Category: ultracultural

Big City Dreams

I’ve moved back to a cubicle with a commanding view of midtown, facing northeast from my spot on the 20th floor at 34th and Park. After the dreariness of the last couple of days, it’s nice to take a second and shake the typesetting out of my head by staring off at the East River and the Chrysler Building.

Rooster reminded me of detail from Kurt Vonnegut‘s Jailbird, in which the uppermost room under the spire of the Chrysler Building is the showroom of the American Harp Company. A character sneaks up daily and sits listening to all the harps played in demonstration for customers. It’s kind of magical, capturing the way the spires of buildings like that hold the iconic power that the spires of cathedrals once did.

And then there’s also Vonnegut’s Slapstick, set in the near future, when the King of Michigan rules the area stretching east to the Atlantic and lives in the Empire State Building, in the middle of a largely uninhabited Manhattan transformed into a public park called “Skyscraper National Forest.”

In a more mundane way, Vonnegut’s Timequake reminds me of when I worked by the U.N., blocks away from where he was living at the time. In the book, he talks about how he had a crush on one of the women at the corner Post Office, inspiring him to go into a dusty little stationery store nearby just about every day so he could get envelopes and notepaper to mail off. The little routine seems like a quaint anachronism from an earlier time, except that I went to that store and that Post Office just about every day when I worked in Turtle Bay. I used to stare at the surly, tough women who worked at the P.O. and imagine which had inflamed the desires of that grumpy, frumpy old man.

So many books distill these little parts of the essence I love about New York: Up in the Old Hotel, The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier & Clay, Low Life, and others. New York has always captivated my imagination so much, and given me such a rush of pride about living here, that I get so excited when I encounter books — fictional or not — that really capture the sense of how I feel about its features and its people and its magic.

A Waste of Time Machine

Well that was a steaming pile of crap, even moreso than I would have expected. It was another one of those movies that had me slamming my head in disbelief as it unfolded so heavy-handedly. The only real surprise was how apalling it actually turned out to be.

I wasn’t expecting much. I already knew that the director decided to junk the central metaphor of the whole story because he didn’t think it was relevant anymore. (Of course not: why should we have any reason to believe that further stratification of socioeconomic groups is relevant these days? However, you might notice that in the new version, it looks like Whitey escaped into underground caverns at the first sign of trouble, leaving only people of color to tough it out aboveground, only to be eventually bred for food. But that was probably just an accident, right? Sheesh.)

The only good bits were the main time travel sequence (same concept as the original, but with the added benefit of some magnificent digital effects) and the first hunting sequence, which did a better job of remaking Planet of the Apes than Planet of the Apes did. (Tangent: Speaking of remakes, wouldn’t Minority Report be more interesting if they just went ahead and made it a remake of Logan’s Run instead of making it seem like a remake? Run, runner!)

Granted, I can be a little fussy about well-considered sci-fi concepts, but when the hot Eloi chick asks Guy Pearce why he would want to go back to the past, all I could think was, “Yes, especially when your hair and your skin tone are so much better in the future.” They gave me that little to think about.

(OK, but to give credit where it’s due, I have to admit that if there were to be such massive nuclear explosions on the moon, I have easier time thinking that it would break up than I do thinking it would go shooting off into space like a big round space ship filled with fashionable astronauts.)

And you know that brilliant question at the end of the original movie, the one to the effect of, “If you were going to return to the past and take three books with you to change the future, what three books would you take?” You know, the great philosophical mindfuck that ends it on such a nice note? No sign of it this time. Not relevant, I guess.

Type Freaks

Yes! Someone finally gets it! Someone understands. This is the best essay I have ever encountered about the peculiarities of the typesetting world, which doesn’t quite exist anymore the way it used to. It’s a strange world of marginalized freaks and perfectionists who always seem to have gravitated toward the profession and gotten stuck there for one reason or another, learning to take great pride and joy in making all those letters look nice.

Continue reading “Type Freaks”

Piss Off, Snobby London!

All week in London, I had to defend the North. Londoners act like the entire northern part of the country is one giant inbred cousin, inexplicable and dull, and slightly embarrassing. You know what, though? I loved my trip up there, and not just for the spectacular company. I’m an urban snob, but I’m not immune to the charms of small, quiet towns. In fact, the older I get the more I think they’ve got it going on. (Assuming, of course, that one has the natural ability to create fun wherever one goes.) Lancashire overall was really quite beautiful, even in the rain, and Lancaster itself was a great little town, pedestrian-friendly medieval-style little burg with just enough modern touches to keep it from feeling too remote. Blackpool is sweet and trashy, just like I wanted it to be. Morecambe is a faded flower, still keeping itself moving along, even though the crowds have moved on. I had no trouble seeing why Paul stays up that way, despite the occasional drawbacks.

Sure, small towns can have plenty of small minds, but cities don’t automatically shield you from those. Small towns can offer the luxury of being able to catch your breath and determine your own pace. If your satisfaction only comes from novelty or consumption (of stuff, of stimuli), then big cities are te way to go. If you can make that move toward producing a life instead of consuming one — a goal I like to think I keep closing in on as I get older — then why not do it with a little elbow room and a little bit less strain on your bank account?

Alpha Male

If you know me, than you probably know that I’m a big fan of science fiction. Why hide my spots, right? I make an effort, though, not to impose my enthusiasm on those who don’t share it. It just invites snickering and rolling of the eyes.

Jonathan knows what I mean. He knows to avoid the indifference of some friends, and share the enthusiasm for others.

When we first met at this past Summer’s Blogmeet it came up in conversation that I’d been totally taken with my rediscovery of Space: 1999, a show whose charms he also understood. He told me about his best friend Kit, a sci-fi enthusiast who’d built made replicas of the show’s sets and costumes, which were — and you should see them for yourself — outstanding, at least before the show’s American backers called for some unfortunate budget cuts. Since I was clearly a fan and not just a curiosity-seeker, he promised me that I’d get to see Kit’s handiwork if I ever came to London.

Sunday, when I met Kit (who’s just a sweet, handsome gem of a fellow), I was blown away. I was also encouraged to indulge my fandom. May I now present then, my adventures in the Alpha Room:

Hot Sauna Action

Once I get back, remind me to tell you more about the Victorian-era Turkish bath Paul took me to today. It was in Carlisle, a little village just south of Scotland. Presumably some Americans have been to the area to see Hadrian’s Wall and such, but we’re pretty sure I’m the first one to make it into the bathhouse. Nothing unseemly, just a little bit of relaxing luxury that the local farmers (and the occasional working-class hottie of dubious sexual orientation) enjoy for a mere trifle. A fascinating new experience in social dynamics.

Later, we returned to Lancaster and enjoyed a lovely Christmas dinner. Tony prepared the roast potatoes and vegetarian turkey, Paul brought out his homemade Christmas crackers, and we wrapped it all up with some Christmas pudding and some more TV masterpieces of schadenfreude.

Quick Notes

A few quick items before I forget:

  • I’ve had my fill of squeezing into single beds for the time being. For the rest of the trip, I’m going to remind myself that I’m on vacation and my comfort and convenience are important, too.
  • This is the fightin’est town I’ve seen in a while. I’ve never seen so many black eyes on random people in my life. I suspect it may have a lot to do with the power-drinking that goes on before the pubs close so barbarically early.
  • Blackpool is pretty magnificent, even when mostly closed for the season. It has all the creepy, trashy, sweet charms of Coney Island or the run-down parts of the Jersey Shore. I say this without irony: I’m a total fan of midways and carnivals and skee-ball and low-brow amusement fun.
  • The American Midwest may be pretty flat, vast, and featureless, but for sheer lack of visual stimulus, it ain’t got nothing on England’s Midlands.
  • Are we at war or something? There was some big protest going on in London, and all these earnest-looking trendy kids were wearing “Stop the War’ stickers in the Tube. Shouldn’t they have been out doing their patriotic duty and shopping?
  • There are more cute boys here than you can shake a stick at, but there’s a sad lack of the hispter-nerd aesthetic I enjoy so much at home.
  • It’s the little difference that matter, like going to buy a sandwich at the train station and having to choose between ham/pickle/onion and bacon/mayo/prawn.
  • There will be lots of photographic evidence when I get back.

Potty Mouth

I wanna give a big ol’ shout out to my pal and fellow NYC blog guy Andy for his KICK-ASS one man show, Potty Mouth, which I caught last night. It’s way funny, and saucy, and even very moving, just when you least expect it to be. There’s another performance next Friday 11/16, that you can catch, it’ll be your own fault if you miss it. If you’re not convinced by my enthusiastic recommendation, watch the trailer.

Later, Michael and I went out to FC29/Daddy’s/The Hole/whatever-it-is-now to hang out, catch up, and whine about boy troubles. Of course, and this explains why he’s such a gem, we wound up doing all that but mostly grooving to Prince-affiliated 80s pop, wondering about Rebbie, the forgotten Jackson sister, and talking about our secret love of heavy metal. (Michael was telling me about a turntable-scratch version of Def Leppard’s “Foolin’” that he did many years ago, which is only another reason he’s cool as shit.) It seemed like bloggers were everywhere, convincing me that we’ll own this town before long, but no one will know because we’ll all still be writing about Buffy, boy trouble, therapy, and the little details of downtown-homohipster lifestyles.

Oh, in other theatre news, it looks like Kiki & Herb have finally made it to the big time. This year’s Christmas show, Kiki & Herb: There’s a Stranger in the Manger, is trading in its cramped-yet-intimate cabaret setting for a full-on production at the Westbeth, the theater that spawned Hedwig and the Angry Inch. I’m quivering in anticipation to see what they do with the extra budget and space, even if the ticket price has more than doubled. Luckily, though, those of us on the mailing list have been sent a convenient discount code to get cheaper tix until Dec. 15th, which I will gladly share with you because I love you all and want you to experience the brilliance of Kiki & Herb. Just go to Ticketmaster and give them the code “KHSPIN” when you get your tickets. I’m going on Saturday, 12/1, if anyone wants to make an outing of it. Rock on!

Una Noche Divertida

Sexy Mexicans are good for morale. At least that’s what I felt last night. My friend Josh and I decided that we’ve been feeling so fucked up about this whole past week that we could use a little cheery distraction. After some hemming and hawing, we went ahead with out plan to go see El Vez, the Mexican Elvis, play with his band, the Memphis Mariachis, and singers, the Elvettes (Priscillita, Lisa Maria, y Qué Linda Thompson), in an intimate little show down at the Mercury Lounge. It was a good call, and did wonders for our addled minds. The basic idea is that he’s this guy from East L.A. who adds a whole South-of-the-border schtick to an amazing Elvis-themed cabaret act. This particular show is part of his “Boxing with God” tour, which actually gave him a good opportunity to plainly acknowledge how rough things have been this past week: he was able to express his sadness and sympathy and then seque right into the Gospel Elvis theme.

Not that it’s just Elvis songs with the lyrics changed for comic effect — oh no! El Rey and his entourage do a whole show pulling from all over the spectrum of rock and pop history: Elvis, George Michael, Iggy Pop, The Doors, the Edwin Hawkins Singers, Naughty by Nature, and Simon and Garfunkel all appear in the reportoire. It was not unlike a Latino Kiki and Herb show without the pathos.

Lord knows there’s been enough pathos this week. I’ve had to stop watching the news altogether as the media coverage turns completely to publicizing everyone’s grief. It’s upsetting enough to walk around New York right now, passing makeshift vigils and memorials at every turn, without having to watch people on TV being badgered by reporters to talk about their shock and sorrow. I just want news about what’s going on now, whether or not we’re going to give in to the public bloodlust and embark on a massive campaign of revenge. I’m trying to sort through my own reactions to this — reactions that have been much, much more powerful than I would have expected — and make sense of the changes in the people and the cityscape around me. Watching the TV coverage constantly churn up newer, sadder aspects of the whole thing is just not helping.

I think it’ll be good to go to San Francisco next week and get a little distance from New York. Seeing all these candles and flyers and tributes, talking to people about what they’ve been through, and endless political discussions are really wearing me down. I don’t expect the issue to go away, but I need to get further from the epicenter of so much sorrow and rage.

Consumers Should Be Seen and Not heard

I’ve been completely absorbed in Naomi Klein’s No Logo : Taking Aim at the Brand Bullies lately, which is a fascinating read. Granted, it’s preaching to the choir in my case, but she really does a wonderful job of articulating a lot of things that stick in my craw about the state of marketing and branding these days, among them:

We have almost two centuries’ worth of brand-name history under our collective belt, coalescing to create a sort of global pop-cultural Morse code. But there is just one catch: while we may all have the code implanted in our brains, we’re not really allowed to use it. In the name of protecting the brand from dilution, artists and activists who try to engage with the brand as equal partners in their “relationships” are routinely dragged into court for violating trademark, copyright, libel or “brand disparagement” laws — easily abused statutes that form an airtight protective seal around the brand, allowing it to brand us, but prohibiting us from so much as scuffing it.