoil and the oceans and the atmosphere—to heat their homes and power their speedboats and fertilize their crops with it; to eat it; to make clothes out of it; and so on. They served time at every meal, fed it to household pets, just to demonstrate how rich and clever they were. They allowed great gobbets of it to putrefy to oblivion in their overflowing garbage cans.

And:

“You told a fragmentary truth,” he said, “which has now been allowed to represent the whole! ‘Educated and compassionate public servants are almost certainly Russian spies.’ That’s all you are going to hear now from the semiliterate old-time crooks and spellbinders who want the government back, who think it’s rightly theirs. Without the symbiotic idiocies of you and Leland Clewes they could never have made the connection between treason and pity and brains. Now get out of my sight!”

* * *

[1] There are a lot of things or activities that I am indifferent towards, or don’t particularly care for, but will do or take part in to indulge someone else. There are comparatively few that I actively dislike. Many forms of dancing (and ‘dancing’) fall under the former category. Last night, though, I came to the conclusion that being in a throng of people bobbing vaguely to the rhythm of a shitty R’n’B song is decidedly in the latter. Other than that, though, I had a great time.

[2] As I exited the Metro station in the wee hours of the morning, I was slightly dismayed by the little cold things that kept landing on my face. Until, that is, I finally realized they were snow and became overjoyed.

[3] But then, even if I knew exactly who had them (which I actually do for a couple), it seems kind of strange to go up to somebody and say “Hey, remember that book I lent you 5 years ago? You know, the one I completely forgot about? If you’re done with it I’d like to have it back.” Like it’s somehow presumptuous for me to want something back even though it’s mine and (as I recall) I even wrote my name in it. Of course, my real concern could just be that I might have to give back the books I’ve accidentally stolen from their rightful owners over the years. But what are you supposed to do when, a few weeks after lending you a book, the guy drops out of school (or something), disappears off the face of the earth, and you never see him again? And I didn’t even finish reading that book (at which point, incidentally, I immediately lent it to somebody else, as if it were mine with which to do so) till last month, which was about six years after I began it.

How do I like it here, people ask me.

Everything is great—work is going well, there’s always stuff to do, etc.—but I’m of the firm opinion that people were not meant to live in this kind of heat and humidity. Yes, I’m sure there are worse places, but I’d complain about them as well.

And then, as if we hadn’t had enough rain recently, I was just greeted with this:

I can’t wait.

. . .

In other news, despite constantly complaining about the oppressive [atmospheric] conditions here, I remain too lazy to make use of the swimming pool in my apartment building. So it goes.

I’ve been a big fan of Love in Reverse for years. They ceased to be a while ago, and I was never quite as fond of Amazing Meet Project, but Ferentino’s next project, Transfusion M, looks quite promising. In any case, if you haven’t heard any Love in Reverse you owe it to yourself to listen to some, especially if you’re fond of post-grunge or neo-prog (whatever those mean), which is how Allmusic has decided to categorize them.

I Was Here is my favorite album of theirs—I was such a big fan of it that a few days after I bought a copy for myself, I went back to the record store and picked up another 5 or 6 copies that I gave out to friends in an evangelistic furore. The reason I was able to do that, incidentally, is also the reason why you can pick up a copy on the cheap as well. While it’s depressing to see such a good album sold at “please just take it off our hands” prices, with the entire music distribution apparatus writing it off as a loss, at least it means you have no excuse not to get a copy for yourself. Of course, Words Become Worms (Pitchfork review notwithstanding) and the posthumously-released Another One for You to Hate are good too, but I Was Here just has a special place in my heart, or something.

Anyway, there’s this song on I Was Here named “Play For Dawn”. I liked the song enough that, after a whole lot of web searching turned up zero tablature for it, I decided to figure out how to play it. It wasn’t that hard: Em, modified Em; G, modified G; D, modified D; F… But what the fuck came next? While the little riff on the D they played might have been the most immediately recognizable meme from the song, the chord that came after the F is really what defined the song and held it together. It sounded a bit like the F before it, yet at the same time sounded vastly different. After literally hours of fumbling around and trying every random fingering I could think of, I stumbled over the answer, which, as it turned out, was only different from the F by one fret on one string.

123211, in case you were wondering.

It was around 4 years ago that I figured that out, and it wasn’t until today that it occurred to me to find out what that chord might be. As it turns out, it’s an Fdim5, and the bizarre interval in it, the one that defines the song and makes the chord sound so unusual, is the “tritone” that was once considered the work of Satan.

So it goes.

So it goes.

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