Friday, November 08, 2002
Blame it on the rain.
It turns out, after all the waiting and the white-knuckle newscast-watching, that Los Angeles in the rain is much, much worse than New York City in the snow. Those among you who share the NYC winter experience know exactly what I'm talking about - even the well-greased gears of commerce in that Euro-American city grind to a screeching halt at the first signs of white. Heck, I once saw traffic snarl up on Sixth Avenue just because a tall Scandinavian man was sun-bathing in Bryant Park.
[rimshot] Ba-dump-ba! [/rimshot]
Needless to say, waiting for rainfall in LA requires even more patience than waiting for snow in NYC. Having waited with morbid interest for so long, I can only say that I deserved my soggy fate. So after two hours on the venerable 710 Freeway - which was a rain-puddled parking lot this morning - I sit here at work, blogging. I'm sure many of you are doing the same, and I am warmed by our solidarity. It is Friday, and thoughts across this great nation are turning toward the weekend. Some of us will work around the home, some will relax, a few will work, and at least one of us will plan a first strike against Iraq. Myself, I plan to protest our government's belligerent stance of "self-defense" by putting myself in harm's way; driving a home-built racecar around the desert outside Jean, Nevada, my team partner and I will spend Saturday screaming at the top of our lungs. Bring it.
In the way of coincidences, today is also the day a old, good friend of mine will finally achieve social freedom. Shrugging off the shackles of "The Man," he is forging a new life, in a new place, cast in self-determination and self-employment. My best wishes for him and his love go with them.
It turns out, after all the waiting and the white-knuckle newscast-watching, that Los Angeles in the rain is much, much worse than New York City in the snow. Those among you who share the NYC winter experience know exactly what I'm talking about - even the well-greased gears of commerce in that Euro-American city grind to a screeching halt at the first signs of white. Heck, I once saw traffic snarl up on Sixth Avenue just because a tall Scandinavian man was sun-bathing in Bryant Park.
[rimshot] Ba-dump-ba! [/rimshot]
Needless to say, waiting for rainfall in LA requires even more patience than waiting for snow in NYC. Having waited with morbid interest for so long, I can only say that I deserved my soggy fate. So after two hours on the venerable 710 Freeway - which was a rain-puddled parking lot this morning - I sit here at work, blogging. I'm sure many of you are doing the same, and I am warmed by our solidarity. It is Friday, and thoughts across this great nation are turning toward the weekend. Some of us will work around the home, some will relax, a few will work, and at least one of us will plan a first strike against Iraq. Myself, I plan to protest our government's belligerent stance of "self-defense" by putting myself in harm's way; driving a home-built racecar around the desert outside Jean, Nevada, my team partner and I will spend Saturday screaming at the top of our lungs. Bring it.
In the way of coincidences, today is also the day a old, good friend of mine will finally achieve social freedom. Shrugging off the shackles of "The Man," he is forging a new life, in a new place, cast in self-determination and self-employment. My best wishes for him and his love go with them.
Thursday, November 07, 2002
This post certified 100% rant-free.
The most chastening thing about yesterday's flood-driven events was the fact that nothing terrible really happened. We were very lucky, considering that the downstairs tenants came out of the deal short an intact ceiling. In fact, the only actual damage we sustained to our estate was that a few books were drowned. This shall be their epitaph.
It should first be pointed out that yes, I read books in the bathroom. Don't make me ask how many of you do the same - I don't want my comments link to overflow with a debate on the matter. I mean hey, I get too many comments as it is...never mind. Anyhow, we used to keep a selection of texts above the toilet-top cabinet for a while - this cabinet, I've learned from my shopping experiences at Target, is called an etagere. That's French, of course, very appropriately keeping with the pseudo-Gallic alt.pronounciation of the superstore's name: [TAR-zhay]. But, I digress. These texts would rotate on a regular basis, and were eventually moved to a very chic little basket that seemed designed expressly for the purpose. They sat beside the toilet, on the floor, and were heavily referred to over the last few months. Well, it was in this location that they suffered mightily when the tank decided to overflow upon them. Water poured over the stack for quite some time, and they sat soggily for hours until we returned home - only to find a sad reminder of the utter temporariness of the written word. And in this abrupt realization I experienced a minor catharsis.
A journal of mine was in there, among the greats, aspiring as it was to its own obscure version of notoriety.
As I write this, it sits in front of the heater at home, slowly drying out with the rest of the sodden literature. Its pages are crackled and distorted, and the pages where I chose to record events with a roller-ink pen are now smeared versions of their respective histories. It was one of those journals where everything was kept - old class notes, replete with creative scribbles as only a slow school day can inspire; impressions of moments, stolen from sleepless nights and hectic days; letters and loose leaves of paper, written and collected over years of angst and triumph. But most lamented in the loss of this treasure trove was the record of journeys that it contained. This book, a small 5"x8" blue hardcover with black cloth spine - you know the type - was carried with me on countless walks, rides, and drives; from one end of this country to the other, back again, and twice across an ocean. It has been under, over, and across landscapes and seascapes perhaps it alone could remember. What happens to such a surrogate memory when it dies? What happens to the owner of that memory?
Well, it's only paper. And it's drying out, slowly, perhaps yielding something yet salvageable. It must be remembered that it's not an ego that is at stake, really - even the persistent, pestering writer's ego. No, I think it's the soul that suffers during times like these. A closing moment, a note of respect, then, for a great pile of books.
The most chastening thing about yesterday's flood-driven events was the fact that nothing terrible really happened. We were very lucky, considering that the downstairs tenants came out of the deal short an intact ceiling. In fact, the only actual damage we sustained to our estate was that a few books were drowned. This shall be their epitaph.
It should first be pointed out that yes, I read books in the bathroom. Don't make me ask how many of you do the same - I don't want my comments link to overflow with a debate on the matter. I mean hey, I get too many comments as it is...never mind. Anyhow, we used to keep a selection of texts above the toilet-top cabinet for a while - this cabinet, I've learned from my shopping experiences at Target, is called an etagere. That's French, of course, very appropriately keeping with the pseudo-Gallic alt.pronounciation of the superstore's name: [TAR-zhay]. But, I digress. These texts would rotate on a regular basis, and were eventually moved to a very chic little basket that seemed designed expressly for the purpose. They sat beside the toilet, on the floor, and were heavily referred to over the last few months. Well, it was in this location that they suffered mightily when the tank decided to overflow upon them. Water poured over the stack for quite some time, and they sat soggily for hours until we returned home - only to find a sad reminder of the utter temporariness of the written word. And in this abrupt realization I experienced a minor catharsis.
A journal of mine was in there, among the greats, aspiring as it was to its own obscure version of notoriety.
As I write this, it sits in front of the heater at home, slowly drying out with the rest of the sodden literature. Its pages are crackled and distorted, and the pages where I chose to record events with a roller-ink pen are now smeared versions of their respective histories. It was one of those journals where everything was kept - old class notes, replete with creative scribbles as only a slow school day can inspire; impressions of moments, stolen from sleepless nights and hectic days; letters and loose leaves of paper, written and collected over years of angst and triumph. But most lamented in the loss of this treasure trove was the record of journeys that it contained. This book, a small 5"x8" blue hardcover with black cloth spine - you know the type - was carried with me on countless walks, rides, and drives; from one end of this country to the other, back again, and twice across an ocean. It has been under, over, and across landscapes and seascapes perhaps it alone could remember. What happens to such a surrogate memory when it dies? What happens to the owner of that memory?
Well, it's only paper. And it's drying out, slowly, perhaps yielding something yet salvageable. It must be remembered that it's not an ego that is at stake, really - even the persistent, pestering writer's ego. No, I think it's the soul that suffers during times like these. A closing moment, a note of respect, then, for a great pile of books.
Wednesday, November 06, 2002
Democracy is for sissies.
So, I've just been immunized against any incipient tetanus infection my body might have going on. There is, of course, a story to be told here; after all, you're not casually browsing my little weblog simply for the witty repartee - and it certainly isn't the award-winning web design. Anyway, the story starts on the 710 freeway, as stories in LA often do. A call from home: news of a wet floor, a repaired toilet, and a "...strange gurgling machine blowing air all around the place." How very Biblical.
Toilets, in case you were wondering, are very much like vampires. They sleep by day, are active at night, and - as so pithily put by the Frog Brothers in The Lost Boys, "...when they die, they'll try to take you with them." The Lost Boys, it should be remembered, was "...the movie that made it hip to be a vampire." Hello, 1987.
And so it was that our toilet turned on us, spouting water from its tank for a good hour before the ceiling of the downstairs apartment collapsed in a fit of pique. The details of our recovery from this Noachian event are still being worked out, but hopefully the fans are still blowing air under our carpets and the dehumidifier is still dehumidifying as I write this. One can imagine how these contrivances were causing quite a state of confusion in the bathroom area. While attempting to ward off a particularly stubborn puddle, I stumbled onto a rusty, upturned nail left exposed by piece of removed flooring - voila, tetanus. Now, I've cut skin plenty of times, usually without realizing it; I was more than willing to take my chances with natural immunity and a strong constitution. But the whole thing was so cliche. I mean, it was't a razor blade, or a staple, or a clean paper cut I was dealing with - it was a rusty nail, for pete's sake. It was almost like my mother was whispering in my ear about looking both ways before crossing the street. And after reading this, how could I not rush myself right down to my nearest urgent care facility and get all shot up?
Of course, it was a little more complicated than that. But, you know the drill: fill this out, wait here, come with me, wait here, right this way, wait here, sorry for the wait - I'll be right back. It was like a Woody Allen movie. Well, I thought for a moment: if the Republicans wanted Congressional control this badly, then they can have it. Now we can get on to that healthcare stuff they've been crowing about for so long. Sure, sure; just you wait, America: this, too, will be yet another flavor of federal pork. "Sorry for the wait," they'll say, "now bend over." I realized this morning, as KCRW was calling the election results, that the problem with voting and representation in this country is easy to define. One simply has to blame someone else for the problem, preferably someone close at hand, someone currently in a position of power. That's how it usually works: crap floats. But it was during a neat little report on high schoolers' opinions of low voter turnout that I came to grips with my cynicism. The difficult part about America is the guarantee of freedom - but not the part of it that's easy to see. It's not in the flags we wave at Iraq, and it's not in the reason why our leaders tell us other peoples "hate" us. No; rather, the real stumbling block we face in this country is rooted in the fact that each citizen can and probably will make individual choices: whatever, whenever, however, within the law and even without it, barring necessary consequences. Decide to vote, decide not to: learn about the true consequences of action, and you are free to choose. As was written into the script of the ho-hum film The American President, and paraphrased here: "America is advanced citizenship: you've got to want it bad - and it's gonna fight you."
Set aside the idea of liberty as a national symbol for a moment, and you're left with the everyday facts, the person-to-person decisions that really make American society move. Let's face it, folks: as one interviewed citizen suggested this morning, we're kidding ourselves if we think that there's a sea change in store when we elect one candidate over another. If you really believe it will make our lives very different, I've got some wet carpet I'd like to sell you. It's the process that really counts, that which makes this country a democracy by definition. But the real functional value of the election process? It would seem that the jury's still out on that one. Again, from KCRW this morning, "Voting is like recycling: it doesn't matter if one person doesn't do it. But what if everyone else decided to stop?" We can call this the challenge of the collective. Forget the melting pot; that metaphor is sorely outdated and outmoded. This country is a seething, boiling cauldron of rights and responsibilites, all individual, all sovereign. Let's not look at this as a democracy any longer, but as a socio-political stepchild of sorts: we are the bastard child of capitalism and socialism. Karl Marx, you should be rolling over by now.
So, I've just been immunized against any incipient tetanus infection my body might have going on. There is, of course, a story to be told here; after all, you're not casually browsing my little weblog simply for the witty repartee - and it certainly isn't the award-winning web design. Anyway, the story starts on the 710 freeway, as stories in LA often do. A call from home: news of a wet floor, a repaired toilet, and a "...strange gurgling machine blowing air all around the place." How very Biblical.
Toilets, in case you were wondering, are very much like vampires. They sleep by day, are active at night, and - as so pithily put by the Frog Brothers in The Lost Boys, "...when they die, they'll try to take you with them." The Lost Boys, it should be remembered, was "...the movie that made it hip to be a vampire." Hello, 1987.
And so it was that our toilet turned on us, spouting water from its tank for a good hour before the ceiling of the downstairs apartment collapsed in a fit of pique. The details of our recovery from this Noachian event are still being worked out, but hopefully the fans are still blowing air under our carpets and the dehumidifier is still dehumidifying as I write this. One can imagine how these contrivances were causing quite a state of confusion in the bathroom area. While attempting to ward off a particularly stubborn puddle, I stumbled onto a rusty, upturned nail left exposed by piece of removed flooring - voila, tetanus. Now, I've cut skin plenty of times, usually without realizing it; I was more than willing to take my chances with natural immunity and a strong constitution. But the whole thing was so cliche. I mean, it was't a razor blade, or a staple, or a clean paper cut I was dealing with - it was a rusty nail, for pete's sake. It was almost like my mother was whispering in my ear about looking both ways before crossing the street. And after reading this, how could I not rush myself right down to my nearest urgent care facility and get all shot up?
Of course, it was a little more complicated than that. But, you know the drill: fill this out, wait here, come with me, wait here, right this way, wait here, sorry for the wait - I'll be right back. It was like a Woody Allen movie. Well, I thought for a moment: if the Republicans wanted Congressional control this badly, then they can have it. Now we can get on to that healthcare stuff they've been crowing about for so long. Sure, sure; just you wait, America: this, too, will be yet another flavor of federal pork. "Sorry for the wait," they'll say, "now bend over." I realized this morning, as KCRW was calling the election results, that the problem with voting and representation in this country is easy to define. One simply has to blame someone else for the problem, preferably someone close at hand, someone currently in a position of power. That's how it usually works: crap floats. But it was during a neat little report on high schoolers' opinions of low voter turnout that I came to grips with my cynicism. The difficult part about America is the guarantee of freedom - but not the part of it that's easy to see. It's not in the flags we wave at Iraq, and it's not in the reason why our leaders tell us other peoples "hate" us. No; rather, the real stumbling block we face in this country is rooted in the fact that each citizen can and probably will make individual choices: whatever, whenever, however, within the law and even without it, barring necessary consequences. Decide to vote, decide not to: learn about the true consequences of action, and you are free to choose. As was written into the script of the ho-hum film The American President, and paraphrased here: "America is advanced citizenship: you've got to want it bad - and it's gonna fight you."
Set aside the idea of liberty as a national symbol for a moment, and you're left with the everyday facts, the person-to-person decisions that really make American society move. Let's face it, folks: as one interviewed citizen suggested this morning, we're kidding ourselves if we think that there's a sea change in store when we elect one candidate over another. If you really believe it will make our lives very different, I've got some wet carpet I'd like to sell you. It's the process that really counts, that which makes this country a democracy by definition. But the real functional value of the election process? It would seem that the jury's still out on that one. Again, from KCRW this morning, "Voting is like recycling: it doesn't matter if one person doesn't do it. But what if everyone else decided to stop?" We can call this the challenge of the collective. Forget the melting pot; that metaphor is sorely outdated and outmoded. This country is a seething, boiling cauldron of rights and responsibilites, all individual, all sovereign. Let's not look at this as a democracy any longer, but as a socio-political stepchild of sorts: we are the bastard child of capitalism and socialism. Karl Marx, you should be rolling over by now.
Tuesday, November 05, 2002
"More time, there must be more time!"
-with apologies to D.H. Lawrence
Last night's blog was supposed to be much shorter. Alas, my writer's ego got the better of me - all apologies to the audience, together with hopes for a better-behaved blog in the future. I think, unfortunately, that I've already blown my chance for this particular entry. Unbowed, we must still press on, mustn't we? But before we leave the subject of "past blogs," allow me to add to the technobabble I've already begun to spin into my public image: today I've purchased a tidy little piece of networking hardware to add to to my growing stack of blinking boxes in the second bedroom: a firewall/router/wireless access point. I've learned of late, through my incessant browsing, that this is a device of indispensible need - keeping, as it does, all sorts of internet vagrancy at bay. Hopefully, my purchase via the one-day sale at buy.com will be a resounding success. Until it arrives, though please: do not hack my always-on, very vulnerable, brand-spanking-new internet connection. Please.
One should note at this point that it's very hard for me to avoid using acronyms, especially during a discussion...er, sorry...monologue of internet communications technology. I am making an attempt to continue to do so, however, because to do otherwise would be to reveal what a superdork I am. No, really - I have a fair amount of proof, with viewgraphs and a PowerPoint presentation to boot. Seriously, if you ever want to know too much about what you can do to your computer or what your computer can do to you, just ask. I can't help but tell you, as I am a resolute geek.
Back to the blog. Thoughts of late have turned to the idea of renovating this space, sort of a facelift for the web version of a small, underperforming bookshop. I am the pipe-smoking, unmatched-sock-wearing, tweed-wrapped proprietor, and I want to change the shop's image. Not mine, mind you - I am fond of tweed - but the shop is in for it. New paint, new signage, new stock. I am eager to move in a more creative direction on this issue - I like to call it a "Better Blog for a Better Future," and leave it at that. Not that you'll see changes tomorrow, mind you; but I'm thinking, always thinking - keeping in mind a recurring voice in my head, "...it's about the writing, it's about the writing..." Gosh, that voice sounds familiar.
In closing, I'd like to offer a glimpse into the mind of the Extemporaneous Writer. As this was originally all supposed to be a longish lament on the lack of time available to the creative mind, I'd say that I've missed the mark. But you get the general idea - and a hint of the challenge facing all creators of every stripe in this modern era. Besides, who's going to spend their valuable time reading my lament? Exactly - Happy Mid-Term Election Day, everyone.
-with apologies to D.H. Lawrence
Last night's blog was supposed to be much shorter. Alas, my writer's ego got the better of me - all apologies to the audience, together with hopes for a better-behaved blog in the future. I think, unfortunately, that I've already blown my chance for this particular entry. Unbowed, we must still press on, mustn't we? But before we leave the subject of "past blogs," allow me to add to the technobabble I've already begun to spin into my public image: today I've purchased a tidy little piece of networking hardware to add to to my growing stack of blinking boxes in the second bedroom: a firewall/router/wireless access point. I've learned of late, through my incessant browsing, that this is a device of indispensible need - keeping, as it does, all sorts of internet vagrancy at bay. Hopefully, my purchase via the one-day sale at buy.com will be a resounding success. Until it arrives, though please: do not hack my always-on, very vulnerable, brand-spanking-new internet connection. Please.
One should note at this point that it's very hard for me to avoid using acronyms, especially during a discussion...er, sorry...monologue of internet communications technology. I am making an attempt to continue to do so, however, because to do otherwise would be to reveal what a superdork I am. No, really - I have a fair amount of proof, with viewgraphs and a PowerPoint presentation to boot. Seriously, if you ever want to know too much about what you can do to your computer or what your computer can do to you, just ask. I can't help but tell you, as I am a resolute geek.
Back to the blog. Thoughts of late have turned to the idea of renovating this space, sort of a facelift for the web version of a small, underperforming bookshop. I am the pipe-smoking, unmatched-sock-wearing, tweed-wrapped proprietor, and I want to change the shop's image. Not mine, mind you - I am fond of tweed - but the shop is in for it. New paint, new signage, new stock. I am eager to move in a more creative direction on this issue - I like to call it a "Better Blog for a Better Future," and leave it at that. Not that you'll see changes tomorrow, mind you; but I'm thinking, always thinking - keeping in mind a recurring voice in my head, "...it's about the writing, it's about the writing..." Gosh, that voice sounds familiar.
In closing, I'd like to offer a glimpse into the mind of the Extemporaneous Writer. As this was originally all supposed to be a longish lament on the lack of time available to the creative mind, I'd say that I've missed the mark. But you get the general idea - and a hint of the challenge facing all creators of every stripe in this modern era. Besides, who's going to spend their valuable time reading my lament? Exactly - Happy Mid-Term Election Day, everyone.
Monday, November 04, 2002
I am very, very tired.
This is due, no doubt, to the fact that I've been sitting here for quite some time, trying to work up enough general ire to be able to blog with a sufficiently cynical air. Never mind that now; attribute this general malaise - as an old good friend has called it - to a state of physical exhaustion. For you see, I have of late joined the rest of modern society in the twenty-first century by obtaining a cable internet connection. To some this is known as broadband, but those of us in the know can simply refer to it as brow-beaten, which pretty much describes how I was motivated to obtain said connection.
Now, far be it from me to look anywhere near a gift horse's face; I must say that my initial experience with this technology has been pleasing. For one thing, it really is faster, close to five times as fast as my old 56.6kbps dialup at times. Of course, I wasn't ever actually connecting at 56.6kbps - but, that's a horse of a different color.
What's all this about horses? Never mind - suffice it to say, on a related note, that I felt like a jackass while re-arranging my sardine-can apartment for the cable company installer during his visit. This, in a nutshell, is why I'm so dog-tired today. Now, throwing away the nutshell, allow me to spin you a sample of my experience with this courteous, paid service. "But wait," you'd protest, "why did you bother with professional installation at all? Don't you know anything?" Now, now; settle down. We both know that any primate with opposable thumbs could plug in a cable modem and start surfing, but there was a bit of a hitch when I called up my local cable provider:
So, all hyperbole aside, things went pretty smoothly after that. Unless you include these details:
I guess that pretty much sums it up. But, I'm not complaining - at 220kbps (downstream speed), who has time to complain?
This is due, no doubt, to the fact that I've been sitting here for quite some time, trying to work up enough general ire to be able to blog with a sufficiently cynical air. Never mind that now; attribute this general malaise - as an old good friend has called it - to a state of physical exhaustion. For you see, I have of late joined the rest of modern society in the twenty-first century by obtaining a cable internet connection. To some this is known as broadband, but those of us in the know can simply refer to it as brow-beaten, which pretty much describes how I was motivated to obtain said connection.
Now, far be it from me to look anywhere near a gift horse's face; I must say that my initial experience with this technology has been pleasing. For one thing, it really is faster, close to five times as fast as my old 56.6kbps dialup at times. Of course, I wasn't ever actually connecting at 56.6kbps - but, that's a horse of a different color.
What's all this about horses? Never mind - suffice it to say, on a related note, that I felt like a jackass while re-arranging my sardine-can apartment for the cable company installer during his visit. This, in a nutshell, is why I'm so dog-tired today. Now, throwing away the nutshell, allow me to spin you a sample of my experience with this courteous, paid service. "But wait," you'd protest, "why did you bother with professional installation at all? Don't you know anything?" Now, now; settle down. We both know that any primate with opposable thumbs could plug in a cable modem and start surfing, but there was a bit of a hitch when I called up my local cable provider:
Customer: "...okay, but how much is installation?"
Provider: "Well, it's only $4.95 during this limited-time-offer."
C: "Well, that's nice. Do you offer a self-installation package?"
P: [laughs charitably] "Of course we do."
C: "Okay, then - I'll do that."
P: "Fine. That'll be $4.95"
C: "Huh? Who do I pay? Myself?"
P: "That's very funny. $4.95 is our fee for the equipment pick-up."
C: "Hang on a sec. You mean to tell me that I have to pay to pick it up?"
P: "Why, yes."
C: "Well okay, I suppose. Where can I pick up the kit?"
P: "Our office is conveniently located on the moon..."
C: "Oh. That's not as far as I would've guessed."
P: "...on the far side."
Provider: "Well, it's only $4.95 during this limited-time-offer."
C: "Well, that's nice. Do you offer a self-installation package?"
P: [laughs charitably] "Of course we do."
C: "Okay, then - I'll do that."
P: "Fine. That'll be $4.95"
C: "Huh? Who do I pay? Myself?"
P: "That's very funny. $4.95 is our fee for the equipment pick-up."
C: "Hang on a sec. You mean to tell me that I have to pay to pick it up?"
P: "Why, yes."
C: "Well okay, I suppose. Where can I pick up the kit?"
P: "Our office is conveniently located on the moon..."
C: "Oh. That's not as far as I would've guessed."
P: "...on the far side."
So, all hyperbole aside, things went pretty smoothly after that. Unless you include these details:
- I had to run the existing cable drop to the correct location, securing it in place.
- The cable guy had to replace entire said cable drop because it was "...not good enough for a cable modem."
- We had to empty closets, desks, bookcases, etc. It looked as if the second bedroom had vomited all over the apartment. I found myself imagining what life would be like if I could not read - or did not enjoy doing so - and so did not own so many $#@!ing books.
- We had to put the apartment back in order, thinning out our collection of crap as we went.