Thursday, August 30, 2007

I Broke My Kingpin



No, no, no! Like this!



I was trying some half-cab kickflips on a slanty part of the school playground (you couldn't even call it a bank, really, more like a credit union) near my apartment today (thanks, unemployment!) when of a sudden the metal thing that holds two of my wheels to my board (the truck hanger) flew away from the board in a curlicue motion that looked a lot like a helicopter after James Bond shot the tail propeller.

This is doubly unfortunate because tomorrow I return home to visit my family and watch an old friend get married (gift: silicone measuring cups, set of five - I gave matching track suits to the last friends who got married, but that was before I heard of online gift registries). I had planned on checking out a new skatepark they built by my old high school since January when I last visited, but now I'm going to have to sample the wares using someone else's equipment.

Here's what a half-cab kickflip looks like.



Time for bed, because I'm waking up at 3 a.m. for a change.

ZZZZZZzzzzzzzzz.

Wednesday, August 29, 2007

OMG I Went to a Gay Bar

Not to do the whole chatty Kathy thing but I went to one and Oh My God.

Met with a friend for drinks when we were joined by a third friend, a gay friend, who as according to his reputation, wanted to go to a gay bar to score some gay pussy. The gay friend, whom I don't know very well, asked me "So do you have any women in your life?"

This question has plagued me since I moved to Tacoma and I'd hoped it would stop in New York City but even though I have not shut down libido-wise, sometimes the cards don't stack right and I've always had to be somewhat ashamed when I reply "No."

I said "Not really."

He said "That's too bad. You really are very attractive. If I had any hot girl friends I'd be sure to hook you up with them."

We talked for a little bit about this and before long some questions arose about the size of my penis (I said jokingly that it was tiny, which is normally a funny response but in this case was taken seriously; my friend said "I've never been able to get with a guy with a very small penis") and my straight friend mentioned my weight, which I'd previously said was around two hundred pounds. I took it down to one-ninety in this conversation but the result was still the same.

"All muscle," he said. "Feel his arms."

My gay friend did not feel my arms. I pressed him about the penis thing and he said "It's all immaterial anyway, since I'm not in your domain." I had missed a beat in trying to rib him about his penis preferences anyway, which to me made me sound closeted (which, if I am, I'm so deep I don't know it and it will be a long before I find a nice pair of shoes or searsucker slacks). I wondered if anyone else thought similarly. At any rate, I decided to chicken out of the macho one-upmanship and just said "Yeah [you are not in my domain]."

Along we went, stopped at a bar that just had a neon sign of a cock (like the male chicken, get it?) but there was a three-dollar cover and no one inside, so we went next door to a bar with a one-syllable name that wasn't "Hump" but I like to imagine it was.

Inside there was a drag-queen calling out bingo numbers and on a couch in the corner three dudes were pawing up on each other. No one appeared very drunk. My gay friend, surprisingly, averred that "Drag queens are the worst people on earth." My straight friend didn't have a problem with her, though; he thought she was funny.

We played a round of bingo but no one was hitting on any of the three of us so before long our drinks were done and so were we.

Before we left, though, we decided to go to the bathroom. On the door was a sign that read "Only One Person in the Bathroom at a Time" (gay bars use MLA-style capitalization). I went into one, where there was a trough, and, you know, when all of a sudden a lanky dude with a mohawk exploded into the place, leapt over to the sink, and he must've already had his pants unzipped because he began very promptly to precipitate all up in that sink.

I've never had a bashful bladder before, but of a sudden I couldn't even buy a trickle for the trough.

It got even worse when another guy, this one with a faux-hawk and checked shirt, busted in and started using the trough with me. I got started for a minute then stopped, then the sink-soiler left and I started to groove.

When I got out of the bathroom my gay friend said to my straight friend "Nice job watching the door." Apparently he got busted in on as well. Sheepish grins all around.

We left the Hump and my gay friend decided he'd try his luck at the Cock. My straight friend and I (the normal people) chose rather to take the train home.

I admire the persistence and sexual frankness exhibited by some young gay men, not to mention their reckless talent for laying tons of people. I normally consider myself pretty sex-libbed, but recent toe-to-toes with serious sluts have prompted some reconsideration on that front. Oh well, as a good friend of mine used to say, "Tons of unprotected sex, no bugs and no kids. This guy did all-right!"

Jenga.

Denis Johnson

Nothing really "somehow" escapes my attention. If I don't a thing it is my own fault and not that of unknown forces. In the spirit of honesty I confess that Tree of Smoke, Denis Johnson's forthcoming book about Vietnam, escaped my attention despite the fact that press-release emails about it have been going around the Internet for a couple weeks now and, more incredibly, that an advance copy is sitting in my roommate's bedroom (Thanks, journalism!).

At any rate, I'm interested in several elements of this advance copy that do not include Johnson's narrative itself. For one, FSG publisher Jonathan Galassi included, where the "cover flap" is supposed to be (I believe - I didn't go to publishing school), a letter to his "Friends," the journalists who are, as we speak, reading this book. In this letter he expresses that the memory of this book has somehow not escaped his attention since he finished reading it, it's the best book of the century, and other such laudatory comments that I am inclined to believe because I read Jesus' Son.

My roommate doesn't have any other advance copies laying around, so I can't really compare, but I wonder about the function of this friendly note. Does it appear inside the cover of all books produced by all publishers, or is it a flag to journalists that they'd better read this one because it is actually fairly good? My gut instinct is that this cover-flap thing is an oft-used marketing strategy (I used to send an email version of cover-flap things to bloggers when I worked for a magazine), but there's a heartening chance that Jonathan Galassi really cares more about Denis Johnson than other writers that hit his presses. If so, the two of us have something in common.

The second element is basic - the dedication that reads "Again for H. P. and those who." There is no period at the end and presumably the dedicated already know what they did. Johnson is normally pretty confessional in his writing and candid in his interviews so I'm curious why he would trail off in his dedication. Maybe he needs a trimmed sentence to preserve his image as a druggy bumbler - by not saying what these folks have done he leaves in the reader's imagination some heroic acts heretofore undescribed in his fiction. But probably he's just respecting people's privacy.

At any rate, I'm not going to read DJ's book just yet, for ethical (Journalism) as well as book-club (The Corrections :'() reasons. But more on book flaps and dedications as the situation emerges.

Saturday, August 25, 2007

The Island

The YouTube post below should have served longer as a tide-me-over but here I am shaking and nauseated, still nursing a hangover from Last Night's Party, and Ideelz is calling me again.

I don't do transitional material, though, so I'll just plow right into the fact that Tacoma is upwards of 3,000 miles behind and I now live with Sulky in Fort Greene. Parties were thrown, tiles were broken, old friends were seen/offended/saddened, people were talking, and other specific things were rendered as general to protect me from having to actually relate them.

I've been in survival mode trying to decide between a job for a CIA type operation (but not the actual CIA), Penguin, or a magazine about prescription drugs, so I haven't even really had time to notice the differences between New York and Tacoma, except the predictable ones like everything happens three hours later here and as my dad said "if you're smart for Tacoma you're not that smart. If you're smart for New York then maybe . . ." He trailed off cause I had called to ask him to lend me some money.

Perhaps after I get on the 401(k), Dental, and Medical bandwagon - a wagon I fell off pretty hard when I started in the food-service industry eight months ago - I will have more to say about the cancerous growth of the white population in this town, the awful process of determining how much money your labor is actually worth (in my case between 10K and 100K per annum), and of course my best friends' blogs. Meantime go to LOLPizza.

This boulder will start to roll when I am a little stronger.

Friday, August 24, 2007

So Far From Home



Sometimes it's good to know they're holding it down lakeside.



Thanks Patrick.

Saturday, August 04, 2007

Ideas Re Bourne Ultimatum

the Bourne movies have left behind perhaps the strongest residue of mainstream anti-government paranoia since '70s thrillers like The Parallax View and Three Days Of The Condor. (Tobias, Scott. "The Bourne Ultimatum." The Onion A.V. Club. August 2, 2007.)

Amid the new and familiar faces (David Strathairn and Joan Allen), it introduces a couple of power-grasping, smooth-talking ghouls and stark reminders of Abu Ghraib that might make you blanch even if you don’t throw up. (Dargis, Manohla. "Still Searching, but with Darker Eyes." New York Times. August 3, 2007.)

Before we go into the Bourne movie, let's jog over to YouTube for a sec to watch Slavoj Zizek deliver an incisive look at what is wrong with September 11 and the two 2006 movies that depicted its events (for those that don't know, that's United 93 and World Trade Center).

[. . .]

Apparently the clip I watched on YouTube yesterday violates the terms of use, so I'll have to sum up the points Zizek made. Since we're talking Greengrass here I'm going to leave World Trade Center largely out of the discussion, although most of the points apply to both films.

Despite 93's vaunted realism (it was in real time, it was coldly neutral in its dealing with the terrorists), its apparent neutrality gives it an unexpected political message. Because 93 deals primarily with ordinary people in an extraordinary moment, its main message is one of humanity triumphing over adversity. In this way, 93 is not an exceptional film, plot-wise. By making September 11 into a heartwarming tale of the human spirit, the film robs the day's events of their necessarily political context. That Greengrass uses a cinematic technique we call ultra-realism makes this robbery all the more insidious, in that we come to believe that, in watching United 93, we're actually watching history as it happened. This, of course, is an absurd belief; United 93 is a Hollywood picture that takes place projected on a screen. It is as unreal as The Bourne Ultimatum.

Greengrass's way of dealing with violence has not changed much since The Bourne Supremacy. The camera wobbles furiously, fight scenes are fraught with confusion - as with cock-fights, it's difficult to tell in Greengrass's world who is winning until one man lays on the floor unconscious or covered in blood.

This technique employs so many conventions of films we consider realist (homemade video, cell-phone cameras used to capture a trajedy, the jiggly footraces of the COPS TV series) that Greengrass has succeeded in convincing his audience that his movies produce a transcendent truth. Dargis talks at length in her review of Ultimatum about the consequences of violence, how we are robbed of the thrill of violence by being thrown in the middle of the fights; the camera reels as a blow is struck, and presumably, so do we.

More insidiously, the movie flashes to scenes in which Jason Bourne experiences simulated drowning and executes a man he does not know, a man who wears a black cowl over his head. These gestures toward torture at Guantanamo Bay and Abu Ghraib firmly situate the Bourne movies in our political context. How we feel about violence as depicted according to the conventions of hyper-realism in The Bourne Ultimatum reflects how we think we feel about it in real life.

One cannot mistake the political message of the first two-and-a-half Bourne movies. It is one of natural and necessary skepticism toward the American intelligence community, which throughout the trilogy is a society of thieves, zealots, and the power-mad, where the good die young in dark basements at the hands of their superiors or are unceremoniously fired for objecting the the atrocities they commit.

In the final scenes of the Ultimatum, this skepticism is nearly completely subverted. The baddies are brought to justice, the stern but feminine Pamela Landy presumably gets promoted to run the CIA, and a new era of ethical black ops begins, the illusion rule of law returns, etc. Meanwhile, Jason Bourne, a character rivaled perhaps only by Jack Bauer in his status as a U.S. foreign policy action figure, lays inert, floating in water. The audience is uncertain as to whether he is dead, until the final moment of the movie, when he jerks back to life. America applauds; their superhuman master of violence and torture has been resurrected (the Guantanamo-style simulated drowning no doubt served as preparation), and now, finally, the CIA is an organization we can trust.

It may be that Paul Greengrass more effectively articulates the American inability to deal with its current political situation than any other director currently making films. By shaking the camera around during a fight scene, Greengrass places us into the situation we think we face in the real world. When we're there, we cheer as our American boy fights foreigners and toughens himself up with torture. The resolution we feel at the end of the Bourne trilogy is not a resolution of our feelings toward violence; we're still glad Bourne is there to fuck some shit up. Instead, our feelings have changed toward American institutions of violence - we've come to trust them. In this sense, perhaps Paul Greengrass is not actually as courageous a filmmaker as we thought. Riveting? Certainly. But honest? Probably not.

The Bourne Ultimatum rocks out. It's awesome to see America win. But Bourne's ultimate message - that we should be comforted that the evil and power-hungry in our nation's inner circles are exceptions and not the rule - is not as hyper-realist as the shakey cameras we're treated to during our American boy's fist fights.

Thursday, August 02, 2007

HOLY SHIT WHO THE HELL IS SEAN KINGSTON

It's getting so a man can't leave his keys for a minute to pursue career opportunities. It's getting so things like this begin to happen:



It's getting so I am losing my keys (more on Sean Kingston in a second).

I set them on the coffee table before I go out to The Matador to get some Carne Asada tacos (they were on happy hour but I just had to have some black beans and rice with it). I sit alone listening to lawyers gabble about their "PROBLEMS." When my plate is empty I throw a twenty in the big black wallet they use at nice places, then an extra ten because my waitress is pregnant, then stand up, when a barfly leans over the fence (I was sitting on the patio):

"HEY! MIKE!"
"HI STEVE I'LL MEET YOU OUTSIDE."

Just as I'm crossing the threshold a meaty skinhead with a black button-down shortsleeve accosts me with some restaurant politesse:

"HEY ARE YOU LEAVING YOUR TABLE?" (In floor-manager talk this means "I think you just skipped out on your tab but I can't say exactly that so I'll say this instead.")

"YEAH I'M LEAVING. THANKS FOR ASKING."

I have one tequila drink and some tacos in me, and the carne is pretty tasty, the tacos gourmet-tasting with all that cilantro, but even that is not enough to put me in a good enough mood, thanks to baldy. It's getting so a man can't be unshaven and wear a T-shirt into an upscale place in downtown Tacoma without people thinking he's a meth-head in for a freeload.

So I greet Steve the barfly on the outside and he asks me about the move to Brooklyn. He's got the dog he got back from his ex wife and he looks happy. Maybe that girl who left him in San Francisco finally called him back. I'm listening halfway because I've stuck my hand in my pocket and:

1) My box of cigarettes is empty
2) My keys are nowhere on my person

Shit I never leave home without a set, but here I am, looking over at the shaven floor manager's piggish dome as he buses my table. Our eyes meet again, and I give him one of those head-nods with my lower lip under my teeth to show him I'm not gonna say the "F" word in front of all these nice people but I sure have that first letter ready in case the scene changes. And I'm doing this all without the comforting metallic sound and feel of keys jangling in my pocket.

Long story short, I ride the 11 all the way to Matt's winebar to pick up his set and ride back downtown to, ironically, help some "I like the lights" girl back into her apartment ("Locked herself out," but carrying a ring of keys that would make a dungeonmaster envious). We sip on some Budweisers and she tells me stories from her childhood (hiding in the clothes racks, likes The Fountainhead) and I ask her why she's always hanging out with at least half a dozen men and no ladies in sight.

[. . .]

"...and I never cry."

"I bet you cry all the time."

"Humph! THAT'S REALLY FUNNY."

One thing leads to another, (strictly) conversationally, and finally the question:

"YOU DONT WANT TO FUCK ME TOO DO YOU"

"YEAH I DO" I am an honest man.

"OH FUCKING GREAT" She's sitting in the window that overlooks the trash compactor, petite with tattoos all over her chest and one full sleeve. She drags off her Camel Menthol (I had one too so I can't say much about that) and looks like an upset tough-girl who's had too much to drink. She might even be fighting back tears, I don't know, I've been doing online marketing for a magazine since 7:30 a.m. so I'm a little bleary-eyed.

Pretty soon we're just watching Green Street Hooligans in silence and she goes to the bathroom (faucet running). She comes back suddenly K.O.ed, which is good cause I was trying to figure out a decent way to leave her apartment, but I'm too distracted by the water running, which doesn't cover anything up it just makes it sound like this chick has a fucking flume between her legs.

So I check back across the hall to my place, put on some "Banging Camp," and sip on a Keystone Light while I wait for Matt to get back. He does, we drink and smoke a while, then it's lights out.

This is the kind of thing that happens when you step away from your blog for too long.

There used to be a band, no a "group" more like, called the Kingston Trio, with a girl and two guys. She probably saw each one of them naked, and after the first couple tours she stopped running the faucet every time she used the bathroom in their shared Motel 6 room. Maybe one night she got into some nasty nast with the mandolin guy and lil' Sean was on his way of a sudden. Maybe she read Atlas Shrugged while he lit a cigarette. Maybe all of this happened in Kingston, Jamaica. Anyway, everything in this paragraph is absolute truth, for all I know about Sean Kingston. So I'll have to get back to you on that.

"Hey There Delilah," in the meantime, is a piece of lovelorn shit.