viernes, enero 30, 2004
Você fala minha linkagem?
I have commenced linking seriously. How? Why? Adam (Int'l Man of Leisure), Nathalie (Cup of Chicha), Emily (The Little Helper) and Josh (Dirty Peaches) are my friends. I was a receptionist where Jason Kottke was a web designer back during the bubbled euphoria of a Minnesota summer, year 2000. He had the first web log I ever met (and he went on to design Gawker and get profiled in the New Yorker. Pretty fancy business.) El resto are just el resto, they link me, or I read them, or they offer Freudian analysis in Portuguese.
jueves, enero 29, 2004
hypounpalatable
The first thirty minutes of my day are dominated by an acute awareness of temperature disparities between under the covers and the rest of the world. I bask in the sleepy mindstate of clock radio dispatches, vaguely absorbing reports on the latest round of exploding vehicles and the occasional interview with notable citizen of the day.
This morning I learned of a new disease, "hypografia" documented in this interview with neurologist Alice Flaherty, author of the book The Midnight Disease. Apparently this marvelous affliction bestows one with a compulsive and insatiable need to write as much as possible. My first reaction was one of jealousy (and a hankering for some dex) until she continued to elaborate a period of time in her life when, overcoming personal tragedy, she would wake up in the middle of the night and cover the walls with mini post-it notes of incoherent ideas, unable to sleep until she had written everything out. I immediately thought of a drawer full of crumpled paper, including a fair amount of mini post-its, in my bedroom. And a personally embarrassing habit I have of writing terribly emotional and lengthy e-mails in the middle of the night, and even worse, text messages. And then I thought, even worse, of weblogging... how perhaps this whole project is proof that I am a diseased hypografic.
I will report back after reading the book. I tend to avoid scientific analyses of creative motivation. I've always found studies that cite higher instances of depression amongst writers (such as the one Flaherty mentions) to be underhandedly self-congratulatory in some way. As an aspiring writer I took issue with a perception that being depressed was a prerequisite to the task, with anti-depressants serving as some sort of badge of authenticity. Then of course I had to go on them, and I dutifully eat shit. However, my opinion continues to be that depression does nothing for creativity -- unless hating yourself and everyone else and anything you might possibly produce while weeping incessantly can be counted as "motivation." Sylvia Plath, bipolar postergirl, is quoted in the interview as saying "When you're ill that's all you are," and I agree.
But all of this is an interesting consideration, the physiology of motivation. If Robert Louis Stevenson wrote Jekyll and Hyde on a six day cocaine binge and everyone from Jack Kerouac to Sartre to your creative writing workshop uses amphetamines, hypografia is indeed sought after. I can't express exactly how much I love writing when there is a lot of brain chaos, and it is the hope of obtaining that state of mind that motivates the endeavor in the first place. It just seems odd that a *thing* has been made out of it (to use a word other than disorder or disease) that this state of mind is one that could be coalesced into an entity, and one considered "treatable" at that.
At least now I'll have time to read the book. Now that I'm jobless. Again.
This morning I learned of a new disease, "hypografia" documented in this interview with neurologist Alice Flaherty, author of the book The Midnight Disease. Apparently this marvelous affliction bestows one with a compulsive and insatiable need to write as much as possible. My first reaction was one of jealousy (and a hankering for some dex) until she continued to elaborate a period of time in her life when, overcoming personal tragedy, she would wake up in the middle of the night and cover the walls with mini post-it notes of incoherent ideas, unable to sleep until she had written everything out. I immediately thought of a drawer full of crumpled paper, including a fair amount of mini post-its, in my bedroom. And a personally embarrassing habit I have of writing terribly emotional and lengthy e-mails in the middle of the night, and even worse, text messages. And then I thought, even worse, of weblogging... how perhaps this whole project is proof that I am a diseased hypografic.
I will report back after reading the book. I tend to avoid scientific analyses of creative motivation. I've always found studies that cite higher instances of depression amongst writers (such as the one Flaherty mentions) to be underhandedly self-congratulatory in some way. As an aspiring writer I took issue with a perception that being depressed was a prerequisite to the task, with anti-depressants serving as some sort of badge of authenticity. Then of course I had to go on them, and I dutifully eat shit. However, my opinion continues to be that depression does nothing for creativity -- unless hating yourself and everyone else and anything you might possibly produce while weeping incessantly can be counted as "motivation." Sylvia Plath, bipolar postergirl, is quoted in the interview as saying "When you're ill that's all you are," and I agree.
But all of this is an interesting consideration, the physiology of motivation. If Robert Louis Stevenson wrote Jekyll and Hyde on a six day cocaine binge and everyone from Jack Kerouac to Sartre to your creative writing workshop uses amphetamines, hypografia is indeed sought after. I can't express exactly how much I love writing when there is a lot of brain chaos, and it is the hope of obtaining that state of mind that motivates the endeavor in the first place. It just seems odd that a *thing* has been made out of it (to use a word other than disorder or disease) that this state of mind is one that could be coalesced into an entity, and one considered "treatable" at that.
At least now I'll have time to read the book. Now that I'm jobless. Again.
miércoles, enero 28, 2004
I'm so relieved!
"Do you feel there is something missing in your life? Something not quite right? I bet you're not a virgin. How do I know? Because I used to be just like you. I'm living proof that regaining your virginity can be the road to a newer and fuller life. Thousands of people have come to us and they all say the same thing -- "Something's missing from my life and I don't know what to do about it!" They say "It's over," we say "It's just the beginning!" They come to me, the president of The Society for the Recapture of Virginity, and by using the VRS 3000TM I find their virginity and give them the world."
I've been looking at this on Friendster for so long. If only I had learned earlier.
I've been looking at this on Friendster for so long. If only I had learned earlier.
martes, enero 27, 2004
Oscars
The nominations aren't quite as offensive as usual. I mean, forgiving the obvious. There are so many for City of God... Does the Best Director nomination have any sympathy for Katia Lund, co-director and Brown grad? Will the Best Adapted Screenplay nomination consider that author Paulo Lins told me I had a big nose? And if we're shocked and awed by favelados and nominating Cidade de Deus for Best Editing why why why wasn't the editing of archival footage in Bus 174 given a nod with a Best Documentary nomination? Particularly in lieu of nominating The Weather Underground, which looked and sounded like garbage. That's the worst, and that not a single actor from Lord of the Rings was nominated but Naomi Watts was for 21 Grams. I also wish Elephant and Raising Victor Vargas had been given some minor afterthought...
Yesterday I watched a polarfleece bedecked sensitive man hit on a girl by saying, in a deep and serious tone, that 21 Grams was "masterful" and, I kid you not, "history in the making." She was all like, "I'm waiting for my boyfriend..." I choked on my coffee.
Yesterday I watched a polarfleece bedecked sensitive man hit on a girl by saying, in a deep and serious tone, that 21 Grams was "masterful" and, I kid you not, "history in the making." She was all like, "I'm waiting for my boyfriend..." I choked on my coffee.
An army of succubi have descended upon the city. I have been applying emollient to their thirsty tentacles but as the battle rages the blog falters. Falter not O blog! I shall restore thee to your throne of greatness! A future of dougnuts and turnip cakes awaits us. Ask not of milk and honey nor of Aloe Vera for thine paper cuts. Patience, patience.
miércoles, enero 21, 2004
If instead of pod people we were simply iPods...
Saramago you kill me. I thought I was going to have nightmares about dogs chewing on fetid corpses on a street filled with excrement, instead I stayed up all night to finish the book (in English I'm afraid.) From the generosity of friends who lend sprang coincidence, because I read Blindness immediately after reading Chromophobia.
Batchelor writes of 'minimalist' interiors as places of empty white space, as "a model of what the body should be like from within. Not a place of fluids, organs, muscles, tendons and bones all in a constant, precarious and living tension with each other, but a vacant hollow, whited chamber, scraped clean, cleared of any evidence of the grotesque embarassments of an actual life." It is precisely the epidemic of white blindness in Saramago's novel that creates a world where death, waste, sex and violence can no longer be sanitized -- it is when the interior becomes a true vacant whiteness that civilization topples.
And during both all I could think of was The Tale of the Body Thief, when Lestat is so disgusted that leaving his vampire body means returning to the world of head colds and shitting. Funny how whatever you read when you were thirteen stays with you forever.
Batchelor writes of 'minimalist' interiors as places of empty white space, as "a model of what the body should be like from within. Not a place of fluids, organs, muscles, tendons and bones all in a constant, precarious and living tension with each other, but a vacant hollow, whited chamber, scraped clean, cleared of any evidence of the grotesque embarassments of an actual life." It is precisely the epidemic of white blindness in Saramago's novel that creates a world where death, waste, sex and violence can no longer be sanitized -- it is when the interior becomes a true vacant whiteness that civilization topples.
And during both all I could think of was The Tale of the Body Thief, when Lestat is so disgusted that leaving his vampire body means returning to the world of head colds and shitting. Funny how whatever you read when you were thirteen stays with you forever.
Finally.
A documentary about Scrabble.
I will admit that my extended family gatherings are dominated by the competition in this game. In addition to normal Scrabble, we are partial to a number of variations, although since I always lose in those I prefer to play the traditional version, where I kick ass.
Speed Scrabble: The letters are placed faced down on the table. Each player takes seven letters and must make a crossword that uses all your letters. The first one who finishes says "done" and every player has to take another letter and repeat the process, until no more letters are left. The winner is the one who has no letters leftover. I always lose. I've one maybe twice in my life. My cousin and my brother always win. I'm not sure why we even bother playing anymore.
Cutthroat Anagrams: My brother always wins this one too. Always. I've won once in hundreds of games and the same can be said for each of my cousins. The letters are placed face down on the table and each player takes turns flipping over letters. If a word can be made (for example t, c and u are flipped over) the first person to yell 'cut' gets to keep the word. However, if the next letter flipped over is, for example, e, then someone else can yell 'cute' and steal the word. The person with the most words at the end wins. It's stressful.
Obviously if our holidays weren't spent in the frozen wilds of New Hampshire we could come up with something better to do, but we're stuck with eating massive quantities of food, battling the squirrels in the attic, fishing dead mice out of the toilet and Scrabble.
I will admit that my extended family gatherings are dominated by the competition in this game. In addition to normal Scrabble, we are partial to a number of variations, although since I always lose in those I prefer to play the traditional version, where I kick ass.
Speed Scrabble: The letters are placed faced down on the table. Each player takes seven letters and must make a crossword that uses all your letters. The first one who finishes says "done" and every player has to take another letter and repeat the process, until no more letters are left. The winner is the one who has no letters leftover. I always lose. I've one maybe twice in my life. My cousin and my brother always win. I'm not sure why we even bother playing anymore.
Cutthroat Anagrams: My brother always wins this one too. Always. I've won once in hundreds of games and the same can be said for each of my cousins. The letters are placed face down on the table and each player takes turns flipping over letters. If a word can be made (for example t, c and u are flipped over) the first person to yell 'cut' gets to keep the word. However, if the next letter flipped over is, for example, e, then someone else can yell 'cute' and steal the word. The person with the most words at the end wins. It's stressful.
Obviously if our holidays weren't spent in the frozen wilds of New Hampshire we could come up with something better to do, but we're stuck with eating massive quantities of food, battling the squirrels in the attic, fishing dead mice out of the toilet and Scrabble.
lunes, enero 19, 2004
I Before E
In case you it was bothering you 'masterpiece' is now spelled correctly. Somebody could have told me already. It's only been five months.
viernes, enero 16, 2004
There are massive ice floes on the Hudson. I was hoping to see a woolly mammoth grazing the shores of New Jersey on the opposite side... no such luck, only the future of banking, real estate and law deep in cafeteria analysis of Friendster. I just wanted to see one sabre tooth tiger engage one woolly mammoth in battle to make my lunch less depressing, and everybody could go home over the Bering Strait afterwards. All of this is so unfair.
miércoles, enero 14, 2004
"With her long, slender legs and a small, birdlike voice, Madam Becket is the resident diva of this desert ghost town, the star of the Amargosa Opera House, its paint cracked and peeling, its stage lights built from coffee cans.
She is 79, needs a knee replacement, smells faintly of liniment oil and, to conserve her strength, sleeps most of the afternoon before performances."
Read more.
In our freshman dorm, Emily acquired the reputation of "good Emily" while I was known among the social elite as "bad Emily". Ugh. College. But Emily and I needed each other, as anyone needs her opposite. She has always turned my head toward broader horizons, as in this article she sent today.
One day, many years hence, Emily and I will reunite in a castle in Bohemia or a deserted tumbleweed town in the Pampas. Our lives behind us, our families long dead, we will wrap ourselves in crinoline and live off crumpets and chocolate, performing original musical productions for the neighbors and our cats, smelling faintly of liniment oil.
She is 79, needs a knee replacement, smells faintly of liniment oil and, to conserve her strength, sleeps most of the afternoon before performances."
Read more.
In our freshman dorm, Emily acquired the reputation of "good Emily" while I was known among the social elite as "bad Emily". Ugh. College. But Emily and I needed each other, as anyone needs her opposite. She has always turned my head toward broader horizons, as in this article she sent today.
One day, many years hence, Emily and I will reunite in a castle in Bohemia or a deserted tumbleweed town in the Pampas. Our lives behind us, our families long dead, we will wrap ourselves in crinoline and live off crumpets and chocolate, performing original musical productions for the neighbors and our cats, smelling faintly of liniment oil.
martes, enero 13, 2004
Reading "The Fixer: a story from Sarajevo," by Joe Sacco, allowed me to finally verbalize two phenomena that formerly would leave me toungue tied. And beyond my rantings, I thought it was a really great story.
#1:
The spoonfed American male with an adulation for bloodthirsty mercenaries, expressed through Sacco's relationship with Serbian paramilitary/mobster Neven, and this amazing quote:
"It is a bond that hearkens back to the schoolyard, where certain kinds of boys who are still afraid of girls find snobbish brotherhood in matching Everests of knowledge about stuff between the toes of war...
[Neven] ...My other favorite action was the German capture of the Belgian fortresses at Eben Emael.
[Sacco] 1940. Gliders. A masterpiece."
#2
The culture of fixers (when you hire some scumbag to lead you to people to take pictures of and interview) is why I never want to be a journalist. I think Sacco portrays it very well. How can you possibly understand a conflict if you're just a douchebag in a many-pocketed khaki vest who pays the first asshole in the hotel lobby to show you around? Especially when his other part-time job is procuring you a prostitute? Shouldn't journalists understand enough about the area they are reporting on to not be too dependent on this?
May god bless Christine Amanpour. But there is, definitively, a genre of foreign correspondents dispatching to GQ that tends toward the sunburned, ex-pat, brothel frequenting, Soldier of Fortune reading, "I've seen war (but I'm still a douchebag)" variety.
And speaking of nomadic, life-endangering careers, tomorrow I start my new job as a document scanner on Wall Street. Oh. Boy.
#1:
The spoonfed American male with an adulation for bloodthirsty mercenaries, expressed through Sacco's relationship with Serbian paramilitary/mobster Neven, and this amazing quote:
"It is a bond that hearkens back to the schoolyard, where certain kinds of boys who are still afraid of girls find snobbish brotherhood in matching Everests of knowledge about stuff between the toes of war...
[Neven] ...My other favorite action was the German capture of the Belgian fortresses at Eben Emael.
[Sacco] 1940. Gliders. A masterpiece."
#2
The culture of fixers (when you hire some scumbag to lead you to people to take pictures of and interview) is why I never want to be a journalist. I think Sacco portrays it very well. How can you possibly understand a conflict if you're just a douchebag in a many-pocketed khaki vest who pays the first asshole in the hotel lobby to show you around? Especially when his other part-time job is procuring you a prostitute? Shouldn't journalists understand enough about the area they are reporting on to not be too dependent on this?
May god bless Christine Amanpour. But there is, definitively, a genre of foreign correspondents dispatching to GQ that tends toward the sunburned, ex-pat, brothel frequenting, Soldier of Fortune reading, "I've seen war (but I'm still a douchebag)" variety.
And speaking of nomadic, life-endangering careers, tomorrow I start my new job as a document scanner on Wall Street. Oh. Boy.
lunes, enero 12, 2004
sábado, enero 10, 2004
I got fired yesterday. But today some friends and I saw Gwyneth Paltrow and Chris Martin at a bookstore and learned from the woman behind the desk that they had purchased a Zagat guide, although an inquiry about a book called The Psychology of Pregnancy was made (it wasn't in stock.) Hope was marginally renewed.
viernes, enero 09, 2004
Mother of Jesus Endorses Argyle
"Gen. Wesley K. Clark has replaced his suit with an argyle sweater in an attempt to increase his support among women..."
Even Madonna has proclaimed her support "not only as a celebrity but as an American citizen and a mother."
Well ladies, Warren G. Harding has risen again.
Even Madonna has proclaimed her support "not only as a celebrity but as an American citizen and a mother."
Well ladies, Warren G. Harding has risen again.
miércoles, enero 07, 2004
Life on Mars: 1 Pelican, 1 Walrus, 2 Groves of Parsnips
The fancy technology that allowed the martian probe to photograph in color and therefore achieve the true robotic equality to 20/20 vision was brought about by use of a sundial, suggested to NASA scientists by none other than Bill Nye the science guy. It feels so... primevil?
"Scientists will also use the Pancam images of the sundial to calibrate or adjust images from Mars. They will use the colored blocks in the corners of the sundial to calibrate the color in images of the martian landscape. That means you'll see Mars in its true colors. Pictures of the shadows that are cast by the sundial's center post will allow scientists to properly adjust the brightness of each Pancam image."
Read More.
Oh - and regarding the Beagle that has officially not landed, this just in from the Times:
"When the European Space Agency's Mars Express containing Britain's lander, the Beagle 2, failed to communicate a "Merry Christmas" recently, the reaction here was not "Nyah, nyah, here comes ours." On the contrary, our feeling was "We failed a few times ourselves, and maybe your robot will be heard from yet.""
More.
My friend. I have failed a few times myself. Maybe your robot will be heard from yet.
"Scientists will also use the Pancam images of the sundial to calibrate or adjust images from Mars. They will use the colored blocks in the corners of the sundial to calibrate the color in images of the martian landscape. That means you'll see Mars in its true colors. Pictures of the shadows that are cast by the sundial's center post will allow scientists to properly adjust the brightness of each Pancam image."
Read More.
Oh - and regarding the Beagle that has officially not landed, this just in from the Times:
"When the European Space Agency's Mars Express containing Britain's lander, the Beagle 2, failed to communicate a "Merry Christmas" recently, the reaction here was not "Nyah, nyah, here comes ours." On the contrary, our feeling was "We failed a few times ourselves, and maybe your robot will be heard from yet.""
More.
My friend. I have failed a few times myself. Maybe your robot will be heard from yet.
martes, enero 06, 2004
The Beagle Has Landed
"NASA unveiled a breathtaking color snapshot Tuesday of the surface of Mars shot by its Spirit rover using a camera with the robotic equivalent of 20/20 vision... NASA on Monday released a 3-D, black-and-white picture that provided a 360-degree look at the desolate, wind-swept plains of Mars' surface. "I feel like I'm at a bad, '50s B-movie," said mission manager Matt Wallace after reporters were issued 3-D glasses to take in the image at NASA's Jet Propulsion Laboratory. "
Are they just making fun of Europeans again? Because the Beagle is actually still lost in space right?
I wish I had the robotic equivalent of 20/20 vision with which to view the desolate wind-swept plains of my cubicle.
Read more.
Are they just making fun of Europeans again? Because the Beagle is actually still lost in space right?
I wish I had the robotic equivalent of 20/20 vision with which to view the desolate wind-swept plains of my cubicle.
Read more.
Hellboy is so badass. What wouldn't I give for a lizard man named Abraham Sapien to be my best friend? And the graphics, the Soviet propaganda poster aesthetic embodied in Hellboy's giant red robotic fist, called into being at the end of WWII by a crazed paranormal Nazi performing satanic rituals on an island off the coast of Scotland. Thank god the film industry is so adept at comic book adaptations. The sheer visual strength of an effete fleet of muppets with giganticism... truly a triumph of the artistic imagination.
lunes, enero 05, 2004
Woe to the day I am Googled
Let it be known that I started this without any parental urging or consultation, well before my father started walking around in a Blogger sweatshirt.
Whoopie
My friend Raymond Benjamin just called and saved this day from being total garbage. If you are interested in a first hand experience of what high school in Minneapolis was like, you should see his band, Clipped Beaks, on Tuesday at Sin-e at 8pm or on Wednesday at North Six at 9pm. I actually haven't heard much of this band's music but judging from former bands consisting of the same people expect a kind of Mogwai-esque space rock.
Ray has one of the nicest names around. He also has tribal affiliation, which meant that on his 18th birthday he got a shitload of casino money. If there's any retribution for white people raping and pillaging the land, it's that a lot of zombie-eyed Minnesotans on oxygen tanks are spending their social security checks to sponsor Ray's education and well-being. I can't think of a dollar better spent.
Ray has one of the nicest names around. He also has tribal affiliation, which meant that on his 18th birthday he got a shitload of casino money. If there's any retribution for white people raping and pillaging the land, it's that a lot of zombie-eyed Minnesotans on oxygen tanks are spending their social security checks to sponsor Ray's education and well-being. I can't think of a dollar better spent.
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