Ragtag grab-bag
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I’ve neglected to mention one of the other charming changes of the last couple of months — my new pal Bear. Ain’t she a pretty girl? She’s Glenn’s dog and the other full-time resident of the Rumpus Room. She’s remarkably quiet and mellow, spending most of her time curled up on the floor a couple of feet from one of us, sweetly savoring the proximity. She’s all soft and cuddly and she hasn’t peed indoors once.
A report on the World Trade Center collapse is summarized in the New York Times today, filled with investigators. conclusions about what exactly caused the towers to come down. The article itself is fascinating, and clear enough for the layperson to get the jist of (some excellent information graphics, too).
What still surprises me, though, is how visceral my reaction still is when I read about what happened. At this point I’m numb enough to casual mention of the whole thing, but whenever I read or see something that goes into greater depth about that day, I get the same sick, sorrowful feeling all over again. It’s that same feeling I had standing on the street, staring down Park Avenue at the plumes of smoke, and then again watching the fires burn and the towers drop out of the view from conference room on my floor at work. In a way, I’m glad my memories haven’t been too dulled by the months of overprocessing the event. It’s uncomfortable, but still good to get a reminder of my reaction without all the cultural baggage that’s been heaped onto that day ever since.
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.
Fortune has intervened and put me in touch with a new tenant to fill the impending vacancy in the Rumpus Room. We’ve negotiated some terms and talked about some plans for living in the loft together, and swiftly agreed that it’s time to turn the place from an open space into a spacious two-bedroom bachelor pad. So in two weeks’ time, I start to relive the aggravation of hard labor, clouds of sheetrock dust, and the constant smell of drying spackle and paint. Good grief. I hope I can remember all I learned that last time I tried a stunt like this. Luckily, the new tenant is something of a handyman, and will be able to play the construction foreman. (Not to mention his kind offers of installing some new electrical outlets and a washer/dryer. He’s been spoiled by the conveniences of home ownership.) I guess this means that I’ll actually have to clean up all the junk that’s been accumulating for the last couple of months and figure out where the hell it’s all supposed to go now.
Bleah. I don’t have the surplus time or energy to deal with major renovation, but it will be a good thing. Wish me luck.
Every year, the holiday season goes off like an atom bomb in the middle of my loose mental schedule of things to do and people to see. Catching a bug right in the middle this time certainly didn’t help much. There are now all those errands that have fallen by the wayside, all those friends I wanted to see and subject to maudlin holliday sentiment, all those presents and paper I still have to make, that freelance project I still have to do, that endless hydra of a to-do list at work.
So now it’s time to accept the casualties so far (I’ve aleady somewhat politely been told not to bother by someone I had loose plans to make a date with) and get back on the ball before I mix metaphors and drop it too many times. There’s much work to do, many wonderful human beings to hang out with again, and much holiday cheer to still spread around (although any lingering Christmas presents will now be vague midwinter cheer-up packages).
Finally, an explanation for the cryptic, snarky e-mails I’ve been getting from random people I know the last couple of days. I discovered that a personal ad of mine that’s been floating around Nerve for a while was inexplicably picked to be a featured ad in this week’s Time Out New York. Guess who forgot all about the little proviso warning that this might happen without warning? I’m no stranger to trolling the Internet personals in hopes of getting lucky, but somehow having this show up in print feels slightly more humiliating. Besides, I can only assume it’s not likely to produce any better results than anything else ever has.
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As if there wasn’t enough to hate about the Christmas season, yesterday was the dreaded company holiday party. Since I am once again a full-time employee here, I wasn’t able to squeasle my way out of it the way I have for the last few years. As I was saying to Beau, I would rather stick pins in my eyes than go to the party — not only do I hate mingling under the best of circumstances, but there’s only a small handful of people at work who I’d want to hang out with anyway. Even drearier, the Society opted to make a large-ish donation to the September 11th Fund instead of put as much money into the party as usual. that’s a gesture I approve of wholeheartedly, but it meant that we didn’t even have a big lunch as compensation for suffering through the forced cheer and the tedious speeches. Still, going to the party instead of staying in the office for the day meant getting out 2 hours earlier, and I really needed a nap.
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”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.
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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?
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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:
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